DASHES     AT     LIFE 


WITH  A  FREE  PENCIL. 


N.  P.  .WILLIS. 


"  Armado.    How  hast  thou  purchased  this  experience  ? 
Moth.    By  my  penny  of  observation." 

SHAKSPERK. 


THIRD    EDITION. 


NEW   YORK: 

J.    S.    REDFIELD,    CLINTON    HALL, 

CORNER    OF   NASSAU   AND   BEEKMAN  STREETS. 


STEREOTYPED    BY    REDFIELD    AND    SAVAGE,    13    CHAMBERS    ST.,    N.    T. 

1845. 


V    V   x     ,  V*  . 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1845, 

BY    N.    P.    WILLIS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


P3? 


PREFACE. 


IT  has  been  with  difficult  submission  to 
marketableness  that  the  author  has  broken  up 
his  statues  at  the  joints,  and  furnished  each 
fragment  with  head  and  legs  to  walk  alone. 
Continually  accumulating  material,  with  the 
desire  to  produce  a  work  of  fiction,  he  was  as 
continually  tempted  by  extravagant  prices  to 
shape  these  separate  forms  of  society  and  char 
acter  into  tales  for  periodicals ;  and  between 
two  persuaders — the  law  of  copyright,  on  the 
one  hand,  providing  that  American  books  at 
fair  prices  should  compete  with  books  to  be 
had  for  nothing,  and  necessity  on  the  other 
hand,  pleading  much  more  potently  than  the 
ambition  for  an  adult  stature  in  literary  fame — 
he  has  gone  on  acquiring  a  habit  of  dashing 
off  for  a  magazine  any  chance  view  of  life  that 
turned  up  to  him,  and  selling  in  fragmentary 
chapters  what  should  have  been  kept  together 
and  moulded  into  a  proportionate  work  of  im 
agination.  So  has  gradually  accumulated  the 
large  collection  of  tales  which  follow — literally 
dashes  at  life  with  a  free  pencil — each  one, 
though  a  true  copy  of  a  part,  conveying,  of 
course,  no  portion  of  the  meaning  and  moral 
of  a  whole.  It  is  as  a  parcel  of  fragments — as 
a  portfolio  of  sketches  for  a  picture  never  paint 
ed — that  he  offers  them  to  the  public.  Their 
lack  of  what  an  English  critic  cleverly  calls  the 
"ponderous  goodness  of  a  didactic  purpose," 


must  be  balanced,  if  at  all,  by  their  truth  to  life, 
for  they  have  been  drawn  mostly  from  impres 
sions  freshly  made,  and  with  no  record  of  what 
they  were  a  part  of.  In  proportion  to  his  pow 
er  of  imagination,  the  reader  will  supply  the 
back-ground  and  adjuncts — some,  no  doubt  (if 
the  author  may  judge  by  himself),  preferring 
the  sketch  to  the  finished  picture. 

A  word  explanatory  of  the  character  of  Part 
I.  Most  of  the  stories  in  it  are  illustrative  of 
the  distinctions  of  English  society.  As  a  re 
publican  visiting  a  monarchical  country  for  the 
first  time,  and  traversing  the  barriers  of  differ 
ent  ranks  with  a  stranger's  privilege,  the  au 
thor's  curiosity  was  most  on  the  alert  to  know 
how  nature's  nobility  held  its  own  against  no 
bility  by  inheritance,  and  how  heart  and  judg 
ment  were  modified  in  their  action  by  the  thin 
air  at  the  summit  of  refinement.  Circumstances 
in  the  career  of  men  of  genius  now  living,  and 
feelings  in  titled  and  exclusive  circles  which 
the  author  had  opportunities  to  study,  furnished 
hints  for  the  storied  illustrations  of  the  dis 
tinctions  that  interested  him,  and  he  has  thought 
it  worth  while  to  present  these  together,  as 
bearing  upon  those  relations  of  aristocratic 
life  which  first  interest  republican  curiosity 
abroad. 

With  these  explanations,  the  author  commits 
his  book  to  the  reader's  kind  allowance. 

082  % 


HIGH  LIFE  IN  EUROPE, 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  HEART-BOOK  OF  ERNEST  CLAY, 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN  a  small   room,  second  floor,  front,  No.  

South  Audley  street,  Grosvenor  square,  on  one  of 
the  latter  days  of  May,  five  or  six  years  ago,  there 
stood  an  inkstand,  of  which  you  may  buy  the  like  for 
three  halfpence  in  most  small  shops  in  Soho.  It  was 
stuck  in  the  centre  of  the  table,  like  the  largest  of 
the  Azores,  on  a  schoolboy's  amateur  map — a  large 
blot  surrounded  by  innumerable  smaller  blotlings. 
On  the  top  of  a  small  leather  portmanteau  near  by, 
stood  two  pair  of  varnished-leather  boots  of  a  sump 
tuous  expensiveness,  slender,  elegant,  and  without 
spot,  except  the  leaf  of  a  crushed  orange  blossom 
clinging  to  one  of  the  heels.  Between  the  inkstand 
and  the  boots  sat  the  young  and  then  fashionable  au 
thor  of ,  and  the  boots  and  the  ink 
stand  were  tolerable  exponents  of  his  two  opposite 
but  closely  woven  existences. 

It  was  two  o'clock,  P.  M.,  and  the  author  was  stir 
ring  his  tea.  He  had  been  stirring  it  with  the  same 
velocity  three  quarters  of  an  hour — for  when  that  cup 
should  be  drank,  inevitably  the  next  thing  was  to 
write  the  first  sentence  of  an  article  for  the  New 
Month.  Mag.,  and  he  was  prolonging  his  breakfast, 
as  a  criminal  his  last  prayer. 

The  "fatigued"  sugar  and  milk  were  still  flying 
round  the  edge  of  the  cup  in  a  whity  blue  concave, 
when  the  "  maid  of  all  work"  of  his  landlord  the 
baker,  knocked  at  the  door  with  a  note. 

»13  G M street. 

"DEAR  SIR: 

"  Has  there  been  any  mistake  in  the  two-penny  post 
delivery,  that  I  have  not  received  your  article  for  this 
month  ?  If  so,  please  send  me  the  rough  draught  by 
the  bearer  (who  waits),  and  the  compositors  will  try 
to  make  it  out.  Yours,  truly, 

"  P.  S.  If  the  tale  is  not  finished,  please  send  me 
the  title  and  motto,  that  we  may  print  the  '  contents' 
during  the  delay." 

The  tea,  which,  for  some  minutes,  had  turned  off  a 
decreasing  ripple  from  the  edge  of  the  arrested  spoon, 
came  to  a  standstill  at  the  same  moment,  with  the 
author's  wits.  He  had  seized  his  pen  and  com 
menced  : — 

"  DEAR  SIR  : 

"  The  tale  of  this  month  will  be  called " 

As  it  was  not  yet  conceived,  he  found  a  difficulty 
in  baptizing  it.  Ills  eyebrows  descended  like  the 
bars  of  a  knight's  visor ;  his  mouth,  which  had  ex 
pressed  only  lassitude  and  melancholy,  shut  close, 
and  curved  downward,  and  he  sat  for  some  minutes 
dipping  his  pen  in  the  ink,  and,  at  each  dip,  adding  a 
new  shoal  to  the  banks  of  the  inky  Azores. 

A  long  sigh  of  relief,  and  an  expansion  of  every 


line  of  his  face  into  a  look  of  brightening  thought  gave 
token  presently  that  the  incubation  had  been  success 
ful.  The  gilded  note-paper  was  pushed  aside,  a  broad 
and  fair  sheet  of  "  foreign  post"  was  hastily  drawn 
j  from  his  blotting-book,  and  forgetful  alike  of  the  un 
achieved  cup  of  tea,  and  the  waiting  "devil"  of  Marl- 
borough  street,  the  felicitous  author  dashed  the  first 
magic  word  on  mid-page,  and  without  title  or  motto, 
traced  rapidly  line  after  line,  his  face  clearing  of  las 
situde,  and  his  eyes  of  their  troubled  languor,  as  the 
erasures  became  fewer,  and  his  punctuations  farther 
between. 

"  Any  answer  to  the  note,  sir?"  said  the  maid-ser 
vant,  who  had  entered  unnoticed,  and  stood  close  at 
his  elbow,  wondering  at  the  flying  velocity  of  his  pen. 
He  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  fourth  page,  and  in 
the  middle  of  a  sentence.  Handing  the  wet  and  blot 
ted  sheet  to  the  servant,  with  an  order  for  the  messen 
ger  to  call  the  following  morning  for  the  remainder, 
he  threw  down  his  pen  and  .abandoned  himself  to  the 
most  delicious  of  an  author's  pleasures — revery  in  the 
mood  of  composition.  He  forgot  work.  Work  is  to 
put  such  reveries  into  words.  His  imagination  flew 
on  like  a  horse  without  his  rider — gloriously  and  ex- 
ultingly,  but  to  no  goal.  The  very  waste  made  his 
indolence  sweeter — the  very  nearness  of  his  task 
brightened  his  imaginative  idleness.  The  ink  dried 
upon  his  pen.  Some  capricious  association  soon 
drew  back  his  thoughts  to  himself.  His  eye  dulled. 
His  lips  resumed  their  mingled  expression  of  pride 
and  voluptuousness.  He  started  to  find  himself  idle, 
remembered  that  had  sent  oft"  the  sheet  with  a  bro 
ken  sentence,  without  retaining  even  the  concluding 
word,  and  with  a  sigh  more  of  relief  than  vexation, 
lie  drew  on  his  boots.  Presto  ! — the  world  of  which 
his  penny-half-penny  inkstand  was  the  immortal  cen 
tre — the  world  of  heaven-born  imagination — melted 
from  about  him  !  He  stood  in  patent  leather — hu 
man,  handsome,  and  liable  to  debt! 

And  thus  fugitive  and  easy  of  decoy,  thus  compul 
sory,  irresolute,  and  brief,  is  the  unchastised  toil  of 
genius — the  earning  of  the  "fancy-bread"  of  poets! 
It  would  be  hard  if  a  man  who  has  "  made  himself 
a  name"  (beside  being  paternally  christened),  should 
want  one  in  a  story — so,  if  you  please,  I  will  name 
my  hero  in  the  next  sentence.  Ernest  Clay  was 
dressed  to  walk  to  Marlborough  street  to  apply  for  his 
"  guinea-a-page"  in  advance,  and  find  out  the  con 
cluding  word  of  his  MS.,  when  there  was  heard  a  foot 
man's  rap  at  the  street  door.  The  baker  on  the 
(ground  floor  ran  to  pick  up  his  penny  loaves  jarred 
i  from  the  shelves  by  the  tremendous  rat-a-tat-tat,  and 
jjthe  rn;u'd  ran  herself  out  of  her  shoes  to  inform  Mr. 

||CIay  that   Lady  Mildred wished   to  speak   with 

him.    Neither  maid  nor  baker  were  displeased  at  being 
put  to  inconvenience,  nor  was  the  baker's  hysterical 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


mother  disposed  to  murmur  at  the  outrageous  clat 
ter  which  shattered  her  nerves  for  a  week.  There 
is  a  spell  to  a  Londoner  in  a  coronetted  carnage  which 
changes  the  noise  and  impudence  of  the  unwhipped 
varlets  who  ride  behind  it,  into  music  and  condescen 
sion. 

"You  were  going  out,"  said  Lady  Mildred  ;  "  can 
I  take  you  anywhere?" 

"You  can  take  me,"  said  Clay,  spreading  out  his 
hands  in  an  attitude  of  surrender,  "  when  and  where 
you  please ;  but  I  was  going  to  my  publisher's." 

The  chariot-steps  rattled  down,  and  his  foot  was  on 
the  crimson  carpet,  when  a  plain  family  carriage  sud 
denly  turned  out  of  Grosvenor  square,  and  pulled  up 
as  near  his  own  door  as  the  obstruction  permitted. 

Ernest  changed  color  slightly,  and  Lady  Mildred, 
after  a  glance  through  the  window  behind  her,  stamp 
ed  her  little  foot  and  said  "  Come  !" 

"One  moment!"  was  his  insufficient  apology  as  he 
sprang  to  the  window  of  the  other  carnage,  and  with 
a  manner  almost  infantile  in  its  cordial  simplicity,  ex 
pressed  his  delight  at  meeting  the  two  ladies  who  sat 
within. 

"Have  you  set  up  a  chariot,  Ernest?"  said  the 
younger,  laying  her  hand  upon  the  dark  mass  of  curls 
on  his  temple,  and  pushing  his  head  gently  back  that 
she  might  see  what  equipage  stopped  the  way. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  but  there  was  no  escape 
from  the  truth. 

"  It  is  Lady  Mildred,  who  has  just 

"  Is  she  alone  ?" 

The  question  was  asked  by  the  elder  lady  with  a 
look  that  expressed  a  painfully  sad  wish  to  hear  him 
answer,  "No." 

While  he  hesitated,  the  more  forgiving  voice  next 
him  hurriedly  broke  the  silence. 

"  We  are  forgetting  our  errand,  Ernest.  Can  you 
come  to  Ashurst  to-morrow?" 

"With  all  my  heart." 

"Do  not  fail!  My  uncle  wishes  to  see  you. 
Stay — I  have  brought  you  a  note  from  him.  Good- 
by !  Are  you  going  to  the  rout  at  Mrs.  Rothschild's 
to-night?" 

"  I  was  not — but  if  you  are  going,  I  will." 

"Till  this  evening,  then?" 

The  heavy  vehicle  rolled  away,  and  Ernest  crushed 
the  note  in  his  hand  unread,  and  with  a  slower  step 
than  suited  the  impatience  of  Lady  Mildred,  returned 
to  the  chariot.  The  coachman,  with  that  mysterious 
instinct  that  coachmen  have,  let  fall  his  silk  upon  the 
backs  of  his  spirited  horses,  and  drove  in  time  with 
his  master's  quickened  pulses ;  and  at  the  corner  of 
Chesterfield  street,  as  the  family  carriage  rolled  slowly 
on  its  way  to  Howell  and  James's  (on  an  errand  con 
nected  with  bridal  pearls),  the  lofty-stepping  bays  of 
Lady  Mildred  dashed  by  as  if  all  the  anger  and  scorn 
of  a  whole  descent  of  coronets  were  breathing  from 
their  arched  nostrils. 

What  a  boon  from  nature  to  aristocracy  was  the 
pride  of  the  horse  ! 
*#.***** 

Lady  Mildred  was  a  widow  of  two  years'  weeds, 
thirty-two,  and  of  a  certain  kind  of  talent,  which  will  be 
explained  in  the  course  of  this  story.  She  had  no  per 
sonal  charms,  except  such  as  are  indispensably  neces 
sary  to  lady-likeness — indispensably  necessary,  for 
that  very  reason,  to  any  control  over  the  fancy  of  a 
man  of  imagination.  Her  upper  lip  was  short  enough 
to  express  scorn,  and  her  feet  and  hands  were  ex 
quisitely  small.  Some  men  of  fancy  would  exact 
these  attractions  and  great  many  more.  But  without 
these,  no  woman  ever  secured  even  the  most  transient 
homage  of  a  poet.  She  had  one  of  those  faces  you 
never  find  yourself  at  leisure  to  criticise,  or  rather  she 
had  one  of  those  siren  voices,  that,  if  you  heard  her 
speak  before  you  had  found  leisure  to  look  at  her 


features,  you  had  lost  your  opportunity  for  ever.  Her 
voice  expressed  the  presence  of  beauty,  as  much  as  a 
carol  in  a  tree  expresses  the  presence  of  a  bird,  and 
though  you  saw  not  the  beauty,  as  you  may  not  see 
the  bird,  it  was  impossible  to  doubt  it  was  there.  Yet 
with  all  this  enchantment  in  her  voice  it  was  the  most 
changeable  music  on  earth — for  hear  it  when  you 
would,  if  she  were  in  earnest,  you  might  be  sure  it 
was  the  softened  echo  of  the  voice  to  which  she  was 
replying.  She  never  spoke  first.  She  never  led  the 
conversation.  She  had  not  (or  never  used)  the  talent 
which  many  very  common-place  women  have,  of 
giving  a  direction  to  the  feelings  and  controlling  even 
the  course  of  thought  of  superior  men  who  may  ad 
mire  them.  In  everything  she  played  a  second.  She 
was  silent  through  all  your  greetings,  through  all  your 
compliments;  smiled  and  listened,  if  it  was  for  hours, 
till  your  lighter  spirits  were  exhausted  and  you  came 
down  to  the  true  under  tone  of  your  heart ;  and  by  the 
first-struck  chord  of  feeling  and  earnest  (and  her  skill 
in  detecting  it  was  an  infallible  instinct), she  modulated 
her  voice  and  took  up  the  strain,  and  from  the  echo 
of  your  own  soul  and  the  flow  of  the  most  throbbing 
vein  in  your  own  heart,  she  drew  your  enchantment 
and  intoxication.  Her  manners  were  a  necessary  part 
of  such  a  character.  Her  limbs  seemed  always  en 
chanted  into  stillness.  When  you  gazed  at  her  more 
earnestly,  her  eyes  gradually  drooped,  and,  again  her 
enlarged  orbs  brightened  and  grew  eager  as  your  gaze 
retreated.  With  her  slight  forefinger  laid  upon  her 
cheek,  and  her  gloved  hand  supporting  her  arm,  she 
sat  stirless  and  rapt,  and  by  an  indescribable  magnetism 
you  felt  that  there  was  not  a  nerve  in  your  eye,  nor  a 
flutter  toward  change  in  the  expression  of  your  face, 
that  was  not  linked  to  hers,  nerve  for  nerve,  pulsation 
for  pulsation.  Whether  this  charm  would  work  on 
common  men  it  is  difficult  to  say — for  Lady  Mildred's 
passions  were  invariably  men  of  genius. 

You  may  not  have  seen  such  a  woman  as  Lady 
Mildred — but  you  have  seen  girls  like  Eve  Gore. 
There  are  many  lilies,  though  each  one,  new-found, 
seems  to  the  finder  the  miracle  of  nature.  She  was  a 
pure,  serene-hearted,  and  very  beautiful  girl  of  seven 
teen.  Her  life  had  been  hitherto  the  growth  of  love 
and  care,  as  the  lily  she  resembled  is  the  growth  of 
sunshine  and  dew  ;  and,  flower-like,  all  she  had  ever 
known  or  felt  had  turned  to  spotless  loveliness.  She 
had  met  the  gifted  author  of  her  favorite  romance  at 
a  country-house  where  they  were  guests  together,  and 
I  could  not.  short  of  a  chapter  of  metaphysics,  tell  you 
how  natural  it  was  for  these  two  apparently  uncon 
genial  persons  to  mingle,  like  drops  of  dew.  I  will 
merely  say  now,  that  strongly  marked  as  seems  the 
character  of  every  man  of  genius,  his  very  capability 
of  tracking  the  mazes  of  human  nature,  makes  him 
the  very  chameleon  and  Proteus  of  his  species,  and 
that  after  he  has  assimilated  himself  by  turns  to  every 
variety  of  mankind,  his  masks  never  fall  off'  without 
disclosing  the  very  soul  and  type  of  the  most  infantine 
simplicity.  Other  men's  disguises,  too,  become  a 
second  nature.  Those  of  genius  are  worn  to  their 
last  day,  as  loosely  as  the  mantles  of  the  gods. 

The  kind  of  man  called  "  a  penetrating  observer," 
if  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  meeting  Mr.  Clay  in 
London  circles,  and  had  afterward  seen  him  rambling 

through  the  woods  of Park  with  Eve  Gore, 

natural,  playful  sometimes,  and  sometimes  sad,  his 
manner  the  reflex  of  hers,  even  his  voice  almost  as 
feminine  as  hers,  in  his  fine  sympathy  with  her  charac 
ter  and  attractions — one  of  these  shrewd  people  I  say 
would  have  shaken  his  head  and  whispered,  "poor 
girl,  how  little  she  understands  him!"  But  of  all  the 
wise  and  worldly,  gentle  and  simple,  who  had  ever 
crossed  the  path  of  Ernest  Clay,  the  same  child-like 
girl  was  the  only  creature  to  whom  he  appeared  utterly 
himself — for  whom  he  wore  no  disguise — to  whose 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


0 


plummet  of  simple  truth  he  opened  the  seldom-sound 
ed  depths  of  his  prodigal  and  passionate  heart.  Lady 
Mildred  knew  his  weaknesses  and  his  genius.  Eve 
Gore  knew  his  better  and  brighter  nature.  And  both 
loved  him. 

And  now,  dear  reader,  having  drawn  you  the  portraits 
of  my  two  heroines,  I  shall  go  ou  with  a  disembarras 
sed  narrative  to  the  end. 


CHAPTER  II. 

LADY  Mildred's  bays  panced  proudly  up  Bond 
street,  and  kept  on  their  way  to  the  publisher's,  at 
whose  door  they  fretted  and  champed  the  bit — they 
and  their  high-born  mistress  in  attendance  upon  the 
poor  author  who  in  this  moment  of  despondency  com 
plained  of  the  misappreciation  of  the  world.  Of  the 
scores  of  people  who  knew  him  and  his  companion 
as  London  celebrities,  and  who  followed  the  showy 
equipage  with  their  eyes,  how  many,  think  you,  look 
ed  on  Mr.  Ernest  Clay  as  a  misappreciated  man  ? 
How  many,  had  they  known  that  the  whole  errand 
of  this  expensive  turn  out  was  to  call  on  the  publisher 
for  the  price  of  a  single  magazine  paper,  would  have 
reckoned  those  sixteen  guineas  and  the  chariot  of  a 
noble  lady  to  come  for  the  payment — five  hundred 
pounds  for  your  romance,  and  a  welcome  to  all  the 
best  houses  and  costliest  entertainments  of  England 
— a  hundred  pounds  for  your  poem  and  the  attention 
of  a  thousand  eager  admirers — these  are  some  of  the 
"  lengthening  shadows"  to  the  author's  profits  which 
the  author  does  not  reckon,  but  which  the  world  does. 
To  the  rest  of  mankind  these  are  "  chattels"  priced 
and  paid  for.  Twenty  thousand  a  year  would  hardly 
buy  for  Mr.  Clay,  simple  and  uncelebrated,  what  Mr. 
Clay,  author,  etc.,  has  freely  with  five  hundred.  To 
whose  credit  shall  the  remaining  nineteen  thousand 
five  hundred  be  set  down  ?  Common  people  who  pay 
for  these  things  are  not  believers  in  fairy  gifts.  They 
see  the  author  in  a  station  of  society  unattainable  ex 
cept  by  the  wealthiest  and  best  born,  with  all  that 
profuse  wealth  could  purchase  as  completely  at  his 
service  as  if  the  bills  of  cost  were  to  be  brought  in  to 
him  at  Christmas ;  and  besides  all  this  (once  more 
"  into  the  bargain")  caressed  and  flattered  as  no 
"  golden  dulness"  ever  was  or  could  be.  To  rate  the 
revenue  of  such  a  pampered  idol  of  fortune,  what  man 
in  his  senses  would  inquire  merely  into  the  profits  of 
his  book  ! 

And  in  this  lies  the  whole  secret  of  the  envy  and 
malice  which  is  the  peculiar  inheritance  of  genius. 
Generous-minded  men,  all  women,  the  great  and  rich 
who  arc  too  high  themselves  to  feel  envy,  and  the  poor 
and  humble  who  are  too  low  to  feel  aught  but  wonder 
and  grateful  admiration — these  are  the  fosterers  and 
flatterers,  the  paymasters  of  the  real  wealth  and  the 
receivers  of  the  choicest  fruits  of  genius.  The  aspi 
ring  mediocrity,  the  slighted  and  eclipsed  pretenders 
to  genius^  are  a  large  class,  to  whose  eyes  all  bright 
ness  is  black,  and  the  great  mass  of  men  toil  their  lives 
and  utmost  energies  away  for  the  hundredth  part  of 
what  the  child  of  genius  wins  by  his  unseen  pen — by 
the  toil  which  neither  hardens  his  hands  nor  trenches 
on  his  hours  of  pleasure.  They  see  a  man  no  come- 
lier  nor  better  born  than  they — idle  apparently,  as  the 
most  spoilt  minion  of  wealth,  vying  with  the  best  born 
in  the  favor  of  beautiful  and  proud  women,  using  all 
the  goodsof  fortune  with  a  ptofuse  carelessness,  which 
the  possession  of  the  lamp  of  Aladdin  could  not  more 
than  inspire,  and  by  bitter  criticism,  by  ingenious 
slander,  by  continual  depreciation,  ridicule,  and  ex 
aggeration  of  every  pretty  foible,  they  attempt  to  level 
the  inequalities  of  fortune,  and  repair  the  flagrant  in 
justice  of  the  blind  goddess  to  themselves.  Upon  the 


class  generally,  they  are  avenged.  Their  malice 
poisons  the  joy  and  cripples  the  fine-winged  fancy  of 
nineteen  in  the  score.  But  the  twentieth  is  born 
proud  and  elastic,  and  the  shaft  his  scorn  does  not 
fling  back,  his  light-heartedness  eludes,  and  his  is  the 
destiny  which,  more  than  that  of  kings  or  saints,  proves 
the  wide  inequality  in  human  lot. 

I  trust,  dear  reader,  that  you  have  been  more  amused 
than  Lady  Mildred  at  this  half  hour's  delay  at  the 
publisher's.  While  I  have  been  condensing  into  a 
theory  by  scattered  observations  of  London  authors, 
her  ladyship  has  been  musing  upon  the  apparition  of 
the  family  carriage  of  the  Gores  at  Mr.  Clay's  lodgings. 
Lady  Mildred's  position  in  society,  though  she  had 
the  entree  to  all  the  best  houses  in  London,  precluded 
an  intimate  acquaintance  with  any  unmarried  girl — 
but  she  had  seen  Eve  Gore  and  knew  and  dreaded  her 
loveliness.  A  match  of  mere  interest  would  have 
given  her  no  uneasiness,  but  she  could  see  far  enough 
into  the  nature  of  this  beautiful  and  fresh-hearted  girl 
to  know  that  hers  would  be  no  divided  empire.  All 
women  are  conscious  that  a  single-minded,  concentra 
ted,  pure  affection,  melting  the  whole  character  into 
the  heart,  is  omnipotent  in  perpetuating  fidelity. 

"  Ernest,"  said  Lady  Mildred,  as  the  chariot  sped 
from  the  publisher's  door,  and  took  its  way  to  the 
Park,  "  you  are  grown  ceremonious.  Am  I  so  new  a 
friend  that  you  can  not  open  a  note  in  my  presence  ?" 

Clay  placed  the  crushed  letter  in  her  hand. 

"1  will  have  no  secrets  from  you,  dear  Lady  Mildred. 
There  is  probably  much  in  that  note  that  will  surprise 
you.  Break  the  seal,  however,  and  give  me  your  ad 
vice.  I  will  not  promise  to  follow  it." 

The  blood  flushed  to  the  temples  of  Lady  Mildred 
as  she  read-  but  her  lips,  though  pale  and  trembling, 
were  compressed  by  a  strong  effort  of  self  control. 
She  turned  back  and  read  the  note  again  in  a  murmur 
ing  undertone: — 

"  DEAR  MR.  CLAY  :  From  causes  which  you  will 
probably  understand,  I  have  been  induced  to  recon 
sider  your  proposal  of  marriage  to  my  niece. — Impru 
dent  as  I  must  still  consider  your  union,  I  find  myself 
in  such  a  situation  that,  should  you  persevere,  I  must 
decide  in  its  favor,  as  the  least  of  two  evils.  You  will 
forgive  my  anxious  care,  however,  if  I  exact  of  you, 
before  taking  any  decided  step,  a  full  and  fair  state 
ment  of  your  pecuniary  embarrassments  (which  I 
understand  are  considerable)  and  your  present  income 
and  prospects.  1  think  it  proper  to  inform  you  that 
Miss  Gore's  expectations,  beyond  an  annuity  of  =€300 
a  year,  are  very  distant,  and  that  all  your  calculations 
should  be  confined  to  that  amount.  With  this  under 
standing,  I  should  be  pleased  to  see  you  at  Ashurst 
to-morrow  morning.  Yours,  truly, 

"  THOMAS  GORE." 

"  Hear  me  before  you  condemn,  dear  Lady  Mildred," 
passionately  exclaimed  Ernest,  as  she  clasped  her 
hands  over  the  letter  and  her  tears  fell  fast  upon  them: 
"  I  was  wrong  to  leave  the  discovery  of  this  to  chance 
— I  should  have  dealt  more  frankly  with  you — indeed, 
if  I  had  had  the  opportunity — ' 

Lady  Mildred  looked  up,  as  if  to  reproach  him  for 
!  the  evasion  half  uttered. 

"  I  have  seen  you  daily,  it  is  true,  but  every  hour  is 
!  not  an  hour  for  confession  like  this,  and  besides,  my 
i  new  love  was  a  surprise,  and  what  I  have  to  confess  is 
'  a  change  in  my  feelings  still  more  recent — a  constant- 
i  ly  brightening  vision  of  a  life  (pardon  me,  Lady  Mil 
dred  !)  deeper  a  thousand  fold,  and  a  thousand  times 
sweeter  and  more  engrossing  than  ours." 

"  You  are  frank,"  said  his  pale  listener,  who  had  re- 

j  covered  her  self-possession,  and  seemed  bent  now,  39 

i  usual,  only  on  listening  and  entering  into  his  feelings. 

"  I  would  he  so,  indeed,"  he  resumed ;  "  but  I  have 


10 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


not  yet  come  to  my  confession.  Life  is  too  short, 
Lady  Mildred,  and  youth  too  vanishing,  to  waste  feel 
ing  on  delusion." 

"  Such  as  your  love,  do  you  mean,  Ernest  ?" 

"  Pardon  me !     Were  you  my  wife " 

Lady  Mildred  made  a  slight  motion  of  impatience 
with  her  hand,  and  unconsciously  raised  the  expressive 
arching  of  her  lip. 

"  I  must  name  this  forbidden  subject  to  be  under 
stood.  See  what  a  false  position  is  mine  !  You  are 
too  proud  to  marry,  but  have  not  escaped  loving  me, 
and  you  wish  me  to  be  contented  with  a  perfume  on 
the  breeze,  to  feel  a  property  in  a  bird  in  the  sky.  It 
was  very  sweet  to  begin  to  love  you,  to  win  and  join 
step  by  step,  to  have  food  for  hope  in  what  was  refused 
me.  But  I  am  checked,  and  you  are  still  free.  Island 
at  an  impassable  barrier,  and  you  demand  that  I  should 
feel  united  to  you." 

"  You  are  ungrateful,  Ernest !" 

"  If  I  were  your  slave,  I  am,  for  you  load  me  with 
favors — but  as  your  lover,  no  !  It  does  not  fill  my 
heart  to  open  your  house  to  me,  to  devote  to  me  your 
dining  hours,  your  horses  and  servants,  to  let  the 
world  know  that  you  love  me,  to  make  me  your 
romance — yet  have  all  the  common  interests  of  life 
apart,  have  a  station  in  society  apart,  and  ambition  not 
mine,  a  name  not  mine,  and  hearth  not  mine.  You 
share  my  wild  passions,  and  my  fashionable  negations, 
not  my  homely  feelings  and  everyday  sorrows.  I  have 
a  whole  existence  into  which  you  never  enter.  I  am 
something  besides  a  fashionable  author — but  not  to 
you.  I  have  a  common  human  heart — a  pillow  upon 
which  lies  down  no  fancy — a  morning  which  is  not 
spent  in  sleep  or  listlessness,  but  in  the  earning  of  my 
bread — I  have  dulness  and  taciturnity  and  caprice — 
and  in  all  these  you  have  no  share.  I  am  a  butterfly 
and  an  earth-worm,  by  turns,  and  you  know  me  only 
on  the  wing.  You  do  not  answer  me  !" 

Lady  Mildred,  as  I  have  said  before,  was  an  admirer 
of  genius,  and  though  Ernest  was  excusing  an  infideli 
ty  to  herself,  the  novelty  of  his  distinctions  opened  to 
her  a  new  chapter  in  the  book  of  love,  and  she  was 
interested  far  beyond  resentment.  He  was  talking 
from  his  heart,  .too,  and  every  one  who  has  listened  to  a 
murmur  of  affection,  knows  what  sweetness  the  breath 
ings  of  those  deeper  veins  of  feeling  infuse  into  the 
voice.  To  a  palled  Sybarite  like  Lady  Mildred,  there 
was  a  wild-flower  freshness  in  all  this  that  was  irresisti 
bly  captivating.  A  smile  stole  through  her  lips  instead 
of  the  reproach  and  anger  that  he  expected. 

"  I  do  not  answer  you,  my  dear  Ernest,  for  the  same 
reason  I  would  not  tear  a  leaf  out  of  one  of  your  books 
unread.  I  quite  enter  into  your  feelings.  I  wish  I 
could  hear  you  talk  of  them  hours  longer.  Their 
simplicity  and  truth  enchant  me — but  I  confess  I  can 
not  see  what  you  propose  to  yourself.  Do  you  think 
to  reconcile»and  blend  all  these  contradictory  moods 
by  an  imprudent  marriage  ?  Or  do  you  mean  to  vow 
your  butterfly  to  celibacy,  and  marry  your  worm-fly 
alone,  and  grovel  in  sympathy  rather  than  take  love 
with  you  when  you  soar,  and  keep  your  grovelling  to 
yourself." 

"  I  think  Eve  Gore  would  love  me,  soaring  or  creep 
ing,  Lady  Mildred!  She  would  be  happier  sitting  by 
my  table  while  I  wrote,  than  driving  in  this  gay  crowd 
with  her  chariot.  She  would  lose  the  light  of  her  life 
in  absence  from  me,  like  a  cloud  receding  from  the 
moon,  whatever  stars  sparkled  around  her.  She 
xvould  be  with  me  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  the  night, 
sharing  every  thought  that  could  spring  to  my  lips, 
and  reflecting  my  own  soul  for  ever.  You  will  forgive 
me  for  finding  out  this  want,  this  void,  while  you  loved 
me.  But  I  have  felt  it  sickeningly  in  your  bright 
rooms,  with  music  and  perfume,  and  the  touch  of  your 
hand  all  conspiring  to  enchant  me.  In  the  very  hours 
when  most  men  on  earth  would  have  envied  me,  I 


have  felt  the  humbler  chambers  of  my  heart  ache  with 
loneliness.  I  have  longed  for  some  still  and  dark  re 
treat,  where  the  beating  of  my  pulse  would  be  protes 
tation  enough,  and  where  she  who  loved  me  was  blest 
to  overflowing  with  my  presence  only.  Affection  is  a 
glow-worm  light,  dear  Lady  Mildred  !  It  pales  amid 
splendor." 

"But  you  should  have  a  glow-worm's  habits  to 
relish  it,  my  dear  poet.  You  can  not  live  on  a  blade 
of  grass,  nor  shine  brightest  out  of  doors  in  the  rain. 
Let  us  look  at  it  without  these  Claude  Lorraine 
glasses,  and  see  the  truth.  Mr.  Thomas  Gore  offers 
you  d£300  a  year  with  his  neice.  Your  own  income, 
the  moment  you  marry,  is  converted  from  pocket- 
money  into  subsistence — from  the  purchase  of  gloves 
and  Hungary  water  into  butcher's  meat  and  groceries. 
You  retire  to  a  small  house  in  one  of  the  cheaper  streets. 
You  have  been  accustomed  to  drive  out  continually, 
and  for  several  years  you  have  not  only  been  free  from 
the  trouble  and  expense  of  your  own  dinner,  but  you 
have  pampered  your  taste  with  the  varied  chefs  d'ceuvre 
of  all  the  best  cooks  of  London.  You  dine  at  home 
now,  feeding  several  mouths  beside  your  own,  on  what 
is  called  a  family  dinner — say,  as  a  good  specimen,  a 
beefsteak  and  potatoes,  with  a  Yorkshire  pudding. 
Instead  of  retiring  after  your  coffee  to  a  brilliantly 
lighted  drawning-room,  where  collision  with  some 
portion  of  the  most  gifted  society  of  London  dis 
ciplines  your  intellect  and  polishes  your  wit  and  fancy, 
you  sit  down  by  your  wife's  work-table,  and  grow 
sleepy  over  your  plans  of  economy,  sigh  for  the  gay 
scenes  you  once  moved  in,  and  go  to  bed  to  be  rid  of 
your  regrets." 

"  But  why  should  I  be  exiled  from  society,  my  dear 
Lady  Mildred  ?  What  circle  in  London  would  not 
take  a  new  grace  from  the  presence  of  such  a  woman 
as  Eve  Gore  ?" 

"Oh,  marvellous  simplicity  !  If  men  kept  the  gates 
of  society,  a  la  bonne  heure  ! — for  then  a  party  would 
i  consist  of  one  man  (the  host),  and  a  hundred  pretty 
women.  But  the  "free  list"  of  society,  you  know, 
as  well  as  I,  my  love-blind  friend,  is  exclusively  mas 
culine.  Woman  keeps  the  door,  and  easy  as  turns  the 
hinge  to  the  other  sex,  it  swings  reluctant  to  her  own. 
You  may  name  a  hundred  men  in  your  circle  whose 
return  for  the  hospitality  of  fashionable  houses  it 
would  be  impossible  to  guess  at,  but  you  can  not 
point  me  out  one  married  woman,  whose  price  of 
admission  is  not  as  well  known  and  as  rigidly  exacted, 
as  the  cost  of  an  opera-box. — Those  who  do  not  give 
sumptuous  parties  in  their  turn  (and  even  |hese  must 
be  well  bred  and  born  people),  are  in  the  first  place 
very  ornamental;  but,  besides  being  pretty,  they  must 
either  sing  or  flirt.  There  are  but  two  classes  of 
women  in  fashionable  society — the  leaders  or  party- 
givers,  and  the  decoys  to  young  men.  There  is  the 

pretty  Mrs. ,  for  example,  whose  habitation 

nobody  knows  but  as  a  card  with  an  address;  and  why 
is  she  everywhere  ?  Simply,  because  she  draws  four 
or  five  fashionable  young  men,  who  would  find  no  in 
ducement  to'  come  if  she  were  not  there.  Then  there 

is  Mrs.  ,  who  sings  enchantingly,  and  Mrs. 

,  who  is  pretty,  and  a  linguist,  and  entertains 
stupid  foreigners,  and  Mrs.  —  — ,  who  is  clever  at 
charades,  and  plays  quadrilles,  and  what  would  Mrs. 
Clay  do?  Is  she  musical  ?" 

"  She  is  beautiful !" 

"  Well — she  must  flirt.  With  three  or  four  fash 
ionable  lovers " 

"Lady  Mildred!" 

"Pardon  me,  I  was  thinking  aloud.  Well — I  will 
suppose  you  an  exception  to  this  Mede-and-Persian 
law  of  the  beau  monde,  and  allow  for  a  moment  that. 
Mrs.  Clay,  with  an  income  of  five  or  six  hundred  a 
year,  with  no  eyes  for  anybody  but  her  husband, 
poor,  pretty,  and  innocent  (what  a  marvel  it  would  be 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


11 


in  May  Fair,  by-the-way  !),  becomes  as  indispensable 
to  a  partie  fine  as  was  Mr.  Clay  while  in  unmarried 
celebrity.  Mind,  I  am  not  talking  of  routs  and  balls, 
where  anybody  can  go,  because  there  must  be  a  crowd, 
but  of  petits  soupcrs,  select  dinners,  and  entertain 
ments  where  every  guest  is  invited  as  an  ingredient  to 
a  well-studied  cup  of  pleasure.  I  will  suppose  for  an 
instant,  that  a  connubial  and  happy  pair  could  be  de 
sirable  in  such  circles.  What  part  of  your  income 
of  five  or  six  hundred  a  year,  do  you  suppose,  would 
dress  and  jewel  your  wife,  keep  carriage  and  servants, 
and  pay  for  your  concert-tickets  and  opera-boxes — all 
absolutely  indispensable  to  people  who  go  out  ?  Why, 
my  dear  Ernest,  your  whole  income  would  not  suffice 
for  the  half.  You  must  '  live  shy,'  go  about  in  hack 
ney-coaches,  dress  economically  (which  is  execrable 
in  a  woman),  and  endure  the  neglects  and  mortifica 
tions  which  our  pampered  servants  inevitably  inflict 
on  shabby  people.  Your  life  would  be  one  succes 
sion  of  bitter  mortifications,  difficulties,  and  heart 
burnings.  Believe  me,  there  is  no  creature  on  earth 
so  exquisitely  wretched  as  a  man  with  a  fashionable 
wife  and  small  means." 

Lady  Mildred  had  been  too  much  accustomed  to 
the  management  of  men,  not  to  leave  Ernest,  after  this 
homily,  to  his  own  thoughts.  A  woman  of  less 
knowledge  and  tact  would  have  followed  up  this  argu 
ment  with  an  appeal  to  his  feelings.  But  beside  that, 
she  wished  the  seed  she  had  thus  thrown  into  his 
mind  to  germinate  with  thought.  She  knew  that  it 
was  a  wise  principle  in  the  art  of  love  to  be  cold  by 
daylight.  Ernest  sat  silent,  with  his  eyes  cast  musing 
ly  down  to  the  corner  of  the  chariot,  where  the  smal 
lest  foot  and  prettiest  chaussure  conceivable  was  play 
ing  with  the  tassel  of  the  window-pull ;  and  reserving 
her  more  effective  game  of  feeling  for  the  evening, 

when  they  were  to  meet  at  Mrs.  R 's,  she  set  him 

down  at  his  clubhouse  with  a  calm  and  cold  adieu, 
and  drove  home  to  bathe,  dine  alone,  sleep,  and  re 
fresh  body  and  spirit  for  the  struggle  against  love  and 
Eve  Gore. 


CHAPTER  111. 

GENIUS  is  lord  of  the  world.  Men  labor  at  the 
foundation  of  society,  while  the  lowly  lark,  unseen 
and  little  prized,  sits,  hard  by,  in  his  nest  on  the  earth, 
gathering  strength  to  bear  his  song  up  to  the  sun. 
Slowly  rise  basement  and  monumental  aisle,  column 
and  architrave,  dome  and  lofty  tower;  and  when  the 
cloud-piercing  spire  is  burnished  with  gold,  and  the 
fabric  stands  perfect  and  wondrous,  up  springs  the  for 
gotten  lark,  with  airy  wheel  to  the  pinnacle,  and 
standing  poised  and  unwondering  on  his  giddy  perch, 
he  pours  out  his  celestial  music  till  his  bright  footing 
trembles  with  harmony.  And  when  the  song  is  done, 
and  mounting  thence,  he  soars  away  to  fill  his  ex 
hausted  heart  at  the  fountains  of  the  sun,  the  dwel 
lers  in  the  towers  below  look  up  to  the  gilded  spire 
and  shout — not  to  the  burnished  shaft,  but  to  the 
lark — lost  from  it  in  the  sky. 

"  Mr.  Clay !"  repeated  the  last  footman  on  Mrs.  K's 
flower-laden  staircase. 

I  have  let  you  down  as  gently  as  possible,  dear 
reader;  but  here  we  are  in  one  of  the  most  fashion 
able  houses  in  May  Fair. 

Pardon  me  a  moment !  Did  I  say  I  had  let  you 
down  1  What  pyramid  of  the  Nile  is  piled  up  like 
the  gradations  between  complete  insignificance  and 
the  effect  of  that  footman's  announcement?  On  the 
heels  of  Ernest,  and  named  with  the  next  breath  of 
the  menial's  lips,  came  the  bearer  of  a  title  laden 
with  the  emblazoned  honors  of  descent.  Had  he  en- 


|  tered  a  hall  of  statuary,  he  could  not  have  been  less 
regarded.  All  eyes  were  on  the  pale  forehead  and 
calm  lips  that  had  entered  before  him ;  and  the  blood 
of  the  warrior  who  made  the  name,  and  of  the  states 
men  and  nobles  who  had  borne  it,  and  the  accumu 
lated  honor  and  renown  of  centuries  of  unsullied  dis 
tinctions — all  these  concentrated  glories  in  the  midst 
of  the  most  polished  and  discriminating  circle  on 
earth,  paled  before  the  lamp  of  yesterday,  burning  in 
the  eye  of  genius.  Where  is  distinction  felt  ?  In 
secret,  amid  splendor  ?  No  !  In  the  street  and  the 
vulgar  gaze  ?  No !  In  the  bosom  of  love  ?  She 
only  remembers  it.  W^here,  then,  is  the  intoxicating 
cup  of  homage — the  delirious  draught  for  which 
brain,  soul,  and  nerve,  are  tasked,  tortured,  and 
spent — where  is  it  lifted  to  the  lips?  The  answer 
brings  me  back.  Eyes  shining  from  amid  jewels, 
voices  softened  with  gentle  breeding,  smiles  awaken 
ing  beneath  costly  lamps — an  atmosphere  of  perfume, 
splendor,  and  courtesy — these  form  the  poet's  Hebe, 
and  the  hero's  Ganymede.  These  pour  for  ambition 
the  draught  that  slakes  his  fever — these  hold  the  cup 
to  lips,  drinking  eagerly,  that  would  turn  away  in  sol 
itude,  from  the  ambrosia  of  the  gods ! 

Clay's  walk  through  the  sumptuous  rooms  of  Mrs. 

R was  like  a  Roman  triumph.     He  was  borne  on 

from  lip  to  lip — those  before  him  anticipating  his 
greeting,  and  those  he  left,  still  sending  their  bright 
and  kind  words  after  him.  He  breathed  incense. 

Suddenly,  behind  him,  he  heard  the  voice  of  Eve 
Gore.  She  was  making  the  tour  of  the  rooms  on  the 
arm  of  a  friend,  and  following  Ernest,  had  insensibly 
tried  to  get  nearer  to  him,  and  had  become  flushed 
and  troubled  in  the  effort.  They  had  never  before 
met  in  a  large  party,  and  her  pride,  in  the  universal 
attention  he  attracted,  still  more  flushed  her  eyelids 
and  injured  her  beauty.  She  gave  him  her  hand  as 
he  turned ;  but  the  greeting  that  sprang  to  her  lips 
was  checked  by  a  sudden  consciousness  that  many 
eyes  were  on  her,  and  she  hesitated,  murmured  some 
broken  words,  and  was  silent.  The  immediate  atten 
tion  that  Clay  had  given  to  her,  interrupted  at  the 
same  moment  the  undertoned  murmur  around  him, 
and  there  was  a  minute's  silence,  in  which  the  inevit 
able  thought  flashed  across  his  mind  that  he  had  over 
rated  her  loveliness.  Still  the  trembling  and  clinging 
clasp  of  her  hand,  and  the  appealing  earnestness  of 
her  look,  told  him  what  was  in  her  heart — and  when 
was  ever  genius  ungrateful  for  love  !  He  made  a 
strong  effort  to  reason  down  his  disappointment,  and 
had  the  embarrassed  girl  resumed  instantly  her  natu 
ral  ease  and  playfulness,  his  sensitive  imagination 
would  have  been  conquered,  and  its  recoil  forgotten. 
But  love,  that  lends  us  words,  smiles,  tears,  all  we 
want,  in  solitude,  robs  us  in  the  gay  crowd  of  every 
thing  but  what  we  can  not  use — tears  !  As  the  man 
she  worshipped  led  her  on  through  those  bright 
rooms,  Eve  Gore,  though  she  knew  not  why,  felt  the 
large  drops  ache  behind  her  eyes.  She  would  have 
sobbed  if  she  had  tried  to  speak.  Clay  had  given  her 
his  arm,  and  resumed  his  barter  of  compliment  with 
the  crowd,  and  with  it  a  manner  she  had  never  before 
seen.  He  had  been  a  boy,  fresh,  frank,  ardent,  and 
unsuspicious,  at  Annesley  Park.  She  saw  him  now 
in  the  cold  and  polished  armor  of  a  man  who  has 
been  wounded  as  well  as  flattered  by  the  world,  and 
who  presents  his  shield  even  to  a  smile.  Impossible 
as  it  was  that  he  should  play  the  lover  now,  she  felt 
wronged  and  hurt  by  his  addressing  the  same  tone  of 
elegant  trifling  and  raillery  which  was  the  key  of  the 
conversation  around  them.  She  knew,  too,  that  she 
herself  was  appearing  to  disadvantage  ;  and  before  a 
brief  hour  had  elapsed,  she  had  become  a  prey  to  an 
other  feeling — the  bitter  avarice  which  is  the  curse 
of  all  affection  for  the  gifted  or  the  beautiful — an  ava- 
arice  that  makes  every  smile  given  back  for  admiration, 


12 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


a  germ  torn  from  us — every  word,  even  of  thanks  for 
courtesy,  a  life-drop  of  our  hearts  drank  away. 

"  The  moon  looks 
On  many  brooks, 
The  brook  can  see  no  moon  but  this," 

contains  the  mordent  secret  of  most  hearts  vowed  to 
the  love  of  remarkable  genius  or  beauty. 

The  supper-rooms  had  been  some  time  open;  from 
these  and  the  dancing  hall,  the  half-weary  guests 
were  coming  back  to  the  deep  fauteuils,  the  fresher 
air,  and  the  graver  society  of  the  library,  which  had 
served  as  an  apartment  of  reception.  With  a  clouded 
brow,  thoughtful  and  silent,  Eve  Gore  sat  with  her 
mother  in  a  recess  near  the  entrance,  and  Clay,  who 
had  kept  near  them,  though  their  conversation  had 
long  since  languished,  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  small 
group  of  fashionable  men,  much  more  brilliant  and 
far  louder  in  his  gayety  than  he  would  have  been 
with  a  heart  at  ease.  It  was  one  of  those  nights  of 
declining  May,  when  the  new  foliage  of  the  season 
seems  to  have  exhausted  the  air,  and  though  it  was 
near  morning,  there  came  through  the  open  windows 
neither  coolness  nor  vitality.  Fans,  faded  wreaths, 
and  flushed  faces,  were  universal. 

A  footman  stood  suddenly  in  the  vacant  door. 

"  Lady  Mildred !" 

The  announcements  had  been  over  for  hours,  and  ev 
ery  eye  was  turned  on  the  apparition  of  so  late  a  comer. 

Quietly,  but  with  a  step  as  elastic  as  the  nod  of  a 
water-lily,  Lady  Mildred  glided  into  the  room,  and 
the  high  tones  and  unharmonized  voices  of  the  differ 
ent  groups  suddenly  ceased,  and  were  succeeded  by 
a  low  and  sustained  murmur  of  admiration.  A  white 
dress  of  faultless  freshness  of  fold,  a  snowy  turban, 
from  which  hung  on  either  temple  a  cluster  of  crim 
son  camelias  still  wet  with  the  night  dew  ;  long  raven 
curls  of  undisturbed  grace  falling  on  shoulders  of  that 
undescribable  and  dewy  coolness  which  follows  a 
morning  bath,  giving  the  skin  the  texture  and  the 
opaque  whiteness  of  the  lily  ;  lips  and  skin  redolent 
of  the  repose  and  purity,  and  the  downcast  but  wake 
ful  eye  so  expressive  of  recent  solitude,  and  so  pecu 
liar  to  one  who  has  not  spoken  since  she  slept. 
These  were  attractions  which,  in  contrast  with  the 
paled  glories  around,  elevated  Lady  Mildred  at  once 
into  the  predominant  star  of  the  night. 

"What  news  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  most 
adorable  Venus  ?"  said  a  celebrated  artist,  standing 
out  from  the  group  and  drawing  a  line  through  the 
air  with  his  finger  as  if  he  were  sketching  the  flowing 
outline  of  her  form. 

Lady  Mildred  laid  her  small  hand  on  Clay's,  and 
with  a  smile,  but  no  greeting  else,  passed  on.  The 
bantering  question  of  the  great  painter  told  her  that 
her  spell  worked  to  a  miracle,  and  she  was  too  shrewd 
an  enchantress  to  dissolve  it  by  the  utterance  of  a 
word.  She  glided  on  like  a  spirit  of  coolness,  calm, 
silent,  and  graceful,  and,  standing  a  moment  on  the 
threshold  of  the  apartment  beyond,  disappeared, 
with  every  eye  fixed  on  her  vanishing  form  in  won 
dering  admiration.  Purity  was  the  effect  she  had  pro 
duced — purity  in  contrast  with  the  flowers  in  the 
room — purity  (Ernest  Clay  felt  and  wondered  at  it), 
even  in  contrast  with  Eve  Gore  !  There  was  silence 
in  the  library  for  an  instant,  and  then,  one  by  one,  the 
gay  group  around  our  hero  followed  in  search  of  the 
new  star  of  the  hour,  and  he  was  left  standing  alone. 
He  turned  to  speak  to  his  silent  friends,  but  the  man 
ner  of  Mrs.  Gore  was  restrained,  and  Eve  sat  pale  and 
tearful  within  the  curtain  of  the  recess,  and  looked  as 
if  her  heart  was  breaking. 

"  I  should  like — I  should  like  to  go  home,  mother !" 
she  said  presently,  with  a  difficult  articulation.  "  I 
think  I  am  not  well.  Mr.  Clay — Ernest — will  see, 
perhaps,  if  our  carriage  is  here." 


"You  will  find  us  in  the  shawl-room,"  said  Mrs. 
Gore,  following  him  to  the  staircase,  and  looking  after 
him  with  troubled  eyes. 

The  carriage  was  at  the  end  of  the  line,  and  could 
not  come  up  for  an  hour.  Day  was  dawning,  and 
Ernest  had  need  of  solitude  and  thought.  He  crossed 
to  the  park,  and  strode  off  through  the  wet  grass, 
bathing  his  forehead  with  handfuls  of  dew.  Alas  ! 
the  fevered  eyes  and  pallid  lips  he  had  last  seen  were 
less  in  harmony  with  the  calm  stillness  of  the  dawn 
than  the  vision  his  conscience  whispered  him  was 
charmed  for  his  destruction.  As  the  cool  air  brought 
back  his  reason,  he  remembered  Eve's  embarrassed 
address  and  his  wearisome  and  vain  efforts  to  amuse 
her.  He  remembered  her  mother's  reproving  eye, 
her  own  colder  utterance  of  his  name,  and  then  in 
powerful  relief  came  up  the  pictures  he  had  brooded 
on  since  his  conversation  in  the  chariot  with  Lady 
Mildred,  visions  of  self-denial  and  loss  of  caste  op 
posed  to  the  enchantments  of  passion  without  re 
straint  or  calculation,  and  his  head  and  heart  became 
wild  with  conflicting  emotions.  One  thing  was  cer 
tain.  He  must  decide  now.  He  must  speak  to  Eve 
Gore  before  parting,  and  in  the  tone  of  his  voice,  if  it 
were  but  a  word,  there  must  be  that  which  her  love 
would  interpret  as  a  bright  promise  or  a  farewell.  He 
turned  back.  At  the  gate  of  the  park  stood  one  of 
the  guilty  wanderers  of  the  streets,  who  seized  him 
by  the  sleeve  and  implored  charity. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  exclaimed  Clay,  scarce  knowing 
what  he  uttered. 

"As  good  as  she  is,"  screamed  the  woman,  pointing 
to  Lady  Mildred's  carriage,  "only  not  so  rich!  Oh, 
we  could  change  places,  if  all's  true." 

Ernest  stood  still  as  if  his  better  angel  had  spoken 
through  those  painted  lips.  He  gasped  with  the 
weight  that  rose  slowly  from  his  heart ;  and  purcha 
sing  his  release  from  the  unfortunate  wretch  who 
had  arrested  his  steps,  he  crossed  slowly  to  the 
door  crowded  with  the  menials  of  the  gay  throng 
within. 

"  Lady  Mildred's  carriage  stops  the  way  !"  shouted 
a  footman,  as  he  entered.  He  crossed  the  hall,  and 
at  the  door  of  the  shawl-room  he  was  met  by  Lady 
Mildred  herself,  descending  from  the  hall,  surrounded 
with  a  troop  of  admirers.  Clay  drew  back  to  let  her 
pass ;  but  while  he  looked  into  her  face,  it  became 
radiant  with  the  happiness  of  meeting  him,  and  the 
temptation  to  join  her  seemed  irresistible.  She  en 
tered  the  room,  followed  by  her  gay  suite,  and  last  of 
all  by  Ernest,  who  saw  with  the  first  glance  at  the 
Gores  that  he  was  believed  to  have  been  with  her  du 
ring  the  half-hour  that  had  elapsed.  He  approached 
Eve;  but  the  sense  of  an  injustice  he  could  not  im 
mediately  remove,  checked  the  warm  impulse  with 
which  he  was  coming  to  pour  out  his  heart,  and 
against  every  wish  and  feeling  of  his  soul,  he  was 
constrained  and  cold. 

"  No,  indeed !"  exclaimed  Lady  Mildred,  her  voice 
suddenly  becoming  audible,  "  I  shall  set  down  Mr. 
Clay,  whose  door  I  pass.  Lord  George,  ask  Mr. 
Clay  if  he  is  ready." 

Eve  Gore  suddenly  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  as  if 
a  spirit  had  whispered  that  her  last  chance  for  happi 
ness  was  poised  on  that  moment's  lapse. 

"  Ernest,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  so  unnaturally  low 
that  it  made  his  veins  creep  with  the  fear  that  her 
reason  was  unseated,  "  I  am  lost  if  you  go  with  her. 
Stay,  dear  Ernest !  She  can  not  love  you  as  I  do  ! 
I  implore  you  remember  that  my  life — my  life " 

"  Beg  pardon,"  said  Lord  George,  laying  his  hand 
familiarly  on  Clay's  shoulder,  and  drawing  him  away, 
"  Lady  Mildred  waits  for  you  !" 

"  I  will  return  in  an  instant,  dearest  Eve,"  he  said, 
springing  again  to  her  side,  "  I  will  apologize  and  be 
with  you.  One  instant — only  one " 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


"Thank  God!"  said  the  poor  girl,  sinking  into  a 
chair  and  bursting  into  tears. 

Lady  Mildred  sat  in  her  chariot,  but  her  head 
drooped  on  her  breast,  and  her  arm  hung  lifeless  at 
her  side. 

"She  is  surely  ill,"  said  Lord  George;  "jump  in, 
Clay,  my  fine  fellow.  Get  her  home.  Shut,  the  door, 
Thomas!  Go  on,  coachman!"  And  away  sped  the 
fleet  horses  of  Lady  Mildred,  but  not  homeward. 
Clay  lifted  her  head  and  spoke  to  her,  but  receiving 
no  answer,  he  busied  himself  chafing  her  hands, 
and  the  carriage-blinds  being  drawn,  he  thought  mo 
mently  he  should  be  rid  of  his  charge  by  their  arrival 
in  Grosvenor  square.  But  the  minutes  elapsed,  and 
still  the  carriage  sped  on ;  and  surprised  at  last  into 
suspicion,  he  raised  his  hand  to  the  checkstring,  but 
the  small  fingers  he  had  been  chafing  so  earnestly  ar 
rested  his  arm. 

"  No,  no  !"  said  Lady  Mildred,  rising  from  his 
shoulder,  and  throwing  her  arms  passionately  around 
his  neck,  "  you  must  go  blindfold,  and  go  with  me ! 
Ernest !  Ernest !"  she  continued,  as  he  struggled  an 
instant  to  reach  the  string;  but  he  felt  her  tears  on 
his  breast,  and  his  better  angel  ceased  to  contend  with 
him.  He  sank  back  in  the  chariot  with  those  fragile 
arms  wound  around  him,  and,  with  fever  in  his  brain, 
and  leaden  sadness  at  his  heart,  suffered  that  swift 
chariot  to  speed  on  its  guilty  way. 

In  a  small  maison  de  plaisance,  which  he  well  knew, 
in  one  of  the  most  romantic  dells  of  Devon,  built 
with  exquisite  taste  by  Lady  Mildred,  and  filled  with 
all  that  art  and  wealth  could  minister  to  luxury,  Er 
nest  Clay  passed  the  remainder  of  the  summer,  for 
getful  of  everything  beyond  his  prison  of  pleasure, 
except  a  voice  full  of  bitter  remorse,  which  some 
times,  in  the  midst  of  his  abandonment,  whispered  the 
name  of  Eve  Gore. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  rain  poured  in  torrents  from  the  broad  leads  and 

Gothic  battlements  of Castle,  and  the  dull  and 

plashing  echoes,  sent  up  with  steady  reverberation 
from  the  stone  pavement  of  the  terrace  and  courts, 
lulled  to  a  late  sleep  one  of  most  gay  and  fashionable 
parties  assembled  out  of  London.  It  was  verging 
toward  noon,  and,  startled  from  a  dream  of  music,  by 
the  entrance  of  a  servant,  Ernest  Clay  drew  back  the 
heavy  bed-curtains  and  looked  irresolutely  around  his 
luxurious  chamber.  The  coals  in  the  bright  fire 
widened  their  smoking  cracks  and  parted  with  an  in 
dolent  effort,  the  well-trained  menial  glided  stealthily 
about,  arranging  the  preparations  for  the  author's 
toilet,,  the  gray  daylight  came  in  grayer  and  softer 
through  the  draped  folds  which  fell  over  the  windows, 
and  if  there  was  temptation  to  get  up,  it  extended  no 
farther  than  to  the  deeply  cushioned  and  spacious 
chair,  over  which  was  flung  a  dressing-gown  of  the 
loose  and  flowing  fashion,  and  gorgeous  stuff  of  the 
Orient. 

"  Thomas,  what  stars  are  visible  to  the  naked  eye 
this  morning?"  said  the  couchant  poet  with  a  heavy 
yawn. 

"Sir!" 

"  I  asked  if  Lady  Grace  was  at  breakfast?" 

"  Her  ladyship  took  breakfast  in  her  own  room,  I 
believe,  sir!" 

"  '  Qualis  rex,  tails  grex.'     Bring  mine  !" 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir  ?" 

"I  said  I  would  have  an  egg  and  a  spatchcock, 
Thomas !  And,  Thomas,  see  if  the  duke  has  done 
with  the  Morning  Post." 

"  I  could  have  been  unusually  agreeable  to  Lady 
Grace,"  soliloquized  the  author,  as  he  completed  his 


toilet;  "I  feel  both  gregarious  and  brilliant  this 
morning  and  should  have  breakfasted  below.  Strange 
that  one  feels  so  dexterous-minded  sometimes  after  a 
hard  drink! — Bacchus  waking  like  Aurora!  Thomas, 
you  forgot  the  claret !  I  could  coin  this  efflux  of 
soul,  now,  into  'burning  words,'  and  I  will.  What 
is  the  cook's  name,  Thomas  ?  Gone  ?  So  has  the 
builder  of  this  glorious  spatchcock  narrowly  escaped 
immortality  !  Fairest  Lady  Grace,  the  sonnet  shall 
be  yours  at  the  rebound  !  A  sonnet  ?  N — n — no ! 
But  I  could  write  such  a  love-letter  this  morning  ! 
Morning  Post.  '  Died  at  Brighton  Mr.  William 
Brown.1  Brown — Brown — what  was  that  pretty  girl's 
name  that  married  a  Brown — a  rich  William  Brown. 
Beverley  was  her  name — Julia  Beverley — a  flower  for 
the  garden  of  Epicurus — a  mate  for  Leontium!  I 
loved  her  till  I  was  stopped  by  Mr.  Brown — loved  her? 
by  Jove,  I  loved  her — as  well  as  I  loved  anybody  that 
year.  Suppose  she  were  now  the  widow  Brown  ?  If 
I  thought  so,  faith !  I  would  write  her  such  a  te- 
miniscent  epistle — Why  not  as  it  is — on  the  supposi 
tion  ?  Egad,  if  it  is  not  her  William  Brown,  it  is  no 
fault  of  mine.  Here  goes  at  a  venture ! 

"  To  her  who  was  JULIA  BEVERLEY — 

"  Your  dark  eye  rests  on  this  once  familiar  hand 
writing.  If  your  pulse  could  articulate  at  this  moment, 
it  would  murmur  he  loved  me  well !  He  who  writes  to 
you  now,  after  years  of  silence,  parted  from  you  with 
your  tears  upon  his  lips — parted  from  you  as  the  last 
shadow  parts  from  the  sun,  with  a  darkness  that  must 
deepen  till  morn  again.  I  begin  boldly,  but  the  usage 
of  the  world  is  based  upon  forgetfulness  in  absence, 
and  I  have  not  forgotten.  Yet  this  is  not  to  be  a  love- 
letter. 

"  I  am  turning  back  a  leaf  in  my  heart.  Turn  to 
it  in  yours  !  On  a  night  in  June,  within  the  shadow 
of  the  cypress  by  the  fountain  of  Ceres,  in  the  ducal 
gardens  of  Florence,  at  thefesla  of  the  duke's  birth- 
night,  I  first  whispered  to  you  of  love.  Is  it  so  writ  in 
your  tablet  ?  Or  were  those  broken  words,  and  those 
dark  tresses  drooped  on  my  breast,  mockeries  of  a 
night — flung  from  remembrance  with  the  flowers  you 
wore?  Flowers,  said  I?  Oh,  Heaven  !  how  beautiful 
you  were  with  those  lotus-stems  braided  in  your  hair, 
and  the  white  chalices  gleaming  through  your  ringlets 
as  if  pouring  their  perfume  over  your  shoulders  ! 
How  rosy-pale,  like  light  through  alabaster,  showed 
the  cheek  that  shrank  from  me  beneath  the  betraying 
brightness  of  the  moon!  How  musical  above  the 
murmur  of  the  fountain  rose  the  trembling  wonder 
at  my  avowal,  and  the  few  faint  syllables  of  forgiveness 
and  love.  I  strained  you  wildly  to  my  heart !  Oh, 
can  that  be  forgotten ! 

"With  the  news  that  your  husband  was  dead,  rush 
ed  back  these  memories  in  a  whirlwind.  For  one 
brief,  one  delirious  moment,  1  fancied  you  might  yet 
be  mine.  I  write  because  the  delirium  is  over.  Had 
it  not  been,  I  should  be  now  weeping  at  your  feet — 
my  life  upon  your  lips  ! 

"I  will  try  to  explain  to  you,  calmly,  a  feeling  that 
I  have.  We  met  in  the  aisle  of  Santa  Croce — 
strangers.  There  was  a  winged  lightness  in  your 
step,  and  a  lithe  wave  in  the  outline  of  your  form,  as 
you  moved  through  the  sombre  light,  which  thrilled 
me  like  the  awakening  to  life  of  some  piece  of  aerial 
sculpture.  I  watched  you  to  your  carriage,  and  re 
turned  to  trace  that  shadowy  aisle  for  hours,  breathing 
the  same  air,  and  trying  to  conjure  up  to  my  imagina 
tion  the  radiant  vision  lost  to  me,  I  feared,  for  ever. 
That  night  your  necklace  parted  and  fell  at  my  feet, 
in  the  crowd  at  the  Pitti,  and  as  I  returned  the  warm 
jewel  to  your  hand,  I  recognised  the  haunting  features 
which  1  seemed  to  live  but  to  see  again.  By  the  first 
syllable  of  acknowledgment  I  knew  yov—for  in  your 
voice  there  was  that  profound  sweetness  tfcat  comes 


14 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


only  from  a  heart  thought-saddened,  and  therefore 
careless  of  the  cold  fashion  of  the  world.  In  the  em 
bayed  window  looking  out  on  the  moonlit  terrace  of 
the  garden,  I  joined  you  with  the  confidence  of  a 
familiar  friend,  and  in  the  low  undertone  of  earnest 
and  sincerity  we  talked  of  the  thousand  themes  with 
which  the  walls  of  that  palace  of  pilgrimage  breathe 
and  kindle.  Chance-guided  and  ignorant  even  of 
each  other's  names,  we  met  on  the  galleries  of  art,  in 
the  gardens  of  noble  palaces,  in  the  thronged  re 
sorts  open  to  all  in  that  land  of  the  sun,  and  my  heart 
expanded  to  you  like  a  flower,  and  love  entered  it  with 
the  fulness  of  light.  Again,  I  say,  we  dwelt  but  upon 
themes  of  intellect,  and  I  had  not  breathed  to  you  of 
the  passion  that  grew  hour  by  hour. 

"We  met  for  the  last  time  on  the  night  of  the  duke's 
festa — in  that  same  glorious  palace  where  we  had  first 
blended  thought  and  imagination,  or  the  wondrous 
miracles  of  art.  You  were  sad  and  lower-voiced  than 
even  your  wont,  and  when  I  drew  you  from  the  crowd, 
and  wandering  with  you  through  the  flowering  alleys 
of  the  garden,  stood  at  last  by  that  murmuring  fountain, 
and  ceased  suddenly  to  speak — there  was  the  threshold 
of  love.  Did  you  forbid  me  to  enter?  You  fell  on 
my  bosom  and  wept ! 

"  Had  I  brought  you  to  this  by  love-making?  Did 
I  flatterer  plead  rny  way  into  your  heart  ?  Were  you 
wooed  or  importuned  ?  It  is  true  your  presence  drew 
my  better  angel  closer  to  my  side,  but  I  was  myself — 
such  as  your  brother  might  be  to  you — such  as  you 
would  have  found  me  through  life  ;  and  for  this — for 
being  what  I  was — with  no  art  or  effort  to  win  affec 
tion,  you  drew  the  veil  from  between  us — you  tempted 
from  my  bosom  the  bird  that  cornes  never  back — you 
suffered  me  to  love  you,  helplessly  and  wildly,  when 
you  knew  that  love  such  as  mine  impoverishes  life 
for  ever.  The  only  illimitable  trust,  the  only  bound 
less  belief  on  earth,  is  first  love  !  What  had  I  done  to 
be  robbed  of  this  irrecoverable  gem — to  be  sent  wander 
ing  through  the  world,  a  hopeless  infidel  in  woman  ? 

"  I  have  become  a  celebrity  since  we  parted,  and 
perhaps  you  have  looked  into  my  books,  thinking  I 
might  have  woven  into  some  one  of  my  many-colored 
woofs  the  bright  thread  you  broke  so  suddenly.  You 
found  no  trace  of  it,  and  you  thought,  perhaps,  thai 
all  memory  of  those  simpler  hours  was  drowned  in  the 
intoxicating  cup  of  fame.  I  have  accounted  in  this 
way  for  your  never  writing  to  cheer  or  congratulate 
me.  But  if  this  conjecture  be  true,  how  little  you 
know  the  heart  you  threw  away — how  little  you  know 
of  the  thrice-locked,  light-shining,  care-hidden  casket 
in  which  is  treasured  up  the  refused  gold  of  a  first 
love.  What  else  is  there  on  earth  worth  hiding  and 
brooding  over?  Should  I  wing  such  treasures  with 
words  and  lose  them  ? 

"  And  now  you  ask,  why,  after  years  of  healing 
silence,  I  open  this  wound  afresh,  and  write  to  you. 
Is  it  to  prove  to  you  that  I  love  you  ? — to  prepare  the 
way  to  see  you  again,  to  woo  and  win  you  ?  No — 
though  I  was  worthy  of  you  once !  No — though  I 
feel  living  in  my  soul  a  passion  that  with  long  silence 
and  imprisonment  has  become  well-nigh  uncontrolla 
ble.  I  am  not  worthy  of  you  now!  My  nature  is 
soiled  and  world-polluted.  I  am  prosperous  and 
famous,  and  could  give  you  the  station  you  never 
won,  though  you  trod  on  my  heart  to  reach  it — but 
the  lamp  is  out  on  my  altar  of  truth — I  love  by  my 
lips — I  mock  at  faith — I  marvel  at  belief  in  vows  or 
fidelity — I  would  not  trust  you,  no,  if  you  were  mine, 
I  would  not  trust  you  though  I  held  every  vein  of 
your  bosom  like  a  hound's  leash.  Till  you  can  re 
buke  whim,  till  you  can  chain  imagination,  till  you 
can  fetter  blood,  1  will  not  believe  in  woman.  Yet  this 
is  your  work  ! 

'"  Would  you  know  why  I  write  to  you  ?  Why  has 
God  given  us  the  instinct  of  outcry  in  agony,  but  to 


inflict  on  those  who  wound  us  a  portion  of  our  pain  ? 
I  would  tell  you  that  the  fire  you  kindled  so  wantonly 
burns  on — that  after  years  of  distracting  ambition, 
fame,  and  pleasure,  I  still  taste  the  bitterness  you 
threw  into  my  cup — that  in  secret  when  musing  on 
my  triumphs,  in  the  crowd  when  sick  with  adulation, 
in  this  lordly  castle  when  lapt  in  luxury  and  regard — 
in  all  hours  and  phazes  of  a  life  brilliant  and  exciting 
above  that  of  most  men,  I  mourn  over  that  betrayed 
affection,  I  see  that  averted  face,  I  worship  in  bitter 
despair  that  surpassing  loveliness  which  should  have 
been  mine  in  its  glory  and  flower. 

"  I  have  made  my  moan.  I  have  given  voice  to 
my  agony.  Farewell !" 

When  Mr.  Clay  had  concluded  this  "airing  of  his 
vocabulary,"  he  enclosed  it  in  a  hasty  note  to  his 
friend,  the  secretary  of  legation  at  the  court  of 
Tuscany,  requesting  him  to  call  on  "  two  abominable 
old  maids,  by  the  name  of  Buggins  or  Bridgins,"  who 
represented  the  scan.  mag.  of  Florence,  and  could 
doubtless,  tell  him  how  to  forward  his  letter  to  "  the 
Browns  ;"  and  the  castle-bell  sounding  as  he  achieved 
the  superscription,  he  descended  to  lunch,  very  much 
lightened  of  his  ennui,  but  with  no  more  memory  of 
the  "  faithless  Julia,"  than  of  the  claret  which  had 
supplied  some  of  the  "  intensity"  of  his  style.  The 
letter — began  as  a  mystification,  or,  if  it  had  an  object 
beyond  the  amusement  of  an  idle  hour,  intended  as  a 
whimsical  revenge  for  Miss  Beverley's  preference  of 
a  rich  husband  to  her  then  undistinguished  admirer 
— had,  in  the  heat  of  composition,  and  quite  uncon 
sciously  to  Clay,  enlisted  real  feelings,  totally  discon 
nected  with  the  fair  Julia,  but  not  the  less  easily  fused 
into  shape  and  probability  by  the  facile  alcbymy  of 
genius.  The  reader  will  see  at  once  that  the  feelings 
expressed  in  it  could  never  be  the  work  of  imagination. 
Truth  and  bitter  suffering  show  through  every  line, 
and  all  its  falsehood  or  fancy  lay  in  its  capricious  ad 
dress  to  a  woman  who  had  really  noi  the  slightest 
share  in  contributing  to  its  material.  The  irreparable 
mischief  it  occasioned,  will  be  seen  in  the  sequel. 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHILE  the  ambassador's  bag  is  steadily  posting  over 
the  hills  of  Burgundy  with  Mr.  Clay's  letter  to  Julia 
Beverley,  the  reader  must  be  content  to  gain  a  little 
upon  her  majesty's  courier  and  look  in  upon  a  family 
party  assembled  in  the  terraced  front  of  a  villa  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Fiesole.  The  evening  was  Italian 
and  autumnal,  of  a  ripe,  golden  glory,  and  the  air  was 
tempered  to  the  blood,'  as  daylight  is  to  the  eye — so 
fitly  as  to  be  a  forgotten  blessing. 

A  well-made,  well-dressed,  robust  gentleman,  who 
might  be  forty-five,  or  a  well-preserved  sixty,  sat  at  a 
stone  table  on  the  westward  edge  of  the  terrace.  The 
London  Times  lay  on  his  lap,  and  a  bottle  of  sherry 
and  a  single  glass  stood  at  his  right  hand,  and  he  was 
dozing  quietly  after  his  dinner.  Near  a  fountain  be 
low,  two  fair  English  children  played  with  clusters  of 
ripe  grapes.  An  Italian  nurse,  forgetting  her  charge, 
stood  with  folded  arms  leaning  against  a  rough  garden 
statue,  and  looked  vacantly  at  the  sunset  sky,  while 
up  and  down  a  level  and  flowering  alley  in  the  slope 
of  the  garden,  paced  slowly  and  gracefully  Mrs. 
William  Brown,  the  mother  of  these  children,  the 
wife  of  the  gentleman  sleeping  over  his  newspaper, 
and  the  heroine  of  this  story. 

Julia  Beverley  had  been  married  five  years,  and  for 
three  years  at  least  she  had  relinquished  the  habit  of 
dressing  her  fine  person  to  advantage.  Yet  in  that 
untransparent  sleeve  was  hidden  an  arm  of  statuary 
roundness  and  polish,  and  in  those  carelessly  fitted 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


Ifi 


shoes  were  disguised  feet  of  a  plump  diminutiveness 
and  arched  instep  worthy  to  be  the  theme  of  a  new 
Cenerentola.  The  voluptuous  chisel  of  the  Greek 
never  moulded  shoulders  and  bust  of  more  exquisite 
beauty,  yet  if  she  had  not  become  unconscious  of  the 
possession  of  these  charms  altogether,  she  had  so  far 
lost  the  vanity  of  her  girlhood  that  the  prudery  of  a 
quakeress  would  not  have  altered  a  fold  of  her  cash 
mere.  Her  bonnet,  as  she  walked,  had  fallen  back, 
and,  holding  it  by  one  string  over  her  shoulder,  she 
put  away  behind  her  "pearl-round  ear"  the  dark  and 
heavy  ringlet  it  had  tangled  in  its  fall,  and,  with  its 
fellow  shading  her  cheek  and  shoulder  in  broken 
masses  of  auburn,  she  presented  a  picture  of  luxurious 
and  yet  neglected  beauty  such  as  the  undress  pencil 
of  Grenze  would  have  revelled  in  portraying.  The 
care  of  such  silken  fringes  as  veiled  her  indolent  eyes 
is  not  left  to  mortals,  and  the  covert  loves  who  curve 
these  soft  cradles  and  sleep  in  them,  had  kept  Julia 
Beverley's  with  the  fidelity  of  fairy  culture. 

The  Beverleys  had  married  their  daughter  to  Mr. 
Brown  with  the  usual  parental  care  as  to  his  fortune, 
and  the  usual  parental  forgetfulness  of  everything  else. 
There  was  a  better  chance  for  happiness,  it  is  true, 
than  in  most  matches  of  convenience,  for  the  bride 
groom,  though  past  his  meridian,  was  a  sensible  and 
very  presentable  sort  of  man,  and  the  bride  was  natural 
ly  indolent,  and  therefore  likely  to  travel  the  road 
shaped  out  for  her  by  the  very  marked  hedges  of  ex 
pectation  and  duty.  What  she  had  felt  for  Mr.  Clay 
during  their  casual  and  brief  intimacy,  will  be  seen  by- 
and-by,  but  it  had  made  no  barrier  to  her  union  with 
Mr.  Brown.  With  a  luxurious  house,  fine  horses, 
and  her  own  way,  the  stream  of  life,  for  the  first  year 
of  marriage,  ran  smoothly  off.  The  second  year  was 
chequered  with  misgivings  that  she  had  thrown  her 
self  away,  and  nights  of  bitter  weeping  over  a  destiny 
in  which  no  one  of  her  bright  dreams  of  love  seemed 
possible  to  be  realized,  nnd  still  habit  riveted  its  thou 
sand  chains,  her  children  grew  attractive  and  attach 
ing,  and  by  the  time  at  which  our  story  commences, 
the  warm  images  of  a  life  of  passionate  devotion  had 
ceased  to  haunt  her  dreams,  sleeping  or  waking,  and 
she  bade  fair  to  live  and  die  one  of  the  happy  many 
about  whom  "  there  is  no  story  to  tell." 

Mr.  Brown  at  this  period  occupied  a  villa  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Florence,  and  on  the  arrival  of  Mr. 
Clay's  letter  at  English  Embassy,  it  was  at  once  for 
warded  to  Fiesole,  where  it  intruded  like  the  serpent 
of  old  on  the  domestic  paradise  to  which  the  reader 
has  been  introduced. 

Weak  and  ill-regulated  as  was  the  mind  of  Mrs. 
Brown,  her  first  feeling  after  reading  the  ardent  epistle 
of  Mr.  Clay,  was  unmingled  resentment  at  its  freedom. 
Her  husband's  back  was  turned  to  her  as  he  sat  on  the 
terrace,  and,  ascending  the  garden  steps,  she  threw  the 
letter  on  the  table. 

"  Here  is  a  letter  of  condolence  on  your  death," 
she  said,  the  blood  mantling  in  her  cheek,  and  her 
lips  arched  into  an  expression  of  wounded  pride  and 
indignation. 

Alas  for  the  slight  pivot  on  which  turns  the  balance 
of  destiny — her  husband  slept ! 

"  William!"  she  said  again,  but  the  tone  was  fainter 
and  the  hand  she  raised  to  touch  him,  stayed  suspend 
ed  above  the  fated  letter. 

Waiting  one  instant  more  for  an  answer,  and  bending 
over  her  husband  to  be  sure  that  his  sleep  was  real, 
she  hastily  placed  the  letter  in  her  bosom,  and,  with 
pale  brow  and  limbs  trembling  beneath  her,  fled  to 
her  chamber.  Memory  had  required  but  an  instant 
to  call  up  the  past,  and  in  that  instant,  too,  the  honeyed 
flatteries  she  had  glanced  over  in  such  haste,  had 
burnt  into  her  imagination,  effacing  all  else,  even  the 
object  for  which  he  had  written,  and  the  reproaches 
he  had  lavished  OH  her  unfaithfulness.  With  locked 


doors,  and  curtains  dropped  between  her  and  the 
glowing  twilight,  she  reperused  the  worshipping 
picture  of  herself,  drawn  so  covertly  under  the  sem 
blance  of  complaint,  and  the  feeling  of  conscious 
beauty  so  long  forgotten,  stole  back  into  her  veins 
like  the  reincarnation  of  a  departed  spirit.  With  a 
flashing  glance  at  the  tall  mirror  before  her,  she  stood 
up,  arching  her  white  neck  and  threading  her  fingers 
through  the  loosened  masses  of  her  hair.  She  felt 
that  she  was  beautiful— still  superbly  beautiful.  She 
advanced  to  the  mirror. 

Her  bright  lips,  her  pliant  motion,  the  smooth  trans 
parence  of  her  skin,  the  fulness  of  vein  and  limb,  all 
mingled  in  one  assurance  of  youth,  in  a  wild  desire 
for  admiration,  in  a  strange,  restless,  feverish  im 
patience  to  be  away  where  she  could  be  seen  and 
loved — away  to  fulfil  that  destiny  of  the  heart  which 
seemed  now  the  one  object  of  life,  though  for  years 
so  unaccountably  forgotten  ! 

"I  was  born  to  be  loved!"  she  wildly  exclaimed, 
pacing  her  chamber,  and  wondering  at  her  own  beauty 
as  the  mirror  gave  back  her  kindling  features  and 
animated  grace  of  movement  ;  "How  could  I  have 
forgotten  that  I  was  beautiful  ?"  But  at  that  instant 
her  husband's  voice,  cold,  harsh,  and  unimaginative, 
forced  its  way  to  her  ear,  and,  convulsed  with  a 
tumultuous  misery,  she  could  neither  struggle  with 
nor  define,  she  throw  herself  on  her  bed  and  abandoned 
herself  to  an  uncontrolled  agony  of  tears. 

Let  those  smile  at  this  paroxysm  of  feeling  whose 
"  dream  has  come  to  pass!"  Let  those  wonder  who 
have  never  been  startled  from  their  common-place 
existence  with  the  heart's  bitter  question — Is  this  all! 

Reader  !  are  you  loved  ? — loved  as  you  dreamed  in 
youth  you  might  and  must  be — loved  by  the  matchless 
creature  you  painted  in  your  imagination,  lofty-hearted, 
confiding,  and  radiantly  fair?  Have  you  spent  your 
treasure  ?  Have  you  lavished  the  boundless  wealth 
of  your  affection  ?  Have  you  beggared  heart  and 
soul  by  the  wild  abandonment  to  love,  of  which  you 
once  felt  capable  ? 

Lady !  of  you  I  ask  :  Is  the  golden  flow  of  your 
youth  coined  as  it  melts  away  ?  Are  your  truth  and 
fervor,  your  delicacy  and  devotedness,  your  unutter 
able  depths  of  tenderness  and  tears — are  they  named 
on  another's  lips? — are  they  made  the  incense  to 
Heaven  of  another's  nightly  prayer? — Your  beauty 
is  in  its  pride  and  flower.  Who  lays  back  with  idola 
trous  caress  the  soft  parting  of  your  hair?  Who 
smiles  when  your  cheek  mantles,  and  shudders  when 
it  is  pale? — Who  sits  with  your  slender  fingers  clasped 
in  his, dumb  because  there  are  bounds  to  lan 
guage,  and  trembling  because  death  will  divide  you  ? 
Oh,  the  ray  of  light  wasted  on  the  ocean,  and  the  ray 
caught  and  made  priceless  in  a  king's  diamond — the 
wild-flower  perishing  in  the  woods,  and  its  sister  culled 
for  culture  in  the  garden  of  a  poet — are  not  wider 
apart  in  their  destiny  than  the  loved  and  the  neglected  ! 
— "  Blessed  are  the  beloved,"  should  read  a  new 
beatitude — "  for  theirs  is  the  foretaste  of  Paradise!" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  autumn  following  found  Mr.  Clay  a  pilgrim 
for  health  to  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean.  Ex 
hausted,  body  and  soul,  with  the  life  of  alternate 
gayety  and  passion  into  which  his  celebrity  had  drawn 
him,  he  had  accepted,  with  a  sense  of  exquisite  relief, 
the  offer  of  a  cruise  among  the  Greek  Isles  in  a  friend's 
yacht,  and  in  the  pure  stillness  of  those  bright  sea's, 
I  with  a  single  companion  and  his  books,  he  idled  away 
the  summer  in  a  luxury  of  repose  and  enjoyment  such 
as  only  the  pleasure-weary  can  understand.  Recruited 
in  health,  and  with  a  mind  beginning  to  yearn  once 


10 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


more  for  the  long  foregone  stimulus  of  society,  he 
landed  at  Naples  in  the  beginning  of  October. 

"  We  are  not  very  gay  just  now,"  said  the  English 
minister  with  whom  he  hastened  to  renew  an  ac 
quaintance  commenced  in  his  former  travels,  "but  the 
prettiest  woman  in  the  world  is  '  at  home'  to-night, 
and  if  you  are  as  susceptible  as  most  of  the  cavaliers 
of  the  Chiaja,  you  will  find  Naples  attractive  enough 
after  you  have  seen  her." 

"English?" 

"  Yes — but  you  can  not  have  known  her,  for  I  think 
she  was  never  heard  of  till  she  came  to  Naples." 

"  Her  name?" 

"Why,  you  should  hear  that  after  seeing  her. 
Call  her  Queen  Giovanna  and  she  will  come  nearer 
your  prepossession.  By-the-by,  what  have  you  to  do 
this  morning  ?" 

"  I  am  at  your  excellency's  disposal," 

"  Come  with  me  to  the  atelier  of  a  very  clever  artist 
then,  and  I  will  show  you  her  picture.  It  should  be 
the  man's  chcf-d'eeuvre,  for  he  has  lost  his  wits  in 
painting  it." 

"Literally,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  It  would  seem  so — for  though  the  picture  was 
finished  some  months  since,  he  has  never  taken  it  off 
his  easel,  and  is  generally  found  looking  at  it.  Besides, 
he  has  neither  cleaned  pallet  nor  brush  since  the  last 
day  she  sat  to  him." 

"  If  he  were  young  and  handsome " 

"  So  he  is — and  so  are  scores  of  the  lady's  devoted 
admirers ;  but  she  is  either  prudent  or  cold  to  a  degree 
that  effectually  repels  hope,  and  the  painter  pines  with 
the  rest." 

A  few  minutes  walk  brought  them  to  a  large  room 
near  the  Corso,  tenanted  by  the  Venetian  artist, 
Ippolito  Incontri.  The  minister  presented  his  friend, 
and  Clay  forgot  their  errand  in  admiration  of  the 
magnificent  brigand  face  and  figure  of  the  painter, 
who,  after  a  cold  salutation,  retreated  into  the  darkest 
corner  of  the  point  of  view,  and  stood  gazing  past  them 
at  his  easel,  silent  and  unconscious  of  observation. 

"I  have  seen  your  wonder,"  said  Clay,  turning  to 
the  picture  with  a  smile,  and  at  the  first  glance  only 
remarking  its  resemblance  to  a  face  that  should  be 
familiar  to  him.  "  I  am  surprised  that  I  can  not 
name  her  at  once,  for  I  am  sure  I  know  her  well. 
But,  stay! — the  light  grows  on  my  eye — no! — with 
that  expression,  certainly  not — I  am  sure,  now,  that  I 
have  not  seen  her.  Wonderful  beauty  !  Yet  there 
was  a  superficial  likeness  !  Have  you  ever  remarked, 
Signor  Incontri,  that,  through  very  intellectual  faces, 
such  as  this,  you  can  sometimes  see  what  the  counte 
nance  would  have  been  in  other  circumstances — with 
out  the  advantages  of  education,  I  mean  ?" 

No  answer.  The  painter  was  absorbed  in  his  pic 
ture,  and  Clay  turned  to  the  ambassador. 

"  I  have  seen  somewhere  a  face,  and  a  very  lovely 
one,  too,  that  was  strangely  like  these  features;  yet, 
not  only  without  the  soul  that  is  here,  but  incapable, 
I  should  think,  of  acquiring  it  by  any  discipline,  ei 
ther  of  thought  or  feeling." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  the  original  of  this,  and  the  painter 
has  given  the  soul !" 

"  He  could  as  soon  warm  a  statue  into  life  as  do  it. 
Invent  that  look!  Oh,  he  would  be  a  god,  not  a 
painter!  Raphael  copied,  and  this  man  copies;  but 
nature  did  the  original  of  this,  as  he  did  of  Raphael's 
immortal  beauties;  and  the  departure  of  the  most 
vanishing  shadow  from  the  truth  would  be  a  blot  irre 
mediable." 

Clay  lost  himself  in  the  picture  and  was  silent. 
Veil  after  veil  fell  away  from  the  expression  as  he 
gazed,  and  the  woman  seemed  melting  out  from  the 
canvass  into  life.  The  pose  and  drapery  were  nothing. 
It  was  the  portrait  of  a  female  standing  still — perhaps 
looking  idly  out  on  the  sea— lost  in  revery  perhaps — 


perhaps  just  feeling  the  breath  of  a  coming  thought, 
the  stirring  of  some  lost  memory  that  would  presently 
awake.  The  lips  were  slightly  unclosed.  The  heavy 
eyelashes  were  wakeful  yet  couchant  in  their  expres 
sion.  The  large  dark  orbs  lustrous  and  suffused, 
looked  of  the  depth  and  intense  stillness  of  the  mid 
night  sky  close  to  the  silver  rim  of  a  moon  high  in 
heaven.  The  coloring  was  warm  and  Italian,  but 
every  vein  of  the  transparent  temple  was  steeped  in 
calmness;  and  even  through  the  bright  pomegranate 
richness  of  a  mouth  full  of  the  capability  of  passion, 
there  seemed  to  breathe  the  slumberous  fragrance  of 
a  flower  motionless  under  its  night-burthen  of  dew. 
It  portrayed  no  rank  in  life.  The  drapery  might  have 
been  a  queen's  or  a  contadina's.  It  was  a  woman  sto 
len  to  the  canvass  from  her  inmost  cell  of  privacy, 
with  her  soul  unstartled  by  a  human  look,  and  mere 
life  and  freedom  from  pain  or  care  expressed  in  her 
form  and  countenance — yet,  with  all  this,  a  radiance 
of  beauty,  and  a  sustained  loftiness  of  feeling,  as  ap 
parent  as  the  altitude  of  the  stars.  It  was  a  match 
less  woman  incomparably  painted  ;  and  though  not  a 
man  to  fall  in  love  with  a  semblance,  Clay  felt  and 
struggled  in  vain  against  the  feeling,  that  the  creature 
drawn  in  that  portrait  controlled  the  next  and  perhaps 
the  most  eventful  revolution  of  his  many-sphered  ex 
istence. 

The  next  five  hours  have  (for  this  tale)  no  history. 

"I  have  perplexed  myself  in  vain  since  I  left  you," 
Clay  said  to  the  ambassador,  as  they  rolled  on  their 
way  to  the  palace  of  the  fair  Englishwoman;  "but 
when  I  yield  to  the  secret  conviction  that  I  have  seen 
the  adorable  original  of  the  picture,  I  am  lost  in  a 
greater  mystery — how  I  ever  could  have  forgotten  her. 
The  coining  five  minutes  will  undo  the  Sphinx's  riddle 
for  me." 

"  My  life  on  it  you  have  never  seen  her,"  said  his 
friend,  as  the  carriage  turned  through  a  reverberating 
archway,  and  rapidly  making  the  circuit  of  a  large 
court,  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  palace  blazing  with 
light. 

An  opening  was  made  through  the  crowd,  as  the 
ambassador's  name  was  announced,  and  Clay  followed 
him  through  the  brilliant  rooms  with  an  agitation  to 
which  he  had  long  been  a  stranger.  Taste,  as  well 
as  sumptuous  expensiveness,  was  stamped  on  every 
thing  around,  and  there  was  that  indefinable  expres- 
sioH  in  the  assembly,  which  no  one  could  detect  or 
appreciate  better  than  Clay,  and  which  is  composed, 
among  other  things,  of  a  perfect  conviction  on  the 
part  of  the  guests,  that  their  time,  presence,  and  ap 
probation,  are  well  bestowed  where  they  are. 

At  the  curtained  door  of  a  small  boudoir,  draped 
like  a  tent,  a  Neapolitan  noble  of  high  rank  turned 
smiling  to  the  ambassador  and  placed  his  finger  on 
his  -lip.  The  silken  pavilion  was  crowded,  and  only 
uniforms  and  heads,  fixed  in  attention,  could  be  seen 
by  those  without ;  but  from  the  arching  folds  of  the 
curtain  came  a  female  voice  of  the  deepest  and  sweet 
est  melodiousness,  reading  in  low  and  finely-measured 
cadence  from  an  English  poem. 

"  Do  you  know  the  voice  ?"  asked  the  ambassador, 
as  Clay  stood  like  a  man  fixed  to  marble,  eagerly 
listening. 

"  Perfectly !     I  implore  you  tell  me  who  reads !" 

"No  ! — though  your  twofold  recognisance  is  singu 
lar.  You  shall  see  her  before  you  hear  her  name. 
What  is  she  reading  ?" 

"  My  own  poetry,  by  Heaven  !  and  yet  I  can  not 
"name  her!  This  passes  belief.  I  have  heard  that 
voice  sob — sob  convulsively,  and  with  accents  of  love — 
I  have  heard  it  whisper  and  entreat — you  look  incred 
ulous,  but  it  is  true.  If  she  do  not  know  me — nay, 

if  she  has  not "  he  would  have  said  "  loved  me" — 

but  the  look  of  scrutiny  and  surprise  on  the  counte 
nance  of  the  ambassador  checked  the  imprudent 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


17 


avowal,  and  he  became  aware  that  he  was  on  danger 
ous  ground.  He  relapsed  into  silence,  and  crowding 
close  to  the  tent,  heard  the  numbers  he  had  long  ago 
linked  and  forgotten,  breathing  in  music  from  those 
mysterious  lips,  and,  possessed  as  he  was  by  suspense 
and  curiosity,  he  could  have  wished  that  sweet  mo 
ment  to  have  lasted  for  ever.  I  call  upon  the  poet,  if 
there  be  one  who  reads  this  idle  tale,  to  tell  me  if 
there  is  a  flattery  more  exquisite  on  earth,  if  there  is 
a  deeper-sinking  plummet  of  pride  ever  dropped  into 
the  profound  bosom  of  the  bard,  than  the  listening  to 
thoughts  born  in  pain  and  silence,  articulate  in  the 
honeyed  accents  of  woman!  Answer  me,  poet! 
Answer  me,  women  beloved  of  poets,  who  have 
breathed  their  worshipping  incense,  and  know  by 
what  its  bright  censor  was  kindled  ! 

The  voice  ceased,  and  there  was  one  moment  of 
stillness,  and  then  the  rooms  echoed  with  acclamation. 
"Crown  her!"  cried  a  tall  old  man,  who  stood  near 
the  entrance  covered  with  military  orders.  "Crown 


|  are  true  only  of  the  common-place  and  unimaginative. 
j  The  rich  gifts  of  affection,  which  surfeit  the  cold 
•  bosom  of  the  dull,  fall  upon  the  fiery  heart  of  genius 
like  spice-wood  and  incense,  and  long  after  the  giver's 
prodigality  has  ceased,  the  mouldering  embers  lie 
warm  beneath  the  ashes  of  silence,  and  a  breath  will 
uncover  and  rekindle  them.  The  love  of  common 
men  is  a  world  without  moon  or  stars.  When  the 
meridian  is  passed,  the  shadows  lengthen,  and  the 
light  departs,  and  the  night  that  follows  is  dark  indeed. 
But  as  the  twilight  closes  on  the  bright  and  warm  pns- 
sion  of  the  poet,  memory  lights  her  pale  lamp,  like 
the  moon,  and  brightens  as  the  darkness  deepens  ;  and 
the  warm  sacrifices  made  in  love's  noon  and  eve,  go 
up  to  their  places  like  stars,  and  with  the  light  treasur 
ed  from  that  fervid  day,  shine  in  the  still  heaven  of 
the  past,  steadfast  though  silent.  If  there  is  a  feature 
of  the  human  soul  in  which  more  than  in  all  others, 
the  fiend  is  manifest,  it  is  the  masculine  ingratitude 
for  love.  What  wrongs,  what  agonies,  what  unutter 


her!"  repeated  every  tongue;  and  from  a  vase  thatjj 
hung  suspended  in  the  centre  of  the  pavilion,  the 
fresh  flowers  were  snatched  by  eager  hands  and 
wreathed  into  a  chaplet.  But  those  without  became 
clamorous  to  see  the  imposition  of  the  crown;  and, 
clearing  a  way  through  the  entrance,  the  old  man  took 
the  chaplet  from  the  busy  hands  that  had  entwined  it, 
and  crying  out  with  Italian  enthusiasm,  "  A  triumph  !  a 
triumph  !"  led  forth  the  majestic  Corinna  to  the  crowd. 
The  ambassador  looked  at  Clay.  He  had  shrunk 
behind  the  statue  of  a  winged  cupid,  and  though  his 
eyes  were  fixed  with  a  gaze  of  stone  on  the  magnifi 
cent  creature  who  was  the  centre  of  all  regards,  he 
seemed  by  his  open  lips  and  heaving  chest,  to  be  gasp 
ing  with  some  powerful  emotion. 

"Give  me  the  chaplet  !"  suddenly  exclaimed  the 
magnificent  idol  of  the  crowd.  And  with  no  apparent 
emotion,  except  a  glowing  spot  in  her  temples,  and  a 
quicker  throb  in  the  snowy  curve  of  her  neck  and 
bosom,  she  waved  back  the  throng  upon  her  right, 
and  advanced  with  majestic  steps  to  the  statue  of  Love. 
"Welcome,  Ernest!"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
taking  him  by  the  hand,  and  losing,  for  a  scarce  per 
ceptible  moment,  the  smile  from  her  lips.  "  Here, 
my  friends!"  she  exclaimed,  turning  again,  and  lead 
ing  him  from  his  concealment,  "honor  to  whom  hon 
or  is  due  !  A  crown  for  the  poet  of  my  country,  Er 
nest  Clay  !" 

"  Clay,  the  poet  !"  "  The  English  poet!"  "The 
author  of  the  poem!"  were  explanations  that  ran 
quickly  through  the  room,  and  as  the  crowd  pressed 
closer  around,  murmuring  the  enthusiasm  native  to 
that  southern  clime,  Julia  Beverley  sprang  upon  an  ot 
toman,  and  standing  in  her  magnificent  beauty  con 
spicuous  above  all,  she  placed  the  crown  upon^Clay's 
head,  and  bending  gracefully  and  smilingly  over  him, 
impressed  a  kiss  on  his  forehead,  and  said,  "  This  for 
the  poet  .'" 

And  of  the  many  lovers  of  this  superb  woman  who 
saw  that  kiss,  not  one  showed  a  frown  or  turned  away, 
so   natural  to  the  warm  impulse  of  the  hour  did  it  I 
seem  —  so  pure  an  expression  of  admiration  of  genius  — 
so  mere  a  tribute  of  welcome  from  Italy  to  the  bard, 
by  an  inspiration  born  of  its  sunny  air.     Surrounded  I 
with  eager  claimants  for  his  acquaintance,  intoxicated  1 
with  flattery,  giddy  with  indefinable  emotions  of  love  | 
and  pleasure,  Ernest  Clay  lost  sight  for  a  moment  of 
the  face  that  had  beamed  on  him,  and  in  that  moment 
she  had  made  an  apology  of  fatigue  and  retired,  leav 
ing  her  guests  to  their  pleasures. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  Un  amour  rechauffe  ne  vaut  jamais  n'en,"  is  one 
of  those  common-places  in  the  book  of  love,  which 
2 


able  sorrows  are  the  reward  of  lavished  affection,  of 
generous  self-abandonment,  of  unhesitating  and  idola 
trous  trust !  Yet  who  are  the  ungrateful?  Men  lack 
ing  the  imagination  which  can  reclose  the  faded  form 
in  its  youthful  beauty  !  Men  dead  to  the  past — with 
no  perception  but  sight  and  touch — to  whom  woman 
is  a  flower  and  no  more — fair  to  look  on  and  sweet  to 
pluck  in  her  pride  and  perfume  but  scarce  possessed 
ere  trampled  on  and  forgotten  !  Genius  alone  treasures 
the  perishing  flower  and  remembers  its  dew  and  fra 
grance,  and  so,  immemorially  and  well,  poets  have  been 
beloved  of  women. 

I  am  recording  the  passions  of  genius.  Let  me 
sny  to  you,  lady  !  (reading  this  tale  understand  ingly, 
for  you  have  been  beloved  by  a  poet),  trust  neither 
absence,  nor  silence,  nor  untoward  circumstances  ! 
He  has  loved  you  once.  Let  not  your  eye  rest  on 
him  when  you  meet — and  if  you  speak,  speak  coldly  ! 
For,  with  a  passion  strengthened  and  embellished 
tenfold  by  a  memory  all  imagination,  he  will  love  you 
again  !  The  hours  you  passed  with  him — the  caresses 
you  gave  him,  the  tears  you  shed,  and  the  beauty 
with  which  you  bewildered  him.  have  been  hallowed 
in  poetry,  and  glorified  in  revery  and  dream,  and  he 
will  come  back  to  you  as  he  would  spring  into  para 
dise  were  it  so  lost  and  recovered! 

But  to  my  story  ! 

Clay's  memory  had  now  become  the  home  of  an  all- 
|  absorbing  passion.  By  a  succession  of  mischances, 
or  by  management  so  adroit  as  never  to  alarm  his  pride, 
a  week  passed  over,  and  he  had  found  no  opportunity 
of  speaking  alone  to  the  object  of  his  adoration.  She 


favored  him  in  public,  talked  to  him  at  the  opera, 
leaned  on  his  arm  in  the  crowd,  caressed  his  genius 
with  exquisite  flattery,  and  seemed  at  moments  to 
escape  narrowly  from  a  phrase  too  tender  or  a  subject 
that  would  lead  to  the  past — yet  without  a  violation 
of  the  most  palpable  tact,  love  was  still  an  impossible 
topic.  That  he  could  have  held  her  hand  in  his,  un- 
forbidden — that  he  could  have  pressed  her  to  his 
bosom  while  she  wept — that  she  could  have  loved 
him  ever,  though  but  for  an  hour — seemed  to  him 
sometimes  an  incredible  dream,  sometimes  a  most 
passionate  happiness  only  to  (relieve.  He  left  her  at 
night  to  pace  the  sands  of  the  bay  till  morning,  re 
membering — for  ever  remembering — the  scene  by  the 
fountain  at  Florence  ;  and  he  passed  his  day  between 
her  palace  and  the  picture  of  poor  Incontri,  who  loved 
her  more  hopelessly  than  himself,  but  found  a  sym 
pathy  in  the  growing  melancholy  of  the  poet. 

"  She  has  no  heart,"  said  the  painter;  but  Clay  had 
felt  it  beat  against  his  own,  and  he  fed  his  love  in 
silence  on  that  remembrance. 

They  sat  upon  the  rocks  by  the  gate  of  the  Villa 
Real.  The  sun  was  just  setting  and  as  the  waves 
formed  near  the  shore  aud  rode  in  upon  the  glassy 


18 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


swell  of  the  bay,  there  seemed  to  writhe  on  each  wavy 
back  a  golden  serpent,  who  broke  on  the  sands  at  their 
feet  in  sparkles  of  fire.  At  a  little  distance  lay  the 
swallow-like  yacht,  in  which  Clay  had  threaded  the 
Archipelago,  and  as  the  wish  to  feel  the  little  craft 
bounding  once  more  beneath  him,  was  checked  by  the 
anchor-like  heaviness  of  his  heart,  an  equestrian  party 
stopped  suddenly  on  the  chiaja. 

"  There  is  Mr.  Clay  !"  said  the  thrilling  voice  of 
Julia  Beverley,  "  perhaps  he  will  take  us  over  in  the 
yacht.  Sorrento  looks  so  blue  and  tempting  in  the 
distance." 

Without  waiting  for  a  repetition  of  the  wish  he 
had  overheard,  Clay  sprang  upon  a  rock,  and  made 
signal  for  the  boat,  and  before  the  crimson  of  the  de 
parting  day  had  faded  from  the  sky,  the  fair  Julia  and 
her  party  of  cavaliers,  were  standing  on  the  deck  of  the 
swift  vessel,  bound  on  a  moonlight  voyage  to  Sorrento, 
and  watching  on  their  lee  the  reddening  ribs  and  lurid 
eruption  of  the  volcano.  The  night  was  Neapolitan, 
and  the  air  was  the  food  of  love. 

It  was  a  voyage  of  silence,  for  the  sweetness  of  life 
in  such  an  atmosphere  and  in  the  midstof  that  match 
less  bay,  lay  like  a  voluptuous  burthen  in  the  heart, 
and  the  ripple  under  the  clearing  prow  was  language 
enough  for  all.  Incontri  leaned  against  the  mast, 
watching  the  moonlit  features  of  the  signora  with  his 
melancholy  but  idolizing  gaze,  and  Clay  lay  on  the 
deck  at  her  feet,  trying  with  pressed-downlids  to  recall 
the  tearful  eyes  of  the  Julia  Beverley  he  had  loved  at 
the  fountain. 

It  was  midnight  when  the  breath  of  the  orange 
groves  of  Sorrento,  stealing  seaward,  slackened  the 
way  of  the  little  craft,  and  running  in  close  under  the 
rocky  foundations  of  the  house  of  Tasso,  Clay  dropped 
his  anchor,  and  landed  his  silent  party  at  their  haven. 
Incontri  was  sent  forward  to  the  inn  to  prepare  their 
apartments,  and  leaning  on  Clay's  arm  and  her  hus 
band's,  the  superb  Englishwoman  ascended  to  the 
overhanging  balcony  of  the  dwelling  of  the  Italian 
bard,  and  in  a  few  words  of  eloquent  sympathy  in  the 
homage  paid  by  the  world  to  these  shrines  of  genius, 
added  to  the  overflowing  heart  of  her  gifted  lover  one 
more  intoxicating  drop  of  flattery  and  fascination. 
They  strolled  onward  to  the  inn,  and  he  bade  her  good 
night  at  the  gate,  for  he  could  no  longer  endure  the 
fetter  of  another's  presence,  and  the  emotion  stifled  in 
his  heart  and  lips. 

1  have  forgotten  the  name  of  that  pleasant  inn  at 
Sorrento,  built  against  the  side  of  its  mountain  shore, 
with  terraced  orange-groves  piled  above  its  roof,  and 
the  golden  fruit  nodding  in  at  its  windows.  From  the 
principal  floor,  you  will  remember,  projects  a  broad 
verandah,  jutting  upon  one  of  these  fruit-darkened 
alleys.  If  you  have  ever  slept  there  after  a  scramble 
over  Scaricatoja,  you  have  risen,  even  from  your 
fatigued  slumber,  to  go  out  and  pace  awhile  that  over 
hanging  garden,  oppressed  with  the  heavy  perfume  of 
the  orange  flowers.  Strange  that  I  should  forget  the 
name  of  that  inn !  I  thought,  when  the  busy  part  of 
my  life  should  be  well  over,  I  should  go  back  and  die 
there. 

The  sea  had  long  closed  over  the  orbed  forehead  of 
the  moon,  and  still  Clay  restlessly  hovered  around  the 
garden  of  the  inn.  Mounting  at  last  to  the  alley  on 
a  level  with  the  principal  chambers  of  the  house,  he 
saw  outlined  in  shadow  upon  the  curtain  of  a  long 
window,  a  female  figure  holding  a  book,  with  her 
cheek  resting  on  her  hand.  He  threw  himself  on  the 
grass  and  gazed  steadily.  The  hand  moved  from  the 
cheek,  and  raised  a  pencil  from  the  table,  and  wrote 
upon  the  margin  of  the  volume,  and  then  the  pencil 
was  laid  down,  and  the  slender  fingers  raised  the 
masses  of  fallen  hair  from  the  shoulder,  and  threaded 
the  wavy  ringlets  indolently  as  she  read  :  From  the 
slightest  motion  of  that  statuary  hand,  from  the  most 


fragmented  outline  of  that  bird-like  neck,  Clay  would 
have  known  Julia  Beverley  ;  and  as  he  watched  her 
graceful  shadow,  the  repressed  and  pent-up  feelings 
of  that  evening  of  restraint,  fed  as  they  had  been  by 
every  voluptuous  influence  known  beneath  the  moon, 
rose  to  a  height  that  absorbed  brain  and  soul  in  one 
wild  tumult  of  emotion.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  to  rush 
into  her  presence,  but  at  that  instant  a  footstep  started 
from  the  darkness  of  a  tree,  at  the  extremity  of  the 
alley.  He  paused  and  the  shadow  arose,  and  laying 
aside  the  book,  leaned  back,  and  lifted  the  tapering 
arms,  and  wound  up  the  long  masses  of  fallen  hair, 
and  then  kneeling,  remained  a  few  minutes  motion 
less,  with  the  face  buried  in  the  hands. 

Clay  trembled  and  felt  rebuked. 

Once  more  the  flowing  drapery  swept  across  the 
curtain,  the  light  was  extinguished,  and  the  window 
thrown  open  to  the  night  air;  and  then  all  was  still. 

Clay  walked  to  and  fro  in  an  agitation  bordering  on 
delirium.  "  I  must  speak  to  her!"  he  said,  murmur 
ing  audibly,  and  advancing  toward  the  window.  But 
hurried  footsteps  started  again  from  the  shndow  of  the 
pine,  and  he  stopped  to  listen.  All  was  silent,  and 
he  stood  a  moment  pressing  his  hands  on  his  brow, 
and  trying  to  struggle  with  the  wild  impulse  in  his 
brain.  His  closed  eves  brought  back  instantly  the 
unfading  picture  of  Julia  Beverley,  weeping  on  his 
breast  at  the  fountain,  and  with  one  rapid  movement 
he  divided  the  curtains  and  stood  breathless  in  her 
chamber. 

The  heavy  breathing  of  the  unconscious  husband 
|  fell  like  music  on  his  ear. 

"  Julia  !"  he  exclaimed  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  "I  am 
here — Ernest  Clay!" 

"You  are  frantic,  Ernest!"  said  a  voice  so  calm 
that  it  fell  on  his  ear  like  an  assurance  of  despair. 
"  I  have  no  feeling  for  you  that  answers  to  this  free 
dom.  Leave  my  chamber !" 

44  No  !"  said  Clay,  dropping  the  curtain  behind  him, 
and  advancing  into  the  room,  "  wake  your  husband  if 
I  you  will — this  is  the  only  spot  on  earth  where  I  can 
breathe,  and  if  you  are  relentless,  here  will  I  die  ' 
Was  it  false  when  you  said  you  loved  me  ?  Speak, 
Julia !" 

"Ernest  !"  she  said,  in  a  less  assured  tone,  "I  have 
done  wrong  not  to  check  this  wild  passion  earlier,  and 
I  have  that  to  say  to  you  which,  perhaps,  had  better 
be  said  now.  I  will  come  to  you  in  the  garden." 

"  My  vessel  waits,  and  in  an  hour " 

"Nay,  nay,  you  mistake  me.  But  go!  I  will 
follow  instantly  !" 

Vesuvius  was  burning  with  an  almost  smokeless 
flame  when  Clay  stood  again  in  the  night-air,  and  every 
object  was  illuminated  with  the  clearness  of  a  confla 
gration.  At  the  first  glance  around,  he  fancied  he 
|  saw  figures  gliding  behind  the  lurid  body  of  a  pine 
opposite  the  window,  but  in  the  next  moment  the  cur 
tain  again  parted,  and  Julia  Beverley,  wrapped  in  a 
cloak,  stood  beside  him  on  the  verandah. 

"  Stand  back  !"  she  said,  as  he  endeavored  to  put 
his  arm  around  her,  "  I  have  more  than  one  defender 
within  call,  and  I  must  speak  to  you  where-  I  am. 
Will  you  listen  to  me,  Ernest  ?" 

Clay's  breast  heaved ;  but  he  folded  his  arms  and 
leaned  against  the  slender  column  of  the  verandah  in 
silence. 

"  Were  it  any  other  person  who  had  so  far  forgot 
ten  himself,"  she  continued,  "it  would  be  sufficient 
to  say,  '  I  can  never  love  you,'  and  leave  my  privacy 
to  be  defended  by  my  natural  protector.  But  I  wish 
to  show  to  you,  Ernest,  not  only  that  you  can  have 
no  hope  in  loving  me,  but  that  you  have  made  me  the 
mischievous  woman  I  have  become.  From  an  hum 
ble  wife  to  a  dangerous  coquette,  the  change  may 
well  seem  startling — but  it  is  of  your  working." 

"  Mine,   madam !"  said    Clay,  whose    pride  was 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


aroused  with  the  calm  self-possession  and  repulse  of 
her  tone  and  manner. 

"I  have  never  answered  the  letter  you  wrote  me." 

"  Pardon  and  spare  me  !"  said  Clay,  who  remem 
bered  at  the  instant  only  the  whim  under  which  it 
was  written. 

"  It  awoke  me  to  a  new  existence,"  she  continued, 
without  heeding  his  confusion,  "  for  it  first  made  me 
aware  that  I  could  ever  be  the  theme  of  eloquent  ad 
miration.     I  had  never  been  praised  but  in  idle  com 
pliment,  and  by  those  whose  intellect  I  despised;  and 
though  as  a  girl   I  had  a  vague  feeling  that  I  was 
slighted  and  unappreciated,  I  yielded  gradually  to  the 
conviction  that  the  world  was  right,  and  that  women 
sung  by  poets  and  described  in  the  glowing  language 
of  romance,  were  of   another  mould,    I  scarce  rea 
soned  upon  it.     I  remember,  on  first  arriving  in  Italy, 
drawing  a  comparison   favorable  to   myself  between  j 
my  own  beauty  and  the  Fornarina's,  and  the  portraits  j 
of  Laura  and  Leonora  D'Este  ;  but  as  I  was  loved  by  j 
neither  painters  nor  poets,  1  accused  myself  of  pre-  i 
sumption,  and  with  a  sigh,  returned  to  my  humility.  I 
My  life  seemed  more  vacant  than  it  should  be,  and  I 
sometimes  wept  from  an  unhappiness  I  could  not  de 
fine  ;  and  I  once  or  twice  met  persons  who  seemed 
to  have  begun  to  love  me,  and  appreciate  my  beauty 
as  I  wished,  and  in  this  lies  the  history  of  my  heart 
up  to  the  time  of  your  writing  to  me.     That  letter, 
Ernest " 

"  You  believed  that  I  loved  you  then  !"  passion-  | 
ately  interrupted  her  listener,  "  you  know  now  that  I  i 
loved  you  !  Tell  me  so,  I  implore  you  !" 

"  My  dear  poet,"  said  the  self-possessed   beauty,  j 
with  a  smile  expressive  of  as  much  mischief  as  frank 
ness,   "  let  us   be  honest.     You  never  loved  me !     I 
never  believed  it  but  for  one  silly  hour !     Stay  ! —  j 
stay ! — you  shall  not  answer  me !     I  have  not  left  my  j 
bed  at  this  unseasonable  hour  to  listen  to   protesta-  ! 
tions.     At  least,  let  me  first  conclude  the  hislory  of  , 
my  metempsychosis!     I  can  tell  it  to  nobody  else,  j| 
and  like  the  Ancient  Mariner's,  it  is  a  tale  that  must  j' 
be  told.     Revenons  !     Your  very  brilliant  letter  awoke  [ 
me  from  the  most  profound  lethargy  by  which  beauty  ' 
such  as  mine  was  ever  overtaken.     A  moment's  in-  \ 
ventory  of  rny  attractions  satisfied  me  that  your  ex-  | 
quisite  description  (written,  I  have  since  suspected,  | 
to  amuse   an  idle  hour,  but  done,  nevertheless,  with  j 
the  fine  memory  and   graphic  power  of  genius)  was  j 
neither  fanciful  nor  over-colored,  and  for  the  first  time  j 
in  my  life  I  felt  beautiful.     You  are  an  anatomist  of  j 
the  heart,  and  I  may  say  to  you  that  I  looked  at  my  j 
own  dark  eyes  and  fine  features  and  person  with  the  I 
admiration  and  wonder  of  a  blind  beauty  restored  to  | 
sight  and  beholding  herself  in  a  mirror.     You  will  j 
think,  perhaps,  that  love  for  the  writer  of  this  magic 
letter  should  have  been  the  inevitable  sequel.  *  But  I 
arn  here  to  avert  the  consequences  of  my  coquetry, 
and  I  will  be  frank  with  you.     I  forgot  you  in  a  day  ! 
In  the  almost  insane  desire  to  be  seen  and  appreciated, 
painted,  sung,  and  loved,  which  took  possession  of  me  | 
when  the  tumult  of  my  first  feeling  had  passed  away,  j 
your  self-controlled  and  manageable  passion  seemed  i 
to  me  frivolous  and  shallow." 

"  Have  you  been  better  loved?"  coldly  asked  Clay. 

41  I  will  answer  that  question  before  we  part.  I  did 
not  suffer  myself  to  think  of  a  love  that  could  be 
returned — for  I  had  husband  and  children — and 
though  I  felt  that  a  mutual  passion  such  as  I  could  ! 
imagine,  would  have  absorbed,  under  happier  circum 
stances,  every  energy  of  my  soul,  I  had  no  disposition 
to  make  a  wreck  of  another's  happiness  and  honor, 
whatever  the  temptation.  Still  I  must  be  loved — I 
must  come  out  from  my  obscurity  and  shine — I  must 
be  the  idol  of  some  gifted  circle — I  must  control  the 
painter's  pencil  and  the  poet's  pen  and  the  statesman's 
scheme — I  must  sun  my  beauty  in  men's  eyes,  and 


be  caressed  and  conspicuous — I  must  use  my  gift  and 
fulfil  my  destiny !  1  told  my  husband  this.  He  se 
cured  my  devotion  to  his  peace  and  honor  for  ever,  by 
giving  me  unlimited  control  over  his  fortune  and  him 
self.  We  came  to  Naples,  and  my  star,  hitherto 
clouded  in  its  own  humility,  sprang  at  once  to  the  as 
cendant.  The  "  attraction  of  unconscious  beauty"  is 
a  poet's  fiction,  believe  me!  Set  it  down  in  your 
books,  Ernest — we  are  our  own  nomenclators — the 
belle  as  well  as  the  hero  !  I  claimed  to  be  beautiful, 
and  queened  it  to  the  top  of  my  bent — and  all  Naples 
is  at  my  feet!  Oh,  Ernest!  it  is  a  delicious  power 
to  hold  human  happiness  in  your  control — to  be  the 
loadstar  of  eminent  men  and  bright  intellects!  Per 
haps  a  woman  who  is  absorbed  in  one  passion,  finds 
in  her  lover's  character  and  fame  room  enough  for  her 
pride  and  her  thirst  for  influence;  but  to  me,  giving 
nothing  in  return  but  the  light  of  my  eyes,  there 
seems  scarce  in  the  world  celebrity,  rank,  genius 
enough,  to  limit  my  ambition.  I  would  be  Helen! 
I  would  be  Mary  of  Scots  !  I  would  have  my  beauty 
as  undisputed  and  renowned  as  the  Apollo's!  Am  I 
insane  or  heartless?" 

Clay  smiled  at  the  abrupt  •naivete  of  the  question, 
but  his  eyes  were  full  of  visible  admiration  of  the 
glowing  pictures  before  him. 

"You  are  beautiful!"  was  his  answer. 

"Am  I  not !  Shall  I  be  celebrated  hereafter,  Er 
nest?  I  should  be  willing  to  grow  old,  if  my  beauty 
were  *  in  amber' — if  by  some  burning  line  in  your 
book,  some  wondrous  touch  of  the  pencil,  some  bold 
novelty  in  sculpture,  my  beauty  would  live  on  men's 
lips  for  ever!  Incontri's  picture  is  beautiful  and  like, 
but  it  is  not,  if  you  understand,  a  conception — it  is  not 
a  memoir  of  the  woman  as  the  Cenei's  is — it  does  not 
embody  a  complete  fame  in  itself,  like  the  'Bella'  of 
Titian,  or  the  'Wife  of  Giorgione.'  If  you  loved 
me,  Ernest——" 

"If  you  loved  me,  Julia!"  echoed  Clay,  with  a 
tone  rather  of  mockery  than  sincerity. 

"Ah,  but  you  threw  me  away;  and  even  with  my 
own  consent,  I  could  never  be  recovered !  Believe 
me,  Ernest,  there  never  was  a  coquette,  who,  in  some 
one  of  her  earlier  preferences,  had  not  made  a  des 
perate  and  single  venture  of  her  whole  heart's  devo 
tion.  That  wrecked,  she  was  lost  to  love.  I  em 
barked  with  you,  soul  and  heart,  and  you  left  to  the 
mercy  of  the  chance  wind  a  freight  that  no  tide  could 
bring  to  port  again !" 

"You  forget  the  obstacles." 

"  A  poet!  and  talk  of  obstacles  in  love  !  Did  you 
even  ask  me  to  run  away  with  you,  Ernest!  I  would 
have  gone!  Ay — coldly  as  I  talk  to  you  now,  1 
would  have  followed  you  to  a  hovel — for  it  was  first 
love  to  me.  Had  it  been  first  love  to  both  of  us,  I 
should  now  be  your  wife — sharer  of  your  fame  !  And 
oh,  how  jealous !" 

"  With  your  beauty,  jealous?" 

"  Not  of  flesh-and-blood  women,  Ernest !  With  a 
wife's  opportunities,  I  could  outcharm,  with  half  my 
beauty,  the  whole  troop  of  Circe.  I  was  thinking  of 
the  favors  of  your  pen  !  Who  would  I  let  you  de 
scribe  !  What  eyes,  what  hair,  what  form  but  mine 
— what  character,  what  name,  would  I  even  suffer  you 
to  make  immortal !  Paul  Veronese  had  a  wife  with 
my  avarice.  In  his  hundred  pictures  there  is  the 
same  blue-eyed,  golden-haired  woman,  as  much  link 
ed  to  his  fame  as  Laura  to  Petrarch's.  If  he  had 
drawn  her  but  once,  she  would  have  been  known  as 
the  woman  Paul  Veronese  painted  !  She  is  known 
now  as  the  woman  he  loved.  Delicious  immortality !" 

"  Yet  she  could  not  have  exacted  it.  That  would 
have  required  an  intellect  which  looked  abroad— and 
poets  love  no  women  who  are  not  like  birds,  content 
with  the  summer  around  them,  and  with  every  thought 
in  their  nest.  Paul  Veronese's  Bionda,  with  her  soft 


20 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


mild  eyes  and  fair  hair,  is  the  very  type  of  such  a 
woman,  and  she  would  uot  have  foregone  a  caress  for 
twenty  immortalities." 

"May  I  ask  what  was  my  attraction,  then?"  said 
the  proud  beauty,  with  a  tone  of  pique. 

"  Julia  Beverley,  unconscious  and  unintellectual !" 
answered  Clay,  drawing  on  his  gloves  with  the  air  of 
a  man  who  has  got  through  with  an  interview.  "  You 
have  explained  your  '  metempsychosis,'  but  I  was  in 
love  with  the  form  you  have  cast  off.  The  night 
grows  chill.  Sweet  dreams  to  you  !" 

"  Slay,  Mr.  Clay  !  You  asked  me  if  I  had  been 
'  better  loved,'  and  I  promised  you  an  answer.  What 
think  you  of  a  lover  who  has  forgotten  the  occupation 
that  gave  him  bread,  abandoned  his  ambition,  and  at 
all  hours  of  the  night  is  an  unrewarded  and  hopeless 
watcher  beneath  my  window  ?" 

"  To-night  excepted,"  said  Clay,  looking  around. 
"  Incontri !"  called   Mrs.  Brown,   without   raising 
her  voice. 

Clay  started  and  frowned,  as  the  painter  sprang 
from  the  shadow  of  the  pine-tree  which  had  before 
attracted  his  attention.  Falling  on  his  knee,  the  un 
happy  lover  kissed  the  jewelled  fingers  extended  to 
him,  and  giving  Clay  his  hand  in  rising,  the  poet 
sprang  back,  for  he  had  elapsed  the  handle  of  a  stiletto ! 
"  Fear  not — she  does  not  love  you  !"  said  Incontri, 
remarking  his  surprise,  and  concealing  the  weapon  in 
his  sleeve. 

"  I  was  destined  to  be  cured  of  my  love,  either 
way,"  said  Clay,  bowing  himself  oft"  the  verandah  with 
half  a  shudder  and  half  a  smile. 

The  curtain  closed  at  the  same  moment  over  the 
retreating  form  of  Julia  Beverley,  and  so  turned 
another  leaf  of  Clay's  voluminous  book  of  love. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

CLAY  threw  the  volume  aside,  in  which  he  had  been 
reading,  and  taking  up  "  the  red  book,"  looked  for 
the  county  address  of  Sir  Harry  Freer,  the  exponent 
(only)  of  Lady  Fanny  Freer,  who,  though  the  "nicest 
possible  creature,"  is  not  the  heroine  of  this  story. 
Sir  Harry's  ancestral  domain  turned  out  to  be  a  por 
tion  of  the  earth's  surface  in  that  county  of  England 
where  the  old  gentry  look  down  upon  very  famous 
lords  as  too  new,  and  proportionately  upon  all  other 
families  that  have  not  degenerated  since  William  the 
conqueror. 

Sir  Harry  had  married  an  earl's  daughter ;  but  as 
the  earldom  was  not  only  the  fruit  of  two  generations 
of  public  and  political  eminence,  Sir  Harry  was  not 
considered  in  Cheshire  as  having  made  more  than  a 
tolerable  match  ;  and  if  she  passed  for  a  "  Cheshire 
cheese''  in  London,  he  passed  for  but  the  rind  in  the 
county.  In  the  county  therefore  there  was  a  lord 
paramount  of  Freer  Hall,  and  in  town,  a  lady  par 
amount  of  Brook-street ;  and  it  was  under  the  town 
dynasty  that  Miss  Blanch  Beaufin  was  invited  up  from 
Cheshire  to  pass  a  first  winter  in  London — Miss 
Beaufin  being  the  daughter  of  a  descendant  of  a  Nor 
man  retainer  of  the  first  Sir  Harry,  and  the  relative 
position  of  the  families  having  been  rigidly  kept  up  to 
the  existing  epoch. 

The  address  found  in  the  red  book  was  described 
upon  the  following  letter:— 

"  DEAR  LADY  FANNY  :  If  you  have  anything  be 
side  the  ghost-room  vacant  at  Freer  Hall,  I  will  run 
down  to  you.  Should  you,  by  chance,  be  alone,  ask 
up  the  curate  for  a  week  to  keep  Sir  Harry  off  my 
hands  ;  and,  as  you  don't  flirt,  provide  me  with  some- 
5ouy  more  pretty  than  yourself  for  our  mutual 


security.     As  my  autograph  sells  for  eighteen  pence, 
you  will  excuse  the  brevity  of       Yours  truly, 

"  ERNEST  CLAY. 

"  N.  B.  Tell  me  in  your  answer  if  Blanch  Beaufin 
is  within  a  morning's  ride." 

Lady  Fanny  was  a  warm-hearted,  extravagant, 
beautiful  creature  of  impulse,  a  passionate  friend  of 
Clay's  (for  such  women  there  are),  without  a  spice  of 
flirtation.  She  was  a  perennial  belle  in  London;  and 
he  had  begun  his  acquaintance  with  her  by  throwing 
himself  at  her  head  in  the  approved  fashion — in  love 
to  the  degree  of  rose-asking  and  sonnet-writing.  As 
she  did  not  laugh  when  he  sighed,  however,  but  only 
told  him  very  seriously  that  she  was  not  a  bit  in  love 
with  him,  and  thought  he  was  throwing  away  his 
time,  he  easily  forgave  her  insensibility,  and  they  be 
came  very  warm  allies.  Spoiled  favorite  as  he  was 
of  London  society,  Clay  had  qualities  for  a  very  sin 
cere  friendship;  and  Lady  Fanny,  full  of  irregular 
talent,  had  also  a  strong  vein  of  common  sense,  and 
perfectly  understood  him.  This  explanation  to  the 
reader.  It  would  have  saved  some  trouble  and  "pain, 
if  it  had  been  made  by  some  good  angel  to  Sir  Harry 
Freer. 

As  the  London  coach  rattled  under  the  bridged 
gate  of  the  gloomy  old  town  of  Chester,  Lady  Fanny's 
I  dashing  ponies  were  almost  on  their  haunches  with 
j  her  impetuous  pull-up  at  the  hotel;  and  returning 
I  with  a  nod  the  coachman's  respectful  bow,  she  put 
j  her  long  whip  in  at  the  coach  window  to  shake  hands 
i  with  Clay,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  again  off 
J  the  pavements,  and  taking  the  road  at  her  ladyship's 
|  usual  speed. 

"  Steady,  Flash  !  steady  !"  (she  ran  on,  talking  to 
Clay,  and  her  ponies  in  the  same  breath),  "  doleful 
ride  down,  isn't  it? — (keep  up,  Tom,  you  villain!) — 
very  good  of  you  to  come,  I'm  sure,  dear  Ernest,  and 
you'll  stay;  how  long  will  you  stay  ?  (down,  Flash!) 
— Oh,  Miss  Beaufin  !  I've  something  to  say  to  you 
[  about  Blanch  Beaufin  !  I  didn't  answer  your  Nota 
Bene — (go  along,  Tom  !  that  pony  wants  blooding) — 
because  to  tell  the  truth,  it's  a  delicate  subject  at 
Freer  Hall,  and  1  would  rather  talk  than  write  about 
it.  You  see— (will  you  be  done,  Flash  !) — the 
Beaufins.  though  very  nice  people,  and  Blanch  quite 
a  love— (go  along,  lazy  Tom  !)— the  Beaufins,  I  say, 
are  rated  rather  crockery  in  Cheshire.  And  I  am 
ashamed  to  own,  really  quite  ashamed,  I  have  not 
been  near  them  in  a  month.  Shameful,  isn't  it  ? 
There's  good  action,  Ernest !  Look  at  that  nigh 
pony  ;  not  a  blemish  in  him;  and  such  a  goer  in  sin 
gle  harness!  Well,  I'll  go  around  by  the  Beaufins 
now." 

"  Pray  consider,  Lady  Fanny  !"  interrupted  Clay 
deprecatingly,  "eighteen  hours  in  a  coach." 

"  Not  to  go  in  !  oh,  not  to  go  in !  Blanch  is  very  ill, 
and  sees  nobody  ;— and  (come,  Tom!  come  !) — I  only 
heard  of  it  this  morning — (there's  for  your  laziness, 
you  stupid  horse !, — We'll,  just  call  and  ask  how  she  is, 

though  Sir  Harry " 

"  Is  she  very  ill,  then  ?"  asked  Clay,  with  a  concern 
which  made  Lady  Fanny  turn  her  eyes  from  her 
ponies'  ears  to  look  at  him. 

"  They  say,  very  !  Of  course,  Sir  Harry  can't  for 
bid  a  visit  to  the  sick." 

"  Surely  he  does  not  forbid  you  to  call  on  Blanch 
Beaufin!" 

"  Not  'forbid'  precisely;  that  wouldn't  do — (gently, 
sweet  Flash  !  now,  Tom  !  now,  lazy  !  trot  fair  through 
ihe  hollow!) — but  I  invited  her  to  pass  the  winter 
with  me  without  consulting  him,  and  he  liked  it  well 
enough,  till  he  got  back  among  his  stupid  neighbors 
— (well  done,  Flash !  plague  take  that  bothering 
whipple-tree!) — and  they  and  their  awkward  daughters, 
whom  I  might  have  invited — (whoa  !  Flash !) — if  1 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


21 


hail  wanted  a  menagerie,  set  him  to  looking  into  her 
pedigree.  There's  the  house;  the  old  house  with 
the  vines  over  it  yonder!  So  then,  Sir  Harry — such 
a  sweet  girl,  too — set  his  face  against  the  acquaintance. 
Here  we  are  ! — (Whoa,  bays  !  whoa  !)  Hold  the 
reins  a  moment  while  I  run  in!" 

More  to  quell  a  vague  and  apprehensive  feeling  of 
remorse  than  to  wile  away  idle  time,  Clay  passed  the 
reins  back  to  the  stripling  in  gray  livery  behind,  and 
walked  round  Lady  Fanny's  ponies,  expressing  his 
admiration  of  them  and  the  turnout  altogether. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  lad,  who  seemed  to  have  caught 
some  of  the  cleverness  of  his  mistress,  for  he  scarce  j 
looked  fourteen,  "  they're  a  touch  above  anything  in  j 
Cheshire  !     Look  at  the  forehand  of  that  nigh  'uu,  1 
sir! — arm  and  withers  like  a  greyhound,  and  yet  what  j 
a  quarter  for  trotting,  sir  !     Quite  the  tight  thing  all  j 
over  !     Carries  his  flag  that  way  quite  natural ;  never  - 
was  nicked,  sir !     Did  you  take  notice,  begging  your  | 
pardon,  sir,  how  milady  put  through  that  hollow  ?  j 
Wasn't  it  fine,  sir  ?     Tother's  a  goodish  nag,   too, 
but,  nothing  to  Flash  ;  can't  spread,  somehow  ;   that's 
Sir  Harry's  picking  up,  and  never  was  a  match;  no  [ 
blood  in  Tom,  sir!     Look  at  his  fetlock  :  underbred, 
but  a  jimpy  nag  for  a  roadster,  if  a  man  wanted  work  ; 
out  on  him.     See  how  he  blows,  sir,  and  Flash  as  j 
still  as  a  stopped  wheel !" 

Lady    Fanny's  reappearance   at   the   door   of  the  : 
house  interrupted  her  page's  eulogy  on  the  bays;  and  j 
with  a  very  altered  expression  of  countenance  she  re 
sumed  the  reins,  and  drove  slowly  homeward. 

"  She  is  very  ill,  very  ill !  but  she  wishes  to  see 
you,  and  you  must  go  there  ;  but  not  to-morrow. 
She  is  passing  a  crisis  now,  and  her  physician  says, 
will  be  easier  if  not  better,  after  to-morrow.  Poor 
girl!  dear  Blanch!  Ah,  Clay  !  but  no — no  matter; 
I  shall  talk  about  it  with  more  composure  by-and-by 
— poor  Blanch !" 

Lady  Fanny's  tears  rained  upon  her  two  hands  as 
she  let  out  her  impatient  horses  to  be  sooner  at  home,  j 
and,  in  half  an  hour,  Clay  was  alone  in  his  luxurious  ! 
quarters,  under  Sir  Harry's  roof,  with  two  hours  to  | 
dinner,  and  more  than  thoughts  enough,  and  very  sad  j 
ones,  to  make  him  glad  of  time  and  solitude. 

Freer  Hall  was  full  of  company — Sir  Harry's  com 
pany — and  Clay,  with  the  quiet  assurance  of  a  London 
star,  used  to  the  dominant,  took  his  station  by  Lady 
Fanny  on  entering  the  drawing-room,  and  when  din-  ; 
ner  was  announced,  gave  her  his  arm,  without  troubling 
himself  to  remember  that  there  was  a  baronet  who  had 
claim  to  the  honor,  and  of  whom  he  must  simply  make 
a  mortal  enemy.     At  table,  the  conversation  ran  main-  j 
ly  in  Sir  Harry's  vein,  hunting,  and  Clay  did  not  even  | 
take  the  listener's  part ;    but,  in  a  low  tone,  talked  of 
London  to  Lady  Fanny — her  ladyship  (unaccountably  i 
to  her  husband   and  his  friends,  who  were^used  to  [ 
furnish   her   more    merriment    than   revery)    pensive  J 
and  out  of  spirits.     With  the  announcement  of  coffee  j 
in  the  drawing-room,  Clay  disappeared  with  her,  and  j 
their  evening  was  tete-a-tcte,  for  Sir  Harry   and   his 
friends  were  three-bottle   men,  and   commonly   bade  ' 
good-night  to  ladies  when   the  ladies  left  the  table,  • 
If  there  had  been  a  second  thought  in  the  convivial  i| 
squirearchy,  they  would  have  troubled   their  heads, 
less  about  a  man  who  did  not  exhibit  the  first  symptom  j 
of  love   for  the  wife — civility  to  the  husband.     But  I 
this  is  a  hand-to-mouth  world  in  the  way  of  knowl- 
edge,  and  nothing  is  stored  but  experiences,  lifetime 
by  lifetime. 

Another  day  passed  and  another,  and  mystery  seem 
ed  the  ruling  spirit  of  the  hour,  for  there  were  enigmas 
for  all.     Regularly,  morning  and  afternoon,  the  high 
stepping  ponies  were  ordered  round,  and  Lady  Fanny 
(with  Mr.  Clay  for  company  to  the  gate)  visited  the  , 
Beaufins,  now  against  positive  orders  from  the  irate  ; 
Sir  Harry,  and  daily,  Clay's  reserve  with  his  beautiful 


hostess  increased,  and  his  distress  of  mind  with  it,  for 
both  he  and  she  were  alarmed  with  the  one  piece  of 
unexplained  intelligence  between  them — MissBeaufin 
would  see  Mr.  Clay  when  she  should  be  dying! 
Not  before — for  worlds  not  before — and  of  the  phy 
sician  constantly  in  attendance  (Lady  Fanny  often 
present),  Clay  knew  that  the  poor  girl  besought  with 
an  eagerness,  to  the  last  degree  touching  and  ear 
nest,  to  know  when  hope  could  be  given  over.  She 
was  indulged,  unquestioned,  as  a  dying  daughter; 
and,  whatever  might  be  her  secret,  Lady  Fanny 
promised  that  at  the  turning  hour,  come  what  would 
of  distressing  and  painful,  she  would  herself  come 
with  Mr.  Clay  to  her  death-bed. 

Sir  Harry  and  his  friends  were  in  the  billiard-room, 
and  Lady  Fanny  and  Clay  breakfasting  together,  when 
a  note  was  brought  in  by  one  of  the  footmen,  who 
waited  for  an  answer. 

"  Say  that  I  will  come,"  said  Lady  Fanny,  "  and 
stay,  George !  See  that  my  ponies  are  harnessed  im 
mediately  ;  put  the  head  of  the  phaeton  up,  and  let  it 
stand  in  the  coach-house.  And,  Timson  !"  she  added 
to  the  butler  who  stood  at  the  side-table,  "  if  Sir  Harry 
inquires  for  me,  say  that  I  am  gone  to  visit  a  sick 
friend." 

Lady  Fanny  walked  to  the  window.  It  rained  in 
torrents.  There  was  no  need  of  explanation  to  Clay; 
he  understood  the  note  and  its  meaning. 

11  The  offices  connect  with  the  stables  by  a  covered 
way,"  she  said,  "  and  we  will  get  in  there.  Shall  you 
be  ready  in  a  few  minutes  ?" 

"  Quite,  dear  Lady  Fanny  !  I  am  ready  now." 
"  The  rain  is  rather  fortunate  than  otherwise,"  she 
added,  in  going  out,  "  for  Sir  Harry  will  not  see  us 
go;  and  he  might  throw  an  obstacle  in  the  way,  and 
make  it  difficult  to  manage.  Wrap  well  up,  Ernest !" 
The  butler  looked  inquisitively  at  Clay  and  his  mis 
tress,  but  both  were  preoccupied,  and  in  ten  minutes 
the  rapid  phaeton  was  on  its  way,  the  ponies  pressing 
on  the  bit  as  if  the  eagerness  of  the  two  hearts  beating 
behind  them  was  communicated  through  the  reins, 
and  Lady  Fanny,  contrary  to  her  wont,  driving  in  un- 
encouraging  silence.  The  three  or  four  miles  between 
Freer  Hall  and  their  destination  were  soon  traversed, 
and  under  the  small  porte-cochere  of  the  ancient  man 
sion  the  ponies  stood  panting  and  sheltered. 

"  Kind  Lady  Fanny!  God  bless  you  !"  said  a  tall, 
dark  man,  of  a  very  striking  exterior,  coming  out  to 
the  phaeton.  "  And  you,  sir,  are  welcome  !" 

They  followed  him  into  the  little  parlor,  where  Clay 
was  presented  by  Lady  Fanny  to  the  mother  of  Miss 
Beaufin,  a  singularly  yet  sadly  sweet  woman  in  voice, 
person,  and  address;  to  the  old,  white-haired  vicar, 
and  to  the  physician,  who  returned  his  bow  with  a 
cold  and  very  formal  salute. 

"There  is  no  time  to  be  lost."  said  he,  "  and  at  the 
request  of  MissBeaufin,  Lady  Fanny  and  this  gentle 
man  will  please  go  to  her  chamber  without  us.  1  can 
trust  your  ladyship  to  see  that  her  remainder  of  life 
is  not  shortened  nor  harassed  by  needless  agitation." 
Clay's  heart  beat  violently.  At  the  extremity  of 
the.  long  and  dimly-lighted  passage  thrown  open  by 
the  father  to  Lady  Fanny,  he  saw  a  while  curtained 
bed— the  death-bed,  he  knew,  of  the  gay  and  fair 
flower  of  a  London  season,  the  wonder  and  idol  of 
difficult  fashion,  and  unadmiring  rank.  Blanch  Beaufin 
had  appeared  like  a  marvel  in  the  brilliant  circles  of 
Lady  Fanny's  acquaintance,  a  distinguished,  uncon 
scious,  dazzling  girl,  of  whom  her  fair  introductress 
(either  in  mischief  or  good  nature)  would  say  nothing 
but  that  she  was  her  neighbor  in  Cheshire,  though 
all  that  nature  could  lavish  on  one  human  creature 
seemed  hers,  with  all  that  high  birth  could  stamp  on 
mien,  countenance,  and  manners.  Clay  paid  her  his 
tribute  with  the  rest — the  hundred  who  flattered  and 
followed  her;  but  she  was  a  proud  girl,  and  though 


22 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


he  seized  every  opportunity  of  being  near  her,  nothing 
in  her  manner  betrayed  to  him  that  he  was  not  counted 
among  the  hundred.  A  London  season  fleets  fast, 
and,  taken  by  surprise  with  Lady  Fanny's  early  de 
parture  for  the  country,  her  farewells  were  written 
on  the  corners  of  cards,  and  with  a  secret  deep  buried 
in  the  heart,  she  was  brought  back  to  the  retirement 
of  home. 

Brief  history  of  the  breaking  of  a  heart ! 

Lady  Fanny  started  slightly  on  entering  the  cham 
ber.  The  sick  girl  sat  propped  in  an  arm  chair, 
dressed  in  snowy  white  ;  even  her  slight  foot  appear 
ing  beneath  the  edge  of  her  dress  in  a  slipper  of  white 
satin.  Her  brown  hair  fell  in  profuse  ringlets  over 
her  shoulders ;  but  it  was  gathered  behind  into  a 
knot,  and  from  it  depended  a  white  veil,  the  diamonds 
which  fastened  it,  pressing  to  the  glossy  curve  of  her 
head,  a  slender  stem  of  orange-flowers.  Her  features 
were  of  that  slight  -mould  which  shows  sickness  by 
little  except  higher  transparency  of  the  blue  veins, 
and  brighter  redness  in  the  lips,  and  as  she  smiled 
with  suffused  cheek,  and  held  out  her  gloved  hand  to 
Clay,  with  a  vain  effort  to  articulate,  he  passed  his 
hands  across  his  eyes  and  looked  inquiringly  at  his 
friend.  He  had  expected,  though  he  had  never 
realized,  that  she  would  be  altered.  She  looked 
almost  as  he  had  left  her.  He  remembered  her  only 
as  he  had  oftenest  seen  her — dressed  for  ball  or  party, 
and  but  for  the  solemnity  of  the  preparation  he  had 
gone  through,  he  might  have  thought  his  feelings 
had  been  played  upon  only;  that  Blanch  Beaufin 
was  well — still  beautiful  and  well ;  that  he  should 
again  see  her  in  the  brilliant  circles  of  London;  still 
love  her  as  he  secretly  did,  and  receive  what  he  now 
felt  would  be  under  any  circumstances  a  gift  of 
Heaven,  the  assurance  of  a  return.  This  and  a  world 
of  confused  emotion,  tumultuously  and  in  an  instant, 
rushed  through  his  heart ;  for  there  are  moments  in 
which  we  live  lives  of  feeling  and  thought;  moments, 
glances,  whichsupply  years  of  secret  or  bitter  memory. 

This  is  but  a  sketch — but  an  outline  of  a  tale  over 
true.  Were  there  space,  were  there  time  to  follow 
out  the  traverse  thread  of  its  mere  mournful  incidents, 
we  might  write  the  reverse  side  of  a  leaf  of  life  ever 
read  partially  and  wrong — the  life  of  the  gay  and  un- 
lamenting.  Sickness  and  death  had  here  broken 
down  a  wall  of  adamant  between  two  creatures,  every 
way  formed  for  each  other.  In  health  and  ordinary 
regularity  of  circumstances,  they  would  have  loved  as 
truly  and  deeply  as  those  in  humbler  or  in  more  for 
tunate  relative  positions ;  but  they  probably  would 
never  have  been  united.  It  is  the  system,  the  neces 
sary  system  of  the  class  to  which  Clay  belonged,  to 
turn  adroitly  and  gayly  off  every  shaft  to  the  heart ; 
to  take  advantage  of  no  opening  to  affection;  to 
smother  all  preference  that  would  lead  to  an  inter 
change  of  hallowed  vows ;  to  profess  insensibility 
equally  polished  and  hardened  on  the  subject  of  pure 
love ;  to  forswear  marriage,  and  make  of  it  a  mock 
and  an  impossibility.  And  whose  handiwork  is  this 
unnatural  order  of  society?  Was  it  established  by 
the  fortunate  and  joyous — by  the  wealthy  and  un 
trammelled,  at  liberty  to  range  the  world  if  they  liked, 
and  marry  where  they  chose,  but  preferring  gayety  to 
happiness,  and  lawless  liberty  to  virtuous  love  ?  No, 
indeed  !  not  by  these  !  Show  me  one  such  man,  and 
I  will  show  you  a  rare  perversion  of  common  feeling 
— a  man  who  under  any  circumstances  would  have 
been  cold  and  eccentric.  It  is  not  to  those  able  to 
marry  where  they  will,  that  the  class  of  London  gay 
men  owe  their  system  of  mocking  opinions.  But  it 
is  to  the  companions  of  fortunate  men — gifted  like 
them,  in  all  but  fortune,  and  holding  their  caste  by 
the  tenure  of  forsworn  ties— abiding  in  the  paradise 
of  aristocracy,  with  pure  love  for  the  forbidden  fruit ! 
Are  such  men  insensible  to  love  ?  Has  this  forbidden 


joy — this  one  thing  hallowed  in  a  bad  world ;  has  it  no 
temptation  for  the  gay  man  ?  Is  his  better  nature 
quite  dead  within  him  ?  Is  he  never  ill  and  sad  where 
gayety  can  not  reach  him  ?  Does  he  envy  the  rich 
young  lord  (his  friend),  everything  but  his  blushing 
and  pure  bride  ?  Is  he  poet  or  wit,  or  the  mirror  of 
taste  and  elegance,  yet  incapable  of  discerning  the 
qualities  of  a  true  love  ;  the  celestial  refinement  of  a 
maiden  passion,  lawful  and  fearless,  devoted  because 
spotless,  and  enduring  because  made  up  half  of  prayer 
and  gratitude  to  her  Maker  ?  Does  he  not  know  dis 
tinctions  of  feeling,  as  he  knows  character  in  a  play  ? 
Does  he  not  discriminate  between  purity  and  guilt  in 
love,  as  he  does  in  his  nice  judgment  of  honor  and 
taste  ?  Is  he  gayly  dead  to  the  deepest  and  most 
elevated  cravings  of  nature — love,  passionate,  single- 
hearted,  and  holy  ?  Trust  me,  there  is  a  bitterness 
whose  depths  we  can  only  fathom  by  refinement ! 
To  move  among  creatures  embellished  and  elevated 
to  the  last  point  of  human  attainment,  lovely  and  un 
sullied,  and  know  yourself  (as  to  all  but  gazing  on  and 
appreciating  them)  a  pariah  and  an  outcast !  to  breathe 
their  air,  and  be  the  companion  and  apparent  equal  of 
those  for  whose  bliss  they  are  created,  and  to  whom 
they  are  offered  for  choice,  with  the  profusion  of 
flowers  in  a  garden — (the  chooser  and  possessor  of 
the  brightest  your  inferior  in  all  else) — to  live  thus  ; 
to  suffer  thus,  and  still  smile  and  call  it  choice  and 
your  own  way  to  happiness — this  is  mockery  indeed  ! 
He  who  now  stood  in  the  death-room  of  Blanch 
Beaufin,  had  felt  it  in  its  bitterest  intensity  ! 

"  Mr.  Clay  ! — Ernest !"  said  the  now  pale  creature, 
breaking  the  silence  with  a  strong  effort,  for  he  had 
dropped  on  his  knee  at  her  side  in  ungovernable  emo 
tion,  and,  as  yet,  had  but  articulated  her  name — "Er 
nest!  I  have  but  little  time  for  anything — least  of  all 
for  disguise  or  ceremony.  I  am  assured  that  I  am  dy 
ing.  I  am  convinced,"  she  added  firmly,  taking  up 
the  watch  that  lay  beside  her,  "  that  I  have  been  told 
the  truth,  and  that  when  this  hourhand  comes  round 
again,  I  shall  be  dead.  I  will  conceal  nothing.  They 
have  given  me  cordials  that  will  support  me  one  hour, 
and  for  that  hour — and  for  eternity — I  wish — if  I  may 
be  so  blest — if  God  will  permit — to  be  your  wife  !" 

Lady  Fanny  Freer  rose  and  came  to  her  with  rapid 
steps,  and  Clay  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  in  a  passion  of 
tears  exclaimed,  "Oh  God!  can  this  be  true  !" 

"  Answer  me  quickly !"  she  continued,  in  a  voice 
raised,  but  breaking  through  sobs,  "  an  hour  is  short — 
oh  how  short,  when  it  is  the  last !  I  can  not  stay  with 
you  long,  were  you  a  thousand  limes  mine.  Tell 
me,  Ernest ! — shall  it  be  ? — shall  I  be  wedded  ere  I 
die? — wedded  now?" 

A  passionate  gesture  to  Lady  Fanny  was  all  the 
answer  Clay  could  make,  and  in  another  moment  the 
aged  vicar  was  in  the  chamber,  with  her  parents  and 
the  physician,  to  all  of  whom  a  few  words  explained 
a  mystery  which  her  bridal  attire  had  already  half  un 
ravelled. 

Blanch  spoke  quickly — "  Shall  he  proceed,  Er 
nest?" 

Her  prayer-book  was  open  on  her  knee,  and  Clay 
gave  it  to  the  vicar,  who,  with  a  quick  sense  of  sym 
pathy,  and  with  but  a  glance  at  the  weeping  and  si 
lent  parents,  read  without  delay  the  hallowed  ceremo 
nial. 

Clay's  countenance  elevated  and  cleared  as  he  pro 
ceeded,  and  Blanch,  with  her  large  suffused  eyes  fixed 
on  his,  listened  with  a  smile,  serene,  but  expressive  of 
unspeakable  rapture.  Her  beauty  had  never  been  so 
radiant,  so  angelic.  In  heaven,  on  her  bridal  night, 
beatified  spirit  as  she  was,  she  could  not  have  been 
more  beautiful ! 

One  instant  of  embarrassment  occurred,  unobserved 
by  the  dying  bride,  but,  with  the  thoughtfulness  of 
womanly  generosity,  Lady  Fanny  had  foreseen  it,  and, 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


23 


drawing  off  her  own  wedding-ring,  she  passed  it  into 
Ernest's  hand  ere  the  interruption  became  apparent. 
Alas  !  the  emaciated  haud  ungloved  to  recei 


That  wasted  finger  pointed  indeed  to  heaven!  Till 
then,  Clay  had  felt  almost  in  a  dream.  But  here  was 
suffering  —  sickness  —  death  !  This  told  what  the  hec 
tic  brightness  and  the  faultless  features  would  fain 
deny  —  what  the  fragrant  and  still  unwithering  flowers 
upon  her  temples  would  seem  to  mock!  But  the 
hectic  was  already  fading,  and  the  flowers  outlived  the 
light  in  the  dark  eyes  they  shaded  ! 

"The  vicar  joined  their  hands  with  the  solemn  ad 
juration,  "Those  whom  God  hath  joined  together  let 
no  man  put  asunder  ;"  and  Clay  rose  from  his  knees, 
and  pressing  his  first  kiss  upon  her  lips,  strained  her 
passionately  to  his  heart. 

"  Mine  in  heaven!"  she  cried,  giving  way  at  last  to 
her  tears,  as  she  closed  her  slight  arms  over  his  neck  ; 
"mine  in  heaven!  Is  it  not  so,  mother!  father!  is 
he  not  mine  now  ?  There  is  no  giving  in  marriage  in 
heaven,  but  the  ties,  hallowed  here,  are  not  forgotten 
there!  Tell  me  they  are  not!  Speak  to  me,  my 
husband!  Press  me  to  your  heart,  Ernest  !  Your 
wife  —  oh,  I  thank  God  !" 

The  physician  sprang  forward  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  her  pulse.  She  fell  back  upon  her  pillows,  and 
with  a  smile  upon  her  lips,  and  the  tears  still  wet  upon 
her  long  and  drooping  lashes,  lay  dead. 

Lady  Fanny  took  the  mother  by  the  arm,  and  with 
a  gesture  to  the  father  and  the  physician  to  follow, 
they  retired  and  left  the  bridegroom  alone. 
******* 

Life  is  full  of  sudden  transitions  ;  and  the  next 
event  in  that  of  Ernest  Clay,  was  a  duel  with  Sir  Har 
ry  Freer  —  if  the  Morning  Post  was  to  be  believed  — 
".occasioned  by  the  indiscretion  of  Lady  Fanny,  who, 
in  a  giddy  moment,  it  appears,  had  given  to  her  ad 
mirer,  Sir  Harry's  opponent,  her  wedding-ring!" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LATE  one  night  in  June  two  gentlemen  arrived  at 
the  Villa  Hotel  of  the  Baths  of  Lucca.  They  stop 
ped  the  low  britzka  in  which  they  travelled,  and,  leav 
ing  a  servant  to  make  arrangements  for  their  lodging, 
linked  arms  and  strolled  up  the  road  toward  the  banks 
of  the  Lima.  The  moon  was  chequered  at  the  mo 
ment  with  the  poised  leaf  of  a  treetop,  and  as  it  pas 
sed  from  her  face,  she  arose  and  stood  alone  in  the  j 
steel-blue  of  the  unclouded  heavens — a  luminous  and 
tremulous  plate  of  gold.  And  you  know  how  beau 
tiful  must  have  been  the  night,  a  June  night  in  Italy, 
with  a  moon  at  the  full ! 

A  lady,  with  a  servant  following  her  at  a  little  dis 
tance,  passed  the  travellers  on  the  bridge  of  trie  Lima. 
She  dropped   her  veil  and  went  by  in  silence.     But  | 
the  Freyherr  felt  the  arm  of  his  friend  tremble  within 
his  own. 

"Do  you  know  her,  then?"  asked  Von  Leisten. 

"By  the  thrill  in  my  veins  we  have  met  before," 
said  Clay;  "but  whether  this  involuntary  sensation 
was  pleasurable  or  painful,  I  have  not  yet  decided. 
There  are  none  I  care  to  meet — none  who  can  be 
here."  He  added  the  last  few  words  after  a  moment's 
pause,  and  sadly. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  to  the  base  of  the  moun 
tain,  busy  each  with  such  coloring  as  the  moonlight 
threw  on  their  thoughts,  but  neither  of  them  was 
happy. 

Clay  was  humane,  and  a  lover  of  nature — a  poet, 
that  is  to  say — and,  in  a  world  so  beautiful,  could  nev 
er  be  a  prey  to  disgust ;  but  he  was  satiated  with  the 
common  emotions  of  life.     His  heart,  forever  over-  j 
flowing,  had  filled  many  a  cup  with  love,  but  with 


strange  tenacity  he  turned  back  for  ever  to  the  first. 
He  was  weary  of  the  beginnings  of  love — weary  of 
its  probations  and  changes.  He  had  passed  the  pe 
riod  of  life  when  inconstancy  was  tempting.  He 
longed  now  for  an  affection  that  would  continue  into 
another  world — holy  and  pure  enough  to  pass  a  gate 
guarded  by  angels.  And  his  first  love — recklessly  as 
he  had  thrown  it  away — was  now  the  thirst  of  his  ex 
istence. 

It  was  two  o'clock  at  night.  The  moon  lay  broad 
upon  the  southern  balconies  of  the  hoiel,  and  every 
casement  was  open  to  its  luminous  and  fragrant  still 
ness.  Clay  and  the  Freyherr  Von  Leisten,  each  in 
his  apartment,  were  awake,  unwilling  to  lose  the  lux 
ury  of  the  night.  And  there  was  one  other  under 
that  roof  waking,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  moon. 

As  Clay  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  looked 
outward  to  the  sky,  his  heart  began  to  be  troubled. 
There  was  a  point  in  the  path  of  the  moon's  rays 
where  his  spirit  turned  back.  There  was  an  influence 
abroad  in  the  dissolving  moonlight  around  him  which 
resistlessly  awakened  the  past — the  sealed  but  unfor- 
gotten  past.  He  could  not  single  out  the  emotion.  He 
knew  not  whether  it  was  fear  or  hope — pain  or  pleasure. 
He  called,  through  the  open  window,  to  Von  Leisten. 

The  Freyherr,  like  himself,  and  like  all  who  have, 
outlived  the"  effervescence  of  life,  was  enamored  of  the 
night.  A  moment  of  unfathomable  moonlight  was 
dearer  to  him  than  hours  disenchanted  with  the  sun. 
He,  too,  had  been  looking  outward  and  upward — but 
with  no  trouble  at  his  heart. 

"  The  night  is  inconceivably  sweet,"  he  said,  as  he 
entered,  "  and  your  voice  called  in  my  thought  and 
sense  from  the  intoxication  of  a  revel.  What  would 
you,  my  friend  ?" 

"  I  am  restless,  Von  Leisten!  There  is  some  one 
near  us  whose  glances  cross  mine  on  the  moonlight, 
and  agitate  and  perplex  me.  Yet  there  was  but  one 
on  earth  deep  enough  in  the  life-blood  of  my  being 
to  move  me  thus — even  were  she  here  !  And  she  is 
not  here  !" 

His  voice  trembled  and  softened,  and  the  last  word 
was  scarce  audible  on  his  closing  lips,  for  the  Frey 
herr  had  passed  his  hands  over  him  while  he  spoke, 
and  he  had  fallen  into  the  trance  of  the  spirit-world. 

Clay  and  Von  Leisten  had  retired  from  the  active 
passions  of  life  together,  and  had  met  and  mingled  at 
that  moment  of  void  and  thirst  when  each  supplied 
the  want  of  the  other.  The  Freyherr  was  a  German 
noble,  of  a  character  passionately  poetic,  and  of  sin 
gular  acquirement  in  the  mystic  fields  of  knowledge. 
Too  wealthy  to  need  labor,  and  too  proud  to  submit 
his  thoughts  or  his  attainments  to  the  criticism  or 
judgment  of  the  world,  he  lavished  on  his  own  life,  and 
on  those  linked  to  him  in  friendship,  the  strange  powers 
he  had  acquired,  and  the  prodigal  overthrow  of  his 
daily  thought  and  feeling.  Clay  was  his  superior, 
perhaps,  in  genius,  and  necessity  had  driven  him  to 
develop  the  type  of  his  inner  soul,  and  leave  its  im 
press  on  the  time.  But  he  was  inferior  to  Von  Leis 
ten  in  the  power  of  will,  and  he  lay  in  his  control  like 
a  child  in  its  mother's.  Four  years  they  had  passed 
together,  much  of  it  in  the  secluded  castle  of  Von 
Leisten,  busied  with  the  occult  studies  to  which  the 
Freyherr  was  secretly  devoted;  but  travelling  down 
to  Italy  to  meet  the  luxurious  summer,  and  dividing 
their  lives  between  the  enjoyment  of  nature  and  the 
ideal  world  they  had  unlocked.  Von  Leisten  had 
lost,  by  death,  the  human  altar  on  which  his  heart 
could  alone  burn  the  incense  of  love;  and  Clay  had 
flung  aside  in  an  hour  of  intoxicating  passion  the  one 
pure  affection  in  which  his  happiness  was  sealed — 
and  both  were  desolate.  But  in  the  world  of  the 
past,  Von  Leisten,  though  more  irrevocably  lonely, 
was  more  tranquilly  blest. 

The  Freyherr  released  the  entranced  spirit  of  his 


24 


ERNEST  CLAY. 


friend,  and  bade  him  follow  back  the  rays  of  the  moon 
to  the  source  of  his  agitation. 

A  smile  crept  slowly  over  the  speaker's  lips. 

In  an  apartment  flooded  with  the  silver  lustre  of  the 
night,  reclined,  in  an  invalid's  chair,  propped  with  pil- 
Jows,  a  woman  of  singular,  though  most  fragile  beauty. 
Books  and  music  lay  strewn  around,  and  a  lamp,  sub 
dued  to  the  tone  of  the  moonlight  by  an  orb  of  ala 
baster,  burned  beside  her.  She  lay  bathing  her  blue 
eyes  in  the  round  chalice  of  the  moon.  A  profusion 
of  brown  ringlets  fell  over  the  white  dress  that  envel 
oped  her,  and  her  oval  cheek  lay  supported  on  the 
palm  of  her  hand,  and  her  bright  red  lips  were  parted. 
The  pure,  yet  passionate  spell  of  that  soft  night  pos 
sessed  her. 

Over  her  leaned  the  disembodied  spirit  of  him  who 
had  once  loved  her — praying  to  God  that  his  soul 
might  be  so  purified  as  to  mingle  unstartingly,  unre- 
pulsively,  in  hallowed  harmony  with  hers.  And  pres 
ently  he  felt  the  coming  of  angels  toward  him,  breath 
ing  into  the  deepest  abysses  of  his  existence  a  tearful 
and  purifying  sadness.  And  with  a  trembling  aspira 
tion  of  grateful  humility  to  his  Maker,  he  stooped  to 
her  forehead,  and  with  his  impalpable  lips  impressed 
upon  its  snowy  tablet  a  kiss. 

It  seemed  to  Eve  Gore  a  thought  of  the  past  that 
brought  the  blood  suddenly  to  her  cheek.  She  started 
fromherrecliningposition,  and, removing  theobscuring 
shade  from  her  lamp,  arose  and  crossed  her  hands 
upon  her  wrists,  and  paced  thoughtfully  to  and  fro. 
Her  lips  murmured  inarticulately.  But  the  thought, 
painfully  though  it  came,  changed  unaccountably  to 
melancholy  sweetness  ;  and,  subduing  her  lamp  again, 
she  resumed  her  steadfast  gaze  upon  the  moon. 

Ernest  knelt  beside  her,  and  with  his  invisible  brow 
bowed  upon  her  hand,  poured  forth,  in  the  voiceless 
language  of  the  soul,  his  memories  of  the  past,  his 
hope,  his  repentance,  his  pure  and  passionate  adora 
tion  at  the  present  hour. 

And  thinking  she  had  been  in  a  sweet  dream,  yet 
wondering  at  its  truthfulness  and  power,  Eve  wept, 
silently  and  long.  As  the  morning  touched  the  east, 
slumber  weighed  upon  her  moistened  eyelids,  and 
kneeling  by  her  bedside  she  murmured  her  gratitude 
to  God  for  a  heart  relieved  of  a  burden  long  borne, 
and  so  went  peacefully  to  her  sleep.  *  *  * 

It  was  in  the  following  year,  and  in  the  beginning 
of  May.  The  gay  world  of  England  was  concentra 
ted  in  London,  and  at  the  entertainments  of  noble 
houses  there  were  many  beautiful  women  and  many 
marked  men.  The  Freyherr  Von  Leisten,  after 
years  of  absence,  had  appeared  again,  his  mysterious 
and  undeniable  superiority  of  mien  and  influence 
again  yielded  to,  as  before,  and  again  bringing  to  his 
feet  the  homage  and  deference  of  the  crowd  he  moved 
among.  To  h'is  inscrutable  power  the  game  of  so 
ciety  was  easy,  and  he  walked  where  he  would  through 
its  barriers  of  form. 

He  stood  one  night  looking  on  at  a  dance.  ""A"  lady 
of  a  noble  air  was  near  him,  and  both  were  watching 
the  movements  of  the  loveliest  woman  present,  a  crea 
ture  in  radiant  health,  apparently  about  twenty-three, 
and  of  matchless  fascination  of  person  and  manner. 
Von  Leisten  turned  to  the  lady  near  him  to  inquire 
her  name,  but  his  attention  was  arrested  by  the  re 


semblance  between  her  and  the  object  of  his  admiring 
curiosity,  and  he  was  silent. 

The  lady  had  bowed  before  he  withdrew  his  gaze, 
however. 

"I  think  we  have  met  before!1' she  said;  but  at 

the  next  instant  a  slight  flush  of  displeasure  came  to  her 

cheek,  and  she  seemed  regretting  that  she  had  spoken. 

"Pardon  me!"  said   Von  Leisten,   "but — if  the 

question  be  not  rude — do  you  remember  where  ?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  I  have  recalled  it  since  I  have  spoken,"  she  con 
tinued  ;  "  but  as  the  remembrance  of  the  person  who 
accompanied  you  always  gives  me  pain,  I  would  wil 
lingly  have  unsaid  it.  One  evening  of  last  year,  cros 
sing  the  bridge  of  the  Lima,  you  were  walking  with 
Mr.  Clay.  Pardon  me — but,  though  I  left  Lucca 
with  my  daughter  on  the  following  morning,  and  saw 
you  no  more,  the  association,  or  your  appearance, 
I  had  imprinted  the  circumstance  on  my  mind." 

"And  is  that  Eve  Gore?"  said  Von  Leisten,  mu 
singly,  gazing  oti  the  beautiful  creature  now  gliding 
with  light  step  to  her  mother's  side. 

But  the  Freyherr's  heart  was  gone  to  his  friend. 

As  the  burst  of  the  waltz  broke  in  upon  the  closing 
of  the  quadrille,  he  offered  his  hand  to  the  fair  girl, 
and  as  they  moved  round  to  the  entrancing  music,  he 
murmured  in  her  ear,  "  He  who  came  to  you  in  the 
moonlight  of  Italy  will  be  with  you  again,  if  you  are 
alone,  at  the  rising  of  to-night's  late  moon.  Believe 
the  voice  that  then  speaks  to  you  !"  *  *  * 

It  was  with  implacable  determination  that  Mrs. 
Gore  refused,  to  the  entreaties  of  Von  Leisten,  a  re 
newal  of  Clay's  acquaintance  with  her  daughter. 
Resentment  for  the  apparent  recklessness  with  which 
he  had  once  sacrificed  her  maiden  love  for  an  unlaw 
ful  passion — scornful  unbelief  of  any  change  in  his 
character — distrust  of  the  future  tendency  of  the 
powers  TSf  hi^  genius — all  mingled  together  in  a  hos 
tility  pro^f  against  persuasion.  She  had  expressed 
this  with  all  the  positiveness  of  language,  when  her 
daughter  suddenly  entered  the  room.  It  was  the 
morning  after  the  ball,  and  she  had  risen  late.  But 
though  subdued  and  pensive  in  her  air,  Von  Leisten 
saw  at  a  glance  that  she  was  happy. 

"  Can  you  bring  him  to  me  ?"  said  Eve,  letting  her 
hand  remain  in  Von  Leisten's,  and  bending  her  deep 
blue  eyes  inquiringly  on  his. 

And  with  no  argument  but  tears  and  caresses,  and 
an  unexplained  assurance  of  her  conviction  of  the  re 
pentant  purity  and  love  of  him  to  whom  her  heart 
was  once  given,  the  confiding  and  strong-hearted 
girl  bent,  at  last,  the  stern  will  that  forbade  her  happi 
ness.  Her  mother  unclasped  the  slight  arms  from  her 
neck,  and  gave  her  hand  in  silent  consent  to  Von  Leisten. 

The  Freyherr  stood  a  moment  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  ground.  The  color  fled  from  his  cheeks,  and 
his  brow  moistened. 

"I  have  called  him,"  he  said — "  he  will  be  here  !" 

An  hour  elapsed,  and  Clay  entered  the  house.  He 
had  risen  from  a  bed  of  sickness,  and  came,  pale  and 
in  terror — for  the  spirit-summons  was  powerful.  But 
Von  Leisten  welcomed  him  at  the  door  with  a  smile, 
and  withdrew  the  mother  from  the  room,  and  left  Er 
nest  alone  with  his  future  bride — the  first  union,  save 
in  spirit,  after  years  of  separation. 


THE  MARQUIS  IN  PETTICOATS. 


25 


THE  MARQUIS  IN  PETTICOATS 


(THE  OUTLINE  FROM  A  FRENCH  MEMOIR.) 


I  INTRODUCE  you  at  once  to  the  Marquis  de  la  Che 
tardie — a  diplomatist  who  figured  largely  in  the  gay 
age  of  Louis  XV. — and  the  story  is  but  one  of  the 
illuminated  pages  of  the  dark  book  of  diplomacy. 

Charles  de  la  Chetardie  appeared  for  the  first  time 
to  the  eyes  of  the  king  at  a  masquerade  ball,  given  at 


head  of  the  beautiful  stranger,  appointed  her,  by  one 
of  those  sudden  whims  of  preference  against  which 
her  ministers  had  so  much  trouble  to  guard,  lectrice 
intime  et  particuliere — in  short,  confidential  personal 
attendant.  The  blushes  of  the  confused  marquis,  who 


g...^..  ~v      was  unprepared  for  so  affectionate  a  reception,  served 
Versailles,  under  the  auspices  of  'la  belle  Pompadour,      rather  to  heighten  the  disguise,  and  old  Bestucheff 


He  was  dressed  as  a  young  lady  of  high  rank,  making 
her  debut ;  and,  so  perfect  was  his  acting,  and  the  de 
ception  altogether,  that  Louis  became  enamored 
of  the  disguised  marquis,  and  violently  excited  the 
jealousy  of  "  Madame,"  by  his  amorous  attentions. 
An  eclaircissement,  of  course,  took  place,  and  the  re 
sult  was  a  great  partiality  for  the  marquis's  society, 
and  his  subsequent  employment,  in  and  out  of  petti- 


bowed  himself  out  with  a  compliment  to  the  beauty 
of  Mademoiselle  de  Beaumont,  veiled  in  a  diplomatic 
congratulation  to  her  imperial  mistress. 

Elizabeth  was  forty  and  a  little  passee,  but  she  still 
had  pretensions,  and  was  particularly  fond  of  beauty 
in  her  attendants,  female  as  well  as  male.  Her  favor 
ite,  of  her  personal  suite,  at  the  time  of  the  arrival  of 
the  marquis,  was  an  exquisite  little  creature  who  had 


coats,  in  many  a  scheme  of  state  diplomacy  and  royal  |   been  sent  to  her,  as  a  compliment  to  this  particular 

taste,  by  the  Dutchess  of  Mecklenberg-Strelitz — a  kind 
of  German  "Fenella,"  or  "  Mignon,"  by  the  name  of 
Nadege  Stein.  Not  much  below  the  middle  size, 
Nadege  was  a  model  of  symmetrical  proportion,  and 


amusement. 

La  Chetardie  was  at  this  time  just  eighteen.  He 
was  very  slight,  and  had  remarkably  small  hands  and 
feet,  and  the  radiant  fairness  of  his  skin  and  the  luxu 
riant  softness  of  his  profuse  chestnut  curls,  might 
justly  have  been  the  envy  of  the  most  delicate  woman. 
He  was,  at  first,  subjected  to  some  ridicule  for  his 
effeminacy,  but  the  merry  courtiers  were  soon  made 
aware,  that,  under  this  velvet  fragility  lay  concealed 
the  strength  and  ferocity  of  the  tiger.  The  grasp  of 
his  small  hand  was  like  an  iron  vice,  and  his  singular 
activity,  and  the  cool  courage  which  afterward  gave  [ 
him  a  brilliant  career  on  the  battle-field,  established  I 


f  very  extraordinary  beauty.  She  had  been  carefully 
educated  for  her  present  situation,  and  was  highly 
accomplished  ;  a  fine  reader,  and  a  singularly  sweet 
musician  and  dancer.  The  tzarine's  passion  for  this 
lovely  attendant  was  excessive,  and  the  arrival  of  a  new 
favorite  of  the  same  sex  was  looked  upon  with  some 
pleasure  by  the  eclipsed  remainder  of  the  palace 
idlers. 

Elizabeth  summoned  Nadege,  and  committed  Mad- 


him,   in   a  very  short  time,   as  the  most  formidable  |j  emoiselle  de  Beaumont  temporarily  to   her  charge; 


swordsman  of  the  court.  His  ferocity,  however,  lay 
deeply  concealed  in  his  character,  and,  unprovoked, 
he  was  the  gayest  and  most  brilliant  of  merry  com 
panions. 

This  was  the  age  of  occult  and  treacherous  diplo 
macy,  and  the  court  of  Russia,  where  Louis  would 
fain  have  exercised  an  influence  (private  as  well  as  po 
litical  in  its  results),  was  guarded  by  an  implacable 
Argus,  in  the  person  of  the  prime  minister,  Bestucheff. 
Aided  by  Sir  Hambuiy  Williams,  the  English  ambas 
sador,  one  of  the  craftiest  men  of  that  crafty  period,  he 
had  succeeded  for  some  years  in  defeating  every  at 
tempt  at  access  to  the  imperial  ear  by  the  secret  emis 
saries  of  France.  The  sudden  appearance  of  La 
Chetardie,  his  cool  self-command,  and  his  successful 
personation  of  a  female,  suggested  a  new  hope  to  the 
king,  however;  and,  called  to  Versailles  by  royal  man 
date,  the  young  marquis  was  taken  into  cabinet  confi 
dence,  and  a  secret  mission  to  St.  Petersburg!),  in 
petticoats,  proposed  to  him  and  accepted. 

With  his  instructions  and  secret  despatches  stitched 
into  his  corsets,  and  under  the  ostensible  protection  of 
a  scientific  man,  who  was  to  present  him  to  the  tzarine 
as  a  Mademoiselle  de  Beaumont,  desirous  of  entering 
the  service  of  Elizabeth,  the  marquis  reached  St.  Pe 
tersburg  without  accident  or  adventure.  The  young 
lady's  guardian  requested  an  audience  through  Bestu 
cheff,  and  having  delivered  the  open  letters  recom 
mending  her  for  her  accomplishments  to  the  imperial 
protection,  he  begged  leave  to  continue  on  his  scien 
tific  tour  to  the  central  regions  of  Russia. 

Conge  was  immediately  granted,  and  on  the  disap 
pearance  of  the  savant,  and  before  the  departure  of 
Bestucheff,  the  tzarine  threw  off  all  ceremony,  and 
pinching  the  cheeks  and  imprinting  a  kiss  on  the  fore- 


but  the  same  mysterious  magnetism  which  had  reached 
the  heart  of  the  tzarine,  seemed  to  kindle,  quite  as 
promptly,  the  affections  of  her  attendant.  Nadege 
was  no  sooner  alone  with  her  new  friend,  than  she 
jumped  to  her  neck,  smothered  her  with  kisses,  called 
her  by  every  endearing  epithet,  and  overwhelmed  her 
with  questions,  mingled  with  the  most  childlike  ex 
clamations  of  wonder  at  her  own  inexplicable  love  for 
a  stranger.  In  an  hour,  she  had  shown  to  the  new 
demoiselle  all  the  contents  of  the  little  boudoir  in  which 
she  lived  ;  talked  to  her  of  her  loves  and  hates  at  the 
Russian  court ;  of  her  home  in  Mecklenberg,  and  her 
present  situation — in  short,  poured  out  her  heart  with 
the  naif  abandon  of  a  child.  The  young  marquis  had 
never  seen  so  lovely  a  creature;  and,  responsibly  as  he 
felt  his  difficult  and  delicate  situation,  he  returned  the 
affection  so  innocently  lavished  upon  him,  and  by  the 
end  of  this  first  fatal  hour,  was  irrecoverably  in  love. 
And,  gay  as  his  life  had  been  at  the  French  court,  it 
was  the  first,  and  subsequently  proved  to  be  the  deep 
est,  passion  of  his  life. 

On  the  tzarine's  return  to  her  private  apartment,  she 
summoned  her  new  favorite,  and  superintended,  with 
condescending  solicitude,  the  arrangements  for  hei 
palace  lodging.  Nadege  inhabited  a  small  tower  ad 
joining  the  bedroom  of  her  mistress,  and  above  this 
was  an  unoccupied  room,  which,  at  the  present  sug 
gestion  of  the  fairy  little  attendant,  was  allotted  to  the 
new-comer.  The  staircase  opened  by  one  door  into 
the  private  gardens,  and  by  the  opposite,  into  the  cor 
ridor  leading  immediately  to  the  imperial  chamber. 
The  marquis's  delicacy  would  fain  have  made  some 
objection  to  this  very  intimate  location  ;  but  he  could 
hazard  nothing  against  the  interests  of  his  sovereign, 
I  and  be  trusted  to  a  speedy  termination  of  his  disguise 


THE  MARQUIS  IN  PETTICOATS. 


with   the   attainment  of  his  object.     Meantime,   the 
close  neighborhood  of  the   fair  Nadege  was  not  the  j 
most  intolerable  of  necessities. 

The  marquis's  task  was  a  very  difficult  one.     He  I 
was  instructed,  before  abandoning  his  disguise  and  de 
livering  his  secret  despatches,  to  awaken  the  interest 
of  the  tzarine  on  the  two  subjects  to  which  the  docu 
ments  had  reference  :  viz.,  a  former  partiality  of  her  j 
majesty  for  Louis,  and  a  formerly  discussed  project  of 
seating  the  Prince  de  Conti  on  the  throne  of  Poland. 
Bestucheff  had  so  long  succeeded  in  cutting  off  all 
approach  of  these  topics  to  the  ear  of  the  tzarine,  that  j 
her  majesty  had  probably  forgotten  them  altogether. 

W^eks  passed,  and  the  opportunities  to  broach  these 
delicate  subjects  had  been  inauspiciously  rare.  Mad 
emoiselle  de  Beaumont,  it  is  true,  had  completely 
eclipsed  the  favorite  Nadege;  and  Elizabeth,  in  her 
hours  of  relaxation  from  state  affairs,  exacted  the  con 
stant  attendance  of  the  new  favorite  in  her  private 
apartments.  But  the  almost  constant  presence  of 
some  other  of  the  maids  of  honor,  opposed  continual 
obstacles  and  interruptions,  and  the  tzarine  herself 
was  not  always  disposed  to  talk  of  matters  more  seri 
ous  than  the  current  trifles  of  the  hour.  She  was 
extremely  indolent  in  her  personal  habits;  and  often 
reclining  at  length  upon  cushions  on  the  floor  of  her 
boudoir,  she  laid  her  imperial  head  in  the  lap  of  the 
embarrassed  demoiselle,  and  was  soothed  to  sleep  by 
reading  and  the  bathing  of  her  temples.  And  during 
this  period,  she  exacted  frequently  of  the  marquis,  with 
a  kind  of  instinctive  mistrust,  promises  of  continuance 
for  life  in  her  personal  service. 

But  there  were  sweeter  hours  for  the  enamored  La 
Chetardie  than  those  passed  in  the  presence  of  his 
partial  and  imperial  mistress.  Encircled  by  sentinels, 
and  guarded  from  all  intrusion  of  other  eyes,  in  the 
inviolable  sanctuary  of  royalty,  the  beautiful  Nadege, 
impassioned  she  knew  not  why,  in  her  love  for  her 
new  companion,  was  ever  within  call,  and  happy  in 
devoting  to  him  all  her  faculties  of  caressing  endear 
ment.  He  had  not  yet  dared  to  risk  the  interests  of 
his  sovereign  by  a  disclosure  of  his  sex,  even  in  the 
confidence  of  love.  He  could  not  trust  Nadege  to 
play  so  difficult  a  part  as  that  of  possessor  of  so  em 
barrassing  a  secret  in  the  presence  of  the  shrewd  and 
observing  tzarine.  A  betrayal,  too,  would  at  once  put 
an  end  to  his  happiness.  With  the  slight  arm  of  the 
fair  and  relying  creature  about  his  waist,  and  her  head 
pressed  close  against  his  breast,  they  passed  the  balmy- 
nights  of  the  Russian  summer  in  pacing  the  flowery 
alleys  of  the  imperial  garden,  discoursing,  with  but 
one  reserve,  on  every  subject  that  floated  to  their  lips. 
It  required,  however,  all  the  self-control  of  La  Che 
tardie,  and  all  the  favoring  darkness  of  the  night,  to  con 
ceal  his  smiles  at  the  naive  confessions  of  the  uncon 
scious  girl,  and  her  wonderings  at  the  peculiarity  of  her 
feelings.  She  had  thought,  hitherto,  that  there  were 
affections  in  her  nature  which  could  only  be  called  forth 
by  a  lover.  Yet  now,  the  thought  of  caressing  another 
than  her  friend — of  repeating  to  any  human  ear,  least 
of  all  to  a  man,  those  new-born  vows  of  love — filled 
her  with  alarm  and  horror.  She  felt  that  she  had 
given  her  heart  irrevocably  away — and  to  a  woman  ! 
Ah,  with  what  delirious,  though  silent  passion,  La 
Chetardie  drew  her  to  his  bosom,  and,  with  the  pres 
sure  of  his  lips  upon  hers,  interrupted  those  sweet 
confessions  ! 

Yet  the  time  at  last  drew  near  for  the  waking  from 
this  celestial  dream.  The  disguised  diplomatist  had 
found  his  opportunity,  and  had  successfully  awakened 
in  Elizabeth's  mind  both  curiosity  and  interest  as  to 
the  subjects  of  the  despatches  still  sewed  safely  in  his 
corsets.  There  remained  nothing  for  him  now  but  to 
seize  a  favorable  opportunity,  and,  with  the  delivery 
of  his  missives,  to  declare  his  sex  to  the  tzarine.  There 
was  risk  to  life  and  liberty  in  this,  but  the  marquis 


knew  not  fear,  and  he  thought  but  of  its  consequences 
to  his  love. 

In  La  Chetardie's  last  interview  with  the  savant  who 
conducted  him  to  Russia,  his  male  attire  had  been 
successfully  transferred  from  one  portmanteau  to  the 
other,  and  it  was  now  in  his  possession,  ready  for  the 
moment  of  need.  With  his  plans  brought  to  within  a 
single  night  of  the  denouement,  he  parted  from  the 
tzarine,  having  asked  the  imperial  permission  for  an 
hour's  private  interview  on  the  morrow,  and,  with  gen 
tle  force  excluding  Nadege  from  his  apartment,  he 
dressed  himself  in  his  proper  costume,  and  cut  open 
the  warm  envelope  of  his  despatches.  This  done,  he 
threw  his  cloak  over  him,  and,  with  a  dark  lantern  in 
his  hand,  sought  Nadege  in  the  garden.  He  had  de 
termined  to  disclose  himself  to  her,  renew  his  vows  of 
love  in  his  proper  guise,  and  arrange,  while  he  had 
access  and  opportunity,  some  means  for  uniting  their 
destinies  hereafter. 

As  he  opened  the  door  of  the  turret,  Nadege  flew 
up  the  stair  to  meet  him,  and  observing  the  cloak  in 
the  faint  glimmer  of  the  stars,  she  playfully  endeavored 
to  envelope  herself  in  it.  But,  seizing  her  hands, 
La  Chetardie  turned  and  glided  backward,  drawing 
her  after  him  toward  a  small  pavilion  in  the  remoter 
part  of  the  garden.  Here  they  had  never  been  inter 
rupted,  the  empress  alone  having  the  power  to  intrude 
upon  them,  and  La  Chetardie  felt  safe  in  devoting  this 
place  and  time  to  the  double  disclosure  of  his  secret 
and  his  suppressed  passion. 

Persuading  her  with  difficulty  to  desist  from  putting 
her  arms  about  him  and  sit  down  without  a  caress,  he 
retreated  a  few  steps,  and  in  the  darkness  of  the  pa 
vilion,  shook  down  his  imprisoned  locks  to  their  mas- 
I  culine  abandon,  threw  off  his  cloak,  and  drew  up  the 
j  blind  of  his  lantern.     The  scream  of  surprise,  which 
|  instantly  parted  from  the  lips  of  Nadege,  made  him 
regret  his  imprudence  in  not  having  prepared  her  for 
I  the  transformation,  but  her  second  thought  was  mirth, 
[  for  she  could  believe  it  of  course  to  be  nothing  but  a 
playful  masquerade;  and  with  delighted  laughter  she 
I  sprang  to   his  neck,  and  overwhelmed  him  with  her 
kisses — another  voice,  however,  joining  very  unexpect 
edly  in  the  laughter  ! 

The  empress  stood  before  them  ! 
For  an  instant,  with  all  his  self-possession,  La  Che 
tardie  was  confounded  and  dismayed.  Siberia,  the 
knout,  the  scaffold,  flitted  before  his  eyes,  and  Nadege 
was  the  sufferer !  But  a  glance  at  the  face  of  the 
tzarine  reassured  him.  She,  too,  took  it  for  a  girlish, 
masquerade  ! 

But  the  empress,  unfortunately,  was  not  disposed  to 
have  a  partner  in  her  enjoyment  of  the  society  of  this 
I  new  apparition  of  "hose  and  doublet."  She  ordered 
Nadege  to  her  turret,  with  one  of  those  petulant  com 
mands  which  her  attendants  understood  to  admit  of  no 
delay,  and  while  the  eclipsed  favorite  disappeared  with 
the  tears  of  unwilling  submission  in  her  soft  eyes,  La 
Chetardie  looked  after  her  with  the  anguish  of  eternal 
separation  at  his  heart,  for  a  presentiment  crowded 
irresistibly  upon  him  that  he  should  never  see  her 
more  ! 

The  empress  was  in  slippers  and  role  de  nuit,  and, 
as  if  fate  had  determined  that  this  well-kept  secret 
should  not  survive  the  hour,  her  majesty  laid  her  arm 
within  that  of  her  supposed  masquerader,  and  led  the 
way  to  the  palace.  She  was  wakeful,  and  wished  to 
be  read  to  sleep.  And,  with  many  a  compliment  to 
the  beauty  of  her  favorite  in  male  attire,  and  many  a 
playful  caress,  she  arrived  at  the  door  of  her  chamber. 
But  the  marquis  could  go  no  farther.  He  had  hith 
erto  been  spared  the  embarrassment  of  passing  this 
sacred  threshold,  for  the  passce  empress  had  secrets 
of  toilet  for  the  embellishment  of  her  person,  which 
she  trusted  only  to  the  eyes  of  an  antiquated  attend 
ant.  La  Chetardie  had  never  passed  beyond  the  bow- 


THE  MARQUIS  IN  PETTICOATS. 


27 


doir  which  was  between  the  antechamber  and  the  bed 
room,  and  the  time  had  come  for  the  disclosure  of  his 
secret.  He  fell  on  his  knees  and  announced  himself 
a  man! 

Fortunately  they  were  alone.  Incredulous  at  first, 
the  empress  listened  to  his  asseverations,  however, 
with  more  amusement  than  displeasure,  and  the  im 
mediate  delivery  of  the  despatches,  with  the  commen 
dations  of  the  disguised  ambassador  by  his  royal  mas 
ter  to  the  forgiveness  and  kindness  of  the  empress, 
amply  secured  his  pardon.  But  it  was  on  condition 
that  he  should  resume  his  disguise  and  remain  in  her 
service. 

Alone  in  his  tower  (for  Nadege  had  disappeared,  and 
he  knew  enough  of  the  cruelty  of  Elizabeth  to  dread 
the  consequences  to  the  poor  girl  of  venturing  on  di 
rect  inquiries  as  to  her  fate),  La  Chetardie  after  a  few 
weeks  fell  ill ;  and  fortunate,  even  at  this  price,  to 
escape  from  the  silken  fetters  of  the  enamored  tzarine, 
he  departed  under  the  care  of  the  imperial  physician, 
for  the  more  genial  climate  of  France — not  without 
reiterated  promises  of  return,  however,  and  offers,  in 
that  event,  of  unlimited  wealth  and  advancement. 

But,  as  the  marquis  made  his  way  slowly  toward 
Vienna,  a  gleam  of  light  dawned  on  his  sadness. 
The  Princess  Sophia  Charlotte  was  newly  affianced  to 
George  the  Third  of  England,  and  this  daughter  of 
the  house  of  Mecklenberg  had  been  the  playmate  of 
Nadege  Stein,  from  infancy  till  the  time  when  Nadege 
was  sent  to  the  tzarine  by  the  Dutchess  of  Mecklen 
berg.  Making  a  confidant  of  the  kind  physician  who 
accompanied  him,  La  Chetardie  was  confirmed,  by  the 
good  man's  better  experience  and  knowledge,  in  the 
belief  that  Nadege  had  shared  the  same  fate  of  every 
female  of  the  court  who  had  ever  awakened  the  jeal 
ousy  of  the  empress.  She  was  doubtless  exiled  to 
Siberia;  but,  as  she  had  committed  no  voluntary  fault, 
it  was  probably  without  other  punishment ;  and,  with 
a  playmate  on  the  throne  of  England,  she  might  be 
demanded  and  recovered  ere  long,  in  all  her  freshness 
and  beauty.  Yet  the  recent  fate  of  the  fair  Eudoxie 
Lapoukin,  who,  for  an  offence  but  little  more  distaste 
ful  to  the  tzarine,  had  been  pierced  through  the  tongue 
with  hot  iron,  whipped  with  the  knout,  and  exiled  for 
life  to  Siberia,  hung  like  a  cloud  of  evil  augury  over 
his  mind. 

The  marquis  suddenly  determined  that  he  would  see 
the  affianced  princess,  and  plead  with  her  for  her  friend, 
before  the  splendors  of  a  throne  should  make  her  in 
accessible.  The  excitement  of  this  hope  had  given 
him  new  life,  and  he  easily  persuaded  his  attendant,  as 
they  entered  the  gates  of  Vienna,  that  he  required  his 
attendance  no  farther.  Alone  with  his  own  servants, 
he  resumed  his  female  attire,  and  directed  his  course 
to  Mecklenberg-Strelitz. 

The  princess  had  maintained  an  intimate  .corre- 
spoudence  with  her  playmate  up  to  the  time  of  her 
betrothal,  and  the  name  of  Mademoiselle  de  Beau 
mont  was  passport  enough.  La  Chetardie  had  sent 
forward  his  servant,  on  arriving  at  the  town,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  ducal  residence,  and  the  reply 


to  his  missive  was  brought  back  by  one  of  the  officers 
in  attendance,  with  orders  to  conduct  the  demoiselle 
to  apartments  in  the  castle.     He  was  received  with  all 
honor  at  the  palace-gate  by  a  chamberlain  in  waiting, 
who  led  the  way  to  a  suite  of  rooms  adjoining  those 
of  the  princess,  where,  after  being  left  alone  for  a  few 
minutes,  he  was  familiarly  visited  by  the  betrothed 
girl,  and  overwhelmed,  as  formerly  by  her  friend,  with 
most  embarrassing   caresses.     In   the  next  moment, 
however,  the  door  was  hastily  flung  open,  and  Nadege, 
like  a  stream  of  light,  fled   through  the  room,  hung 
upon  the  neck  of  the  speechless  and  overjoyed  mar 
quis,  and  ended  with  convulsions  of  mingled  tears  and 
laughter.    The  moment  that  he  could  disengage  him- 
|  self  from  her  arms,  La  Chetardie  requested  to  be  left 
I  for  a  moment  alone.     He  felt  the  danger  and  impro- 
I  priety  of  longer  maintaining  his  disguise.     He  closed 
his  door  on  the  unwilling  demoiselles,  hastily  changed 
his  dress,  and,  with  his  sword  at  his  side,  entered  the 
I  adjoining  reception-room  of  the  princess,  where  Made- 
j  moiselle  de  Beaumont  was  impatiently  awaited. 

The  scene  which  followed,  the  mingled  confusion 
and  joy  of  Nadege,  the  subsequent  hilarity  and  mas 
querading  at  the   castle,  and  the  particulars  of  the 
marriage  of  the   Marquis  de  la  Chetardie  to  his  fair 
I  fellow  maid-of-honor,  must  be  left  to  the  reader's  im- 
;  agination.     We  have  room  only  to  explain  the  reap- 
!  pearance  of  Nadege  at  Mecklenberg. 

Nadege  retired  to  her  turret  at  the  imperative  com- 
j  mand  of  the  empress,  sad  and  troubled  ;  but  waited 
I  vvakefully  and  anxiously  for  the  re-entrance  of  her  dis- 
!  guised  companion.  In  the  course  of  an  hour,  how- 
j  ever,  the  sound  of  a  sentinel's  musket,  set  down  at  her 
I  door,  informed  her  that  she  was  a  prisoner.  She  knew 
I  Elizabeth,  and  the  Dutchess  of  Mecklenberg,  with  an 
j  equal  knowledge  of  the  tzarine's  character,  had  provi- 
i  ded  her  with  a  resource  against  the  imperial  cruelty, 
I  should  she  have  occasion  to  use  it.  She  crept  to  the 
[•  battlements  of  the  tower,  and  fastened  a  handkerchief 
ij  to  the  side  looking  over  the  public  square. 

The  following  morning,  at  daylight,  Nadege  was 
n  summoned  to  prepare  for  a  journey,  and,  in  an  hour, 
j  she  was  led  between  soldiers  to  a  carriage  at  tbe  pal- 
|  ace-gate,  and  departed  by  the  northern  egress  of  the 
j  city,  with  a  guard  of  three  mounted  cossacks.  In  two 
I  hours  from  that  time,  the  carnage  was  overtaken,  the 
!  guard  overpowered,  and  the  horses'  heads  turned  in 
j  the  direction  of  Moscow.  After  many  difficulties  and 
i  dangers,  during  which  she  found  herself  under  the 
I  charge  of  a  Mecklenbergian  officer  in  the  service  of 
|  the  tzarine,  she  reached  Vienna  in  safety,  and  was  im- 
j  mediately  concealed  by  her  friends  in  the  neighbor- 
|  hood  of  the  palace  at  Mecklenberg,  to  remain  hidden 
j  till  inquiry  should  be  over.  The  arrival  of  Mademoi- 
|  selle  de  Beaumont,  for  the  loss  of  whose  life  or  liberty 
j  she  had  incessantly  wept  with  dread  and  apprehension, 
:  was  joyfully  communicated  to  her  by  her  friends  ;  and 
j|  so  the  reader  knows  some  of  the  passages  in  the  early 
|j  life  of  the  far-famed  beauty  in  the  French  court  in 
j  the  time  of  Louis  XV. — the  Marchioness  de  la  Che- 
i!  tardie. 


28 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  BEAST." 


"BEAUTY  AND  THE  BEAST;" 


OR,  HANDSOME  MRS.  TITTON  AND  HER  PLAIN  HUSBAND. 


1  That  man  i'  the  world  who  shall  report  he  ha 
A  better  wife,  let  him  in  naught  be  trusted 
For  speaking  false  in  that."—  Henry  VIII. 


I  HAVE  always  been  very  fond  of  the  society  of 
portrait-painters.  Whether  it  is,  that  the  pursuit  of 
a  beautiful  and  liberal  art  softens  their  natural  quali 
ties,  or  that,  from  the  habit  of  conversing  while  en 
grossed  with  the  pencil,  they  like  best  that  touch-and- 
go  talk  which  takes  care  of  itself;  or,  more  probably 
still,  whether  the  freedom  with  which  they  are  ad 
mitted  behind  the  curtains  of  vanity  and  affection  gives 
a  certain  freshness  and  truth  to  their  views  of  things 
around  them — certain  it  is,  that,  in  all  countries,  their 
rooms  are  the  most  agreeable  of  haunts,  and  they 
themselves  most  enjoyable  of  cronies. 

I  had  chanced  in  Italy  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 

S ,  an  English  artist  of  considerable  cleverness 

in  his  profession,  but  more  remarkable  for  his  frank 
good  breeding  and  his  abundant  good  nature.  Four 
years  after,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  renewing  my  inter 
course  with  him  in  London,  where  he  was  flourishing, 
quite  up  to  his  deserving,  as  a  portrait-painter.  His 
rooms  were  hard  by  one  of  the  principal  thorough 
fares,  and,  from  making  an  occasional  visit,  I  grew  to 
frequenting  them  daily,  often  joining  him  at  his  early 
breakfast,  and  often  taking  him  out  with  me  to  drive 
whenever  we  changed  to  tire  of  our  twilight  stroll. 
While  rambling  in  Hyde  Park,  one  evening,  I  men 
tioned  for  the  twentieth  time,  a  singularly  ill-assorted 
couple  I  had  once  or  twice  met  at  his  room — a  woman 
of  superb  beauty  attended  by  a  very  inferior-looking 
and  ill-dressed  man.  S —  —  had,  previously,  with 
a  smile  at  my  speculations,  dismissed  the  subject 
rather  crisply ;  but,  on  this  occasion,  1  went  into  some 
surmises  as  to  the  probable  results  of  such  "  pairing 
without  matching,"  and  he  either  felt  called  upon  to 
defend  the  lady,  or  made  my  misapprehension  of  her 
character  an  excuse  for  telling  me  what  he  knew  about 
her.  He  began  the  story  in  the  Park,  and  ended  it 
over  a  bottle  of  wine  in  the  Hayinarket — of  course 
with  many  interruptions  and  digressions.  Let  me  see 
if  I  can  tie  his  broken  threads  together. 

"That  lady  is  Mrs.  Fortescue  Titton,  and  the 
gentleman  you  so  much  disparage  is,  if  you  please, 
the  incumbrance  to  ten  thousand  a  year — the  money 
as  much  at  her  service  as  the  husband  by  whom  she 
gets  it.  Whether  he  could  have  won  her  had  he  been 
"  Bereft  and  gelded  of  his  patrimony," 

I  will  not  assert,  especially  to  one  who  looks  on  them 
as  'Beauty  and  the  Beast;'  but  that  she  loves  him, 
or  at  least  prefers  to  him  no  handsomer  man,  I  may 
say  I  have  been  brought  to  believe,  in  the  way  of  my 
profession." 

"You  have  painted  her,  then?"  I  asked  rather 
eagerly,  thinking  I  might  get  a  sketch  of  her  face  to 
take  with  me  to  another  country. 

"  No,  but  I  have  painted  him — and  for  her — and  it 
is  not  a  case  of  Titania  and  Bottom,  either.  She  is 
quite  aware  he  is  a  monster,  and  wanted  his  picture 
for  a  reason  you  would  never  divine.  But  I  must  be 
gin  at  the  beginning. 

"  After  you  left  me  in  Italy,  I  was  employed  by  the 

earl  of ,  to  copy  one  or  two  of  his  favorite 

pictures  in  the  Vatican,  and  that  brought  me  rather 


well  acquainted  with  his  son.     Lord  George  was  a  gay 
youth,  and  a  very  '  look-and-die'  style  of  fellow,  and, 
I  as   much  from   admiration  of  his  beauty  as  anything 
else,  I  asked  him  to  sit  to  me,  on  our  return  to  Lon- 
j  don.     I  painted  him  very  fantastically  in  an  Albanian 
I  cap  and  oriental  morning-gown  and  slippers,  smoking 
a  narghile — the  room  in  which  he  sat,  by  the  way, 
being  a  correct  portrait  of  his  own  den,   a  perfect 
museum  of  costly  luxury.     It  was  a  pretty  gorgeous 
t\irn-out  in  the  way  of  color,  and  was  saverely  criticised, 
but  still  a  good  deal  noticed — for  I  sent  it  to  the  ex 
hibition. 

"  I  was  one  day  going  into  Somerset-house,  when 
Lord  George  hailed  me  from  his  cab.  He  wished  to 
suggest  some  alteration  in  his  picture,  or  to  tell  me 
of  some  criticism  upon  it,  I  forget  exactly  what;  but 
we  went  up  together.  Directly  before  the  portrait, 
gazing  at  it  with  marked  abstraction,  stood  a  beautiful 
woman,  quite  alone  ;  and  as  she  occupied  the  only 
point  where  the  light  was  favorable,  we  waited  a  mo 
ment  till  she  should  pass  on — Lord  George,  of  course, 
rather  disposed  to  shrink  from  being  recognised  as  the 
original.  The  woman's  interest  in  the  picture  seemed 
rather  to  increase,  however,  and  what  with  variations 
of  the  posture  of  her  head,  and  pulling  at  her  glove 
fingers,  and  other  female  indications  of  restlessness 
and  enthusiasm,  I  thought  I  was  doing  her  no  injus 
tice  by  turning  to  my  companion  with  a  congratulatory 
smile. 

"  '  It  seems  a  case,  by  Jove  !'  said  Lord  George,  try 
ing  to  look  as  if  it  was  a  matter  of  very  simple  occur 
rence  ;  '  and  she's  as  fine  a  creature  as  I've  seen  this 
season!  Eh,  old  boy?  we  must  run  her  down,  and 
see  where  she  burrows — and  there's  nobody  with  her, 
by  good  luck!' 

"A  party  entered  just  then,  and  passed  between  her 
and  the  picture.  She  looked  annoyed,  1  thought,  but 
started  forward  and  borrowed  a  catalogue  of  a  little 
girl,  and  we  could  see  that  she  turned  to  the  last  page, 
on  which  the  portrait  was  numbered,  with,  of  course, 
the  name  and  address  of  the  painter.  She  made  a 
memorandum  on  one  of  her  cards,  and  left  the  house. 
Lord  George  followed,  and  I  too,  as  far  as  the  door, 
where  I  saw  her  get  into  a  very  stylishly  appointed 
carriage  and  drive  away,  followed  closely  by  the  cab 
of  my  friend,  whom  I  had  declined  to  accompany. 

"You  wouldn't  have  given  very  heavy  odds  against 
his  chance,  would  you?"  said  S ,  after  a  mo 
ment  pause. 

"  No,  indeed  !"  I  answered  quite  sincerely. 

"  Well,  I  was  at  work,  the  next  morning,  glazing  a 
picture  I  had  just  finished,  when  the  servant  brought 
up  the  card  of  Mrs.  Fortescue  Titton.  I  chanced  to 
be  alone,  so  the  lady  was  shown  at  once  into  my  paint 
ing  room,  and  lo  !  the  incognita  of  Somerset-House. 
The  plot  thickens,  thought  I !  She  sat  down  in  my 
'subject'  chair,  and,  faith!  her  beauty  quite  dazzled 
me  !'  Her  first  smile — but  you  have  seen  her,  so  I'll 
not  bore  you  with  a  description. 

"  Mrs.  Titton  blushed  on  opening  her  errand  to  me, 
first  inquiring  if  1  was  the  painter  of  '  No  403'  in  the 
exhibition,  and  saying  some  very  civil  things  about  the 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  BEAST." 


29 


picture.     I  mentioned  that   it  was  a  portrait  of  Lord 

George (for  his  name  was  not  in  the  catalogue), 

and  I  thought  she  blushed  still  more  confusedly — 
but  that,  I  think  now.  was  fancy,  or  at  any  rate  had 
nothing  to  do  with  feeling  for  his  lordship.  It  was 
natural  enough  for  me  to  be  mistaken,  for  she  was  very 
particular  in  her  inquiries  as  to  the  costume,  furniture, 
and  little  belongings  of  the  picture,  and  asked  me 
among  other  things,  whether  it  was  a  flattered  like 
ness  ;_this  last  question  very  pointedly,  too  ! 

"  She  arose  to  go.  Was  I  at  leisure,  and  could  J 
sketch  a  head  for  her,  and  when  ? 

"  I  appointed  the  next  day,  expecting  of  course  that 
the  subject  was  the  lady  herself,  and  scarcely  slept 
with  thinking  of  it,  and  siarved  myself  at  breakfast  to 
have  a  clear  eye,  and  a  hand  wide  awake.  And  at 
ten  she  came,  with  her  Mr.  Fortescue  Titton!  I  was 
sorry  to  see  that  she  had  a  husband,  for  1  had  indulged 
myself  wjth  a  vague  presentiment  that  she  was  a 
widow  ;  but  I  begged  him  to  take  a  chair,  and  prepar 
ed  the  platform  for  my  beautiful  subject. 

"'Will  you  take  your  seat  ?'  I  asked,  with  all  my 
suavity,  when  my  palette  was  ready. 

"  '  My  dear,'  said  she,  turning  to  her  husband,  and 

pointing  to  the  chair,  '  Mr.  S is  ready  for  you.' 

"  I  begged  pardon  for  a  moment,  crossed  over  to 
Verey's  and  bolted  a  beef-steak  !  A  cup  of  coffee,  and 
a  glass  of  Cura^oa,  and  a  little  walk  round  Hanover- 
square,  and  I  recovered  from  the  shock  a  little.  It 
went  very  hard,  I  give  you  my  word. 

"  I  returned,  and  took  a  look,  for  the  first  time,  at 
Mr.  Titton.  You  have  seen  him,  and  have  some  idea 
of  what  his  portrait  might  be,  considered  as  a  pleasure 
to  the  artist — what  it  might  promise,  1  should  rather 
say,  for,  after  all,  I  ultimately  enjoyed  working  at  it, 
quite  aside  from  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Titton.  It  was 
the  ugliest  face  in  the  world,  but  full  of  good-nature  ; 
and,  as  I  looked  closer  into  it,  I  saw,  among  its  coarse 
features,  lines  of  almost  feminine  delicacy,  and  capa 
bilities  of  enthusiasm  of  which  the  man  himself  was 
probably  unconscious.  Then  a  certain  helpless  style 
of  dress  was  a  wet  blanket  to  him.  Rich  from  his 
cradle,  I  suppose  his  qualities  had  never  been  needed 
on  the  surface.  His  wife  knew  them. 

"  From  time  to  time,  as  I  worked,  Mrs.  Titton  came 
and  looked  over  my  shoulder.  With  a  natural  desire 
to  please  her,  I,  here  and  there,  softened  a  harsh  line, 
and  was  going  on  to  flatter  the  likeness — not  as  suc 
cessful  as  I  could  wish,  however,  for  it  is  much  easier 
to  get  a  faithful  likeness  than  to  flatter  without  destroy 
ing  it. 

"'Mr.  S ,'  said  she,  laying  her  hand  on  my 

arm  as  I  thinned  away  the  lumpy  rim  of  his  nostril, 
'  I  want,  first,  a  literal  copy  of  my  husband's  features. 
Suppose,  with  this  idea,  you  take  a  fresh  canvass  ?' 

"  Thoroughly   mystified  by  the  whole  busmess,  I 
did  as  she  requested  :  and,  in  two  sittings,  made  a  j 
likeness  of  Titton  which  would  have  given  you  a  face-  j 
ache.     He  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  it,  and  seemed  ; 
very  glad  when  the  bore  of  sitting  was  over;  but  they  | 
seemed  to  understand  each  other  very  well,  or,  if  not,  | 
he  reserved  hisquestions  till  there  could  be  no  restraint 
upon  the  answer.     He  seemed  a  capital  fellow,  and  I 
liked  him  exceedingly. 

"I  asked  if  I  should  frame  the  picture  and  send  it  j 
home  ?    No  !  I  was  to  do  neither.     If  I  would  be  kind  | 
enough  not  to  show  it,  nor  to  mention  it  to  any  one,  j 
and  come  the  next  day  and  dine  with  them  enfamillc.,  \ 
Mrs.   Titton  would  feel  very   much  obliged  to   me. 
And  this  dinner  was  followed  up  by  breakfasts  and  • 
lunches  and  suppers,  and,  for  a  fortnight,  I  really  lived 
with  the  Tittons— and  pleas;inter  people  to  live  with, 
by  Jove,  you  haven't  seen  in  your  travels,  though  you 
are  'a  picked  man  of  countries  !' 

"  I  should  mention,  by  the  way,  that  I  was  always 
placed  opposite  Titton  at  table,  and  that  he  was  a  good 


deal  with  me,  one  way  and  another,  taking  me  out,  as 
you  do,  for  a  stroll,  calling  and  sitting  with  me  when 
I  was  at  work,  etc.  And  as  to  Mrs.  Titton — if  I  did 
not  mistrust  your  arriere  pensec,  I  would  enlarge  a 
little  on  my  intimacy  with  Mrs.  Titton! — But,  believe 
me  when  I  tell  you,  that,  without  a  ray  of  flirtation, 
we  became  as  cozily  intimate  as  brother  and  sister." 
"  And  what  of  Lord  George,  all  this  time  ?"  I  asked. 
"  Oh,  Lord  George ! — Well,  Lord  George  of  course 
had  no  difficulty  in  making  Mrs.  Titton's  acquaintance, 
though  they  were  not  quite  in  the  same  circle,  and  he 
had  been  presented  to  her,  and  had  seen  her  at  a  party 
or  two,  where  he  managed  to  be  invited  on  purpose — 
but  of  this,  for  a  while,  I  heard  nothing.  She  had  not 
yet  seen  him  at  her  own  house,  and  I  had  not  chanced 
to  encounter  him.  But  let  me  go  on  with  my  story. 
"  Mrs.  Titton  sent  for  me  to  come  to  her,  one 
morning  rather  early.  I  found  her  in  her  boudoir,  in 
a  neglige  morning-dress,  and  looking  adorably  beauti 
ful,  and  as  pure  as  beautiful,  you  smiling  villain  !  She 
seemed  to  have  something  on  her  mind  about  which  she 
was  a  little  embarrassed,  but  I  knew  her  too  well  to  lay 
any  unction  to  my  soul.  We  chatted  about  the  weather 
a  few  moments,  and  she  came  to  the  point.  You  will 
see  that  she  was  a  woman  of  some  talent,  mon  ami  ! 

"'  Have  you  looked  at  my  husband's  portrait  since 
you  finished  it  ?'  she  asked. 

"'No,  indeed!'  I  replied  rather  hastily — but  im 
mediately  apologized. 

"'Oh,  if  I  had  not  been  certain  you  would  not,' 
she  said  with  a  smile,  '  1  should  have  requested  it,  for 
I  wished  you  to  forget  it,  as  far  as  possible.  And  now 
I  let  me  tell  you  what  I  want  of  you!  You  have  got, 
i  on  canvass,  a  likeness  of  Fortescue  as  the  world  sees 
j  him.  Since  taking  it,  however,  you  have  seen  him 
I  more  intimately,  and — and — like  his  face  better,  do 
|  you  not '?' 

"  'Certainly !  certainly !'  I  exclaimed,  in  all  sincerity. 
"  '  Thank  you  !  If  I  mistake  not,  then,  you  do  not, 
!  when  thinking  of  him,  call  up  to  your  mind  the 
i  features  in  your  portrait,  but  a  face  formed  rather  of 
i  his  good  qualities,  as  you  have  learned  to  trace  them 
j  in  his  expression.' 

"  '  True,'  I  said,  '  very  true  !' 

"  '  Now,  then,'  she  continued,  leaning  over  to  me 
very   earnestly,  '  I  want  you  to  paint  a  new  picture, 
'  and  without  departing  from  the  real  likeness,  which 
you  will  have  to  guide  you,  breathe  into  it  the  expres 
sion  you  have  in  your  ideal  likeness.     Add,  to  what 
the  world  sees,  what  I  see,  what  you  see,  what  all  who 
|  love    him   see,    in   his    plain   features.      Idealize    it, 
spiritualize  it— and  without  lessening  the  resemblance. 
Can  this  be  done  ?' 

"  1  thought  it  could.     I  promised  to  do  my  utmost. 
"  '  1  shall  call  and  see  you  as  you  progress  in  it,' 
she  said,  '  and  now,  if  you  have  nothing  better  to  do, 
i  stay  to  lunch,  and  come  out  with  me  in  the  carriage. 
I  want  a  little  of  your  foreign  taste  in  the  selection  of 
some  pretty  nothings  for  a  gentleman's  toilet.' 

"  We  passed  the  morning  in  making  what  I  should 
consider  very  extravagent  purchases  for  anybody  but 
a  prince  royal,  winding  up  with  some  delicious  cabinet 
pictures  and  some  gems  of  statuary — all  suited  only, 
1  should  say,  to  the  apartments  of  a  fastidious  luxuriast. 
I  was  not  yet  at  the  bottom  of  her  secret. 

"T  went  to  work  upon  the  new  picture  with  the 
zeal  always  given  to  an  artist  by  an  appreciative  and 
1  confiding  employer.     She  called  every  day  and  made 
important  suggestions,  and  at  last  I  finished  it  to  her 
satisfaction  and  mine;  and,  without  speaking  of  it  as 
a  work  of  art,  I  may  give  you  my  opinion  that  Titton 
,  will  scarcely  be  more  embellished  in  the  other  world 

' tiiat  is,  if  it  be  true,  as  the  divines  tell  us,  that  our 

mortal  likeness  will  be  so  far  preserved,  though  im 
proved  upon,  that  we  shall  be  recognisable  by  our 
friends.  Still  I  was  to  paint  a  third  picture — a  cabinet 


30 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  BEAST." 


full  length— and  for  this  the  other  two  were  but  studies, 
and  so  intended  by  Mrs.  Fortescue  Titton.  It  was 
to  be  an  improvement  upon  Lord  George's  portrait 
(which  of  course  had  given  her  the  idea),  and  was  to 
represent  her  husband  in  a  very  costly,  and  an  exceed 
ingly  recherche  morning  costume — dressing-gown, 
slippers,  waistcoat,  and  neckcloth,  worn  with  perfect 
elegance,  and  representing  a  Titton  with  a  faultless 
attitude  (in  a  fauteuil,  reading),  a  faultless  exterior, 
and  around  him  the  most  sumptuous  appliances  of 
dressing-room  luxury.  This  picture  cost  me  a  great 
deal  of  vexation  and  labor,  for  it  was  emphatically  a 
fancy  picture — poor  Titton  never  having  appeared  in 
that  character,  even  '  by  particular  desire.'  I  finished 
it  however,  and  again,  to  her  satisfaction.  I  afterward 
added  some  finishing  touches  to  the  other  two,  and 
sent  them  home,  appropriately  framed  according  to 
very  minute  instructions." 

"  How  long  ago  was  this  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Three  years,"  replied  S ,  musing  over  his  wine. 

"  Well — the  sequel  ?"  said  I,  a  little  impatient. 

"  I  was  thinking  how  I  should  let  it  break  upon  you, 
as  it  took  effect  upon  her  acquaintances — for,  under 
stand,  Mrs.  Titton  is  too  much  of  a  diplomatist  to  do 
anything  obviously  dramatic  in  this  age  of  ridicule. 
She  knows  very  well  that  any  sudden  'flare-up'  of  her 
husband's  consequence — any  new  light  on  his  charac 
ter  obviously  calling  for  attention — would  awaken 
speculation  and  set  to  work  the  watchful  anatomizers 
of  the  body  fashionable.  Let  me  see!  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  should  have  known  about  it,  had  I  been  only 
an  ordinary  acquaintance — not  in  the  secret,  and  not 
the  painter  of  the  pictures. 

"  Some  six  months  after  the  finishing  of  the  last 
portrait,  I  was  at  a  large  ball  at  their  house.  Mrs. 
Titton's  beauty,  I  should  have  told  you,  and  the  style 
in  which  they  lived,  and  very  possibly  a  little  of  Lord 
George's  good  will,  had  elevated  them  from  the  wealthy 
and  respectable  level  of  society  to  the  fashionable  and 
exclusive.  All  the  best  people  went  there.  As  I  was 
going  in,  I  overtook,  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  a  very 
clever  little  widow,  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  and  she 
honored  me  by  taking  my  arm  and  keeping  it  for  a 
promenade  through  the  rooms.  We  made  our  bow 
to  Mrs.  Titton  and  strolled  across  the  reception  room, 
where  the  most  conspicuous  object,  dead  facing  us, 
with  a  flood  of  light  upon  it,  was  my  first  veracious 
portrait  of  Titton  !  As  I  was  not  known  as  the  artist, 
I  indulged  myself  in  some  commonplace  exclamations 
of  horror. 

"  '  Do  not  look  at  that,'  said  the  widow,  '  you  will 
distress  poor  Mrs.  Titton.  What  a  quiz  that  clever 
husband  of  hers  must  be  to  insist  on  exposing  such  a 
caricature!' 

" '  How  insist  upon  it  ?'  I  asked. 

"  '  Why,  have  you  never  seen  the  one  in  her  boudoir? 
Come  with  me!' 

"  We  made  our  way  through  the  apartments  to  the 
little  retreat  lined  with  silk,  which  the  morning  lounge 
of  the  fair  mistress  of  the  house.  There  was  but  one 
picture,  with  a  curtain  drawn  carefully  across  it — my 
second  portrait!  We  sat  down  on  the  luxurious 
cushions,  and  the  widow  went  off  into  a  discussion  of 
it  and  the  original,  pronouncing  it  a  perfect  likeness, 
not  at  all  flattered,  and  very  soon  begging  me  to  re 
draw  the  curtain,  lest  we  should  be  surprised  by  Mr. 
Titton  himself. 

"  '  And  suppose  we  were?'  said  I. 

"  '  Why,  he  is  such  an  oddity  !'  replied  the  widow 
lowering  her  tone.  '  They  say  that  in  this  very  house 
he  has  a  suite  of  apartments  entirely  to  himself,  furnish 
ed  with  a  taste  and  luxury  really  wonderful !  There 
are  two  Mr.  Tittons,  my  dear  friend  ! — one  a  perfect 
Sybarite,  very  elegant  in  his  dress  when  he  chooses 
to  be,  excessively  accomplished  and  fastidious,  and 
brilliant  and  fascinating  to  a  degree ! — (and  in  this 


character  they  say  he  won  that  superb  creature  for  a 
wife),  and  the  other  Mr.  Titton  is  just  the  slovenly 
monster  that  everybody  sees  !  Isn't  it  odd  !' 

" '  Queer  enough  !'  said  I,  affecting  great  astonish 
ment  ;  '  pray,  have  you  ever  been  into  these  mysterious 
apartments  ?' 

"  '  No  ! — they  say  only  his  wife  and  himself  and  one 
confidential  servant  ever  pass  the  threshold.  Mrs. 
I  Titton  don't  like  to  talk  about  it — though  one  would 
think  she  could  scarcely  object  to  her  husband's  being 
thought  better  of.  It's  pride  on  his  part — sheer  pride 
— and  I  can  understand  the  feeling  very  well  !  He's 
a  very  superior  man,  and  he  has  made  up  his  mind 
that  the  world  thinks  him  very  awkward  and 
ugly,  and  he  takes  a  pleasure  in  showing  the  world 
that  he  don't  care  a  rush  for  its  opinion,  and  has  re 
sources  quite  sufficient  within  himself.  That's  the 
reason  that  atrocious  portrait  is  hung  up  in  the  best 
room,  and  this  good-looking  one  covered  up  with  a 
curtain  !  I  suppose  lids  wouldn't  be  here  if  he  could 
have  his  own  way,  and  if  his  wife  wasn't  so  much  in 
love  with  him !' 

"  This,  I  assure  you,"  said  S ,  "  is  the  im 
pression  throughout  their  circle  of  acquaintances. 
The  Tittons  themselves  maintain  a  complete  silence 
on  the  subject.  Mr.  Fortescue  Titton  is  considered 
a  very  accomplished  man,  with  a  very  proud  and  very 
secret  contempt  for  the  opinions  of  the  world — dressing 
badly  on  purpose,  silent  and  simple  by  design,  and  only 
caring  to  show  himself  in  his  real  character  to  his 
beautiful  wife,  who  is  thought  to  be  completely  in  love 
with  him,  and  quite  excusable  for  it !  What  do  you 
think  of  the  woman's  diplomatic  talents?" 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  know  her,"  said  I;  "  but 
what  says  Lord  George  to  all  this  ?" 

"  I  had  a  call  from  Lord  George  not  long  ago," 

replied  S ,  "  and  for  the  first  time  since  our 

chat  at  Somerset-House,  the  conversation  turned  upon 
the  Tittons. 

'"Devilish  sly  of  you  !'  said  his  lordship,  turning 
to  me  half  angry,  '  why  did  you  pretend  not  to  know 
the  woman  at  Somerset-House  ?  You  might  have 
saved  me  lots  of  trouble  and  money,  for  I  was  a  month 
or  two  finding  out  what  sort  of  people  they  were — 
feeing  the  servants  and  getting  them  called  on  and 
invited  here  and  there — all  with  the  idea  that  it  was 
a  rich  donkey  with  a  fine  toy  that  didn't  belong  to  him !" 

"'Well!'  exclaimed  I— 

"  '  Well! — not  at  all  well !  I  made  a  great  ninny 
of  myself,  with  that  satirical  slyboots,  old  Titton, 
laughing  at  me  all  the  time,  when  you,  that  had 
painted  him  in  his  proper  character  and  knew  what  a 
deep  devil  he  was,  might  have  saved  me  with  but  half 
a  hint !' 

"  'You  have  been  in  the  lady's  boudoir  then  !' 

'"Yes,  and  in  the  gentleman's  sanctum  sanctorum! 

Mrs.  Titton  sent  for  me  about  some  trumpery  thing 

or  other,  and  when  I  called,  the  servant  showed  me  in 

there  by  mistake.     There  was  a  great  row  in  the  house 

about  it,  but  I  was  there  long  enough  to  see  what  a 

monstrous  nice  time  the  fellow  has  of  it,  all  to  him- 

ij  self,   and  to  see  your  picture  of  him  in  his  private 

I   character.     The  picture  you  made  of  me  was  only  a 

jl  copy  of  that,  you  sly  traitor!     And  I  suppose  Mrs. 

j  Titton  didn't  like  your  stealing  from  hers,  did  she — 

|  for,  I  take  it  that  was  what  ailed  her  at  the  exhibition, 

:  when  you  allowed  me  to  be  so  humbugged  !' 

"  I  had  a  good  laugh,  but  it  was  as  much  at  (he 
!  quiet  success  of  Mrs.  Titton's  tactics  as  at  Lord 
j  George's  discomfiture.  Of  course,  I  could  not  un- 

!|  deceive  him.  And  now,"  continued  S ,  very 

good-naturedly,  "just  ring  for  a  pen  and  ink,  and  I'll 
write  a  note  to  Mrs.  Titton,  asking  leave  to  bring  you 
there  this  evening,  for  it's  her  '  night  at  home,'  and 
sta's  worth  seeing,  if  my  pictures,  which  you  will  see 
there,  are  not." 


BROWN'S  DAY  WITH  THE  MIMPSONS. 


31 


BROWN'S    DAY    WITH    THE    MIMPSONS. 


WE  got  down  from  an  omnibus  in  Charing-Cross. 

"  Sovereign  or  ha'penny  ?"  said  the  cad,  rubbing 
the  coin  between  his  thumb  and  finger. 

"  Sovereign,  of  course  !"  said  B confidently, 

pocketing  the  change  which  the  man  had  ready  for 
the  emergency  in  a  bit  of  brown  paper. 


It  was  a  muggy,  misty,  London   twilight.     I  was     other  sort  of  people. 


of  engagements  required  some  little  variation.  There's 
a  '  toujours  perdrix,'  even  among  lords  and  ladies,  par 
ticularly  when  you  belong  as  much  to  their  sphere, 
and  are  as  likely  to  become  a  part  of  it,  as  the  fly  re 
volving  in  aristocratic  dust  on  the  wheel  of  my  lord's 
carriage.  I  thought,  perhaps,  I  had  better  see  some 


coming  up  to  town  from  Blackheath,  and  in  the 
crowded  vehicle  had  chanced  to  encounter  my  com 
patriot  B (call  it  Brown),  who  had  been  lion 
izing  the  Thames  tunnel.  In  the  course  of  conver 
sation,  it  came  out  that  we  were  both  on  the  town  for 
our  dinner,  and  as  we  were  both  guests  at  the  Trav 
eller's  Club,  we  had  pulled  the  omnibus-string  at  the 
nearest  point,  and,  after  the  brief  dialogue  recorded 
above,  strolled  together  down  Pall  Mall. 

As  we  sat  waiting  for  our  fish,  one  of  us  made  a  re- 


I  had,  under  a  presse  papier  on  the  table,  about  a 
hundred  letters  of  introduction — the  condemned  re 
mainder,  after  the  selection,  by  advice,  of  four  or  five 
only.  I  determined  to  cut  this  heap  like  a  pack  of 
cards,  and  follow  up  the  trump. 

-"John  Mimpson,  Esq.,  House  of  Mimpson  and 
Phipps,  Mark's  Lane,  London.' 

"  The  gods  had  devoted  me  to  the  acquaintance  of 
Mr.  (and  probably  Mrs.)  John  Mimpson.  After  turn- 
ng  over  a  deal  of  rubbish  in  my  mind,  I  remembered 


mark  'as  to" the" difference 'o'f/cel  between  gold  and  that  the  letter  had  been  given  me  five  years  before  by 
copper  coin,  and  Brown,  fishing  in  his  pocket  for||an  American  merchant— probably  the  correspondent 
money  to  try  the  experiment,  discovered  that  the 


doubt"  of  the  cad  was  well  founded,  for  he  had  uncon 
sciously  passed  a  halfpenny  for  a  sovereign. 

"  People  are  very  apt  to  take  your  coin  at  your  own 
valuation!"  said  Brown,  with  a  smile  of  some  mean 
ing,  "and  when  they  are  in  the  dark  as  to  your  original 
coinage  (as  the  English  are  with  regard  to  Americans 
abroad),  it  is  as  easy  to  pass  for  gold  as  for  copper. 
Indeed,  you  may  pass  for  both  in  a  day,  as  I  have 
lately  had  experience.  Remind  me  presently  to  tell 
you  how.  Here  comes  the  fried  sole,  and  it's  trouble 
some  talking  when  there  are  bones  to  fight  shy  of — 
the  'flow  of  sole1  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding." 

I  will  take  advantage  of  the  hiatus  to  give  the  reader 
a  slight  idea  of  my  friend,  as  a  preparation  for  his 
story. 

Brown  was  the 


mirror  of   courtesy."     He  was 


also  the  mirror  of  vulgarity.     And  he  was  the 
of  everything  els 


of  Englishmen,  from  peers  to  green-gro 
he  had  a  visit  to  England  in  prospect,  he 


garty.        n        e  was      e  mrror 
He  had  that  facility  of  adapta 
to  'the  society  he  was  in,  which  made  him  seem 
born  for  that  society,  and  that  only  ;  and,  without  cal 
culation  or  forethought  —  by  an  unconscious  instinct, 
indeed  —  he  cleverly  reflected   the  man  and   manners 
before  him.     The  result  was  a  popularity  of  a  most 
varied  quality.     Brown  was  a  man  of  moderate  for 
tune  and   no  profession.     He  had  travelled  for  some 
years  on  the  continent,  and  had  encountered  all  classes 

rocers,  and  as 
seldom  part 

ed  from  the  most  chance  acquaintance  without  a  vol 
unteer  of  letters  of  introduction,  exchange  of  addres 
ses,  and  similar  tokens  of  having  "pricked  through 
his  caslle  wall."  When  he  did  arrive  in  London,  at 
last,  it  was  with  a  budget  like  the  postman's  on  Val 
entine's  day,  and  he  had  only  to  deliver  one  letter  in 
a  score  to  be  put  on  velvet  in  any  street  or  square 
within  the  bills  of  mortality.  Sagacious  enough  to 
know  that  the  gradations  of  English  society  have  the 
facility  of  a  cat's  back  (smooth  enough  from  the  head 
downward),  he  began  with  a  most  noble  duke,  and  at 
the  date  of  his  introduction  to  the  reader,  was  on  the 
dinner-list  of  most  of  the  patricians  of  May  Fair. 

Presuming  that  you  see  your  man,  dear  reader,  let 
us  come  at  once  to  the  removal  of  the  cloth. 

"As  I  was  calling  myself  to  account,  the  other  day, 
over  my  breakfast,"  said  Brown,  filling  his  glass  and 


of  the  firm  in  Mark's  Lane.  It  was  a  sealed  letter, 
and  said  in  brackets  on  the  back,  '  Introducing  Mr. 
BrownS  I  had  a  mind  to  give  it  up  and  cut  again, 
for  I  could  not  guess  on  what  footing  I  was  intro 
duced,  nor  did  I  know  what  had  become  of  the  wri 
ter — nor  had  I  a  very  clear  idea  how  long  a  letter  of 
recommendation  will  hold  its  virtue.  It  struck  me 
again  that  these  difficulties  rather  gave  it  a  zest,  and 
I  would  abide  by  the  oracle.  I  dressed,  and,  as  the 
day  was  fine,  started  to  stroll  leisurely  through  the 
Strand  and  Fleet  street,  and  look  into  the  shop-win 
dows  on  my  way — assuring  myself,  at  least,  thus 
much  of  diversion  in  my  adventure. 

"  Somewhere  about  two  o'clock,  I  left  daylight  be 
hind,  and  plunged  into  Mark's  Lane.  Up  one  side 
and  down  the  other — '  Mimpson  and  Co.'  at  last,  on  a 
small  brass  plate,  set  in  a  green  baize  door.  With  my 
unbuttoned  coat  nearly  wiped  oft'  my  shoulder  by  the 
strength  of  the  pulley,  I  shoved  through,  and  emerged 
in  a  large  room,  with  twenty  or  thirty  clerks  perched 
on  high  stools,  like  monkeys  in  a  menagerie. 

"  '  First  door  right !'  said  the  nearest  man,  without 
raising  his  eyes  from  the  desk,  in  reply  to  my  inquiry 
for  Mr.  Mimpson. 

"  I  entered  a  closet,  lighted  by  a  slanting  skylight, 
in  which  sat  my  man. 
"  '  Mr.  John  Mimpson  ?' 
" '  Mr.  John  Mimpson  !' 

"  After  this  brief  dialogue  of  accost,  I  produced  my 
letter,  and  had  a  second's  leisure  to  examine  my  new 
friend  while  he  ran  his  eye  over  the  contents.  He 
was  a  rosy,  well-conditioned,  tight-skinned  little  man, 
with  black  hair,  and  looked  like  a  pear  on  a  chair. 
(Hang  the  bothering  rhymes!)  His  legs  were  com 
pletely  hid  under  the  desk,  so  that  the  ascending  eye 
be«an  with  his  equaiory  line,  and  whether  he  had  no 
shoulders  or  no  neck,  I  could  not  well  decide — but  it 
was  a  tolerably  smooth  plane  from  his  seat  to  the  top 
curl  of  his  sinciput.  He  was  scrupulously  well  dress 
ed,  and  had  that  highly  washed  look  which  marks  the 
!  city  man  in  London — bent  on  not  betraying  his  '  dig- 
'  gins'  by  his  complexion. 

"I  answered  Mr.  Mimpson's  inquiries  about  our 
;  mutual  friend  with  rather  a  hazardous  particularity, 
!  and  assured  him  he  was  quite  well  (I  have  since  dis- 
1  covered  that  he  has  been  dead  three  years),  and  con- 


pushing  the  bottle',  "  it  occurred  to  me  that  my  round  ji  versatiou  warmed  between  us  for  ten  minutes,  till  we 


BROWN'S  DAY  WITH  THE  MIMPSONS. 


were  ready  to  part  sworn  friends.     I  rose  to  go,  anc 
the  merchant  seemed  very  much  perplexed. 

"  '  To-morrow,'  said  he,  rubbing  the  two  great  busi 
ness  bumps  over  his  eyebrows — '  no — yes — that  is  to 
say,    Mrs.    Mimpson — well,   it   shall  be   to-morrow 
Can  you  come  out  to  Rose  Lodge,  and  spend  the  da} 
to -morrow?' 

"  '  With  great  pleasure,'  said  I,  for  I  was  determinec 
to  follow  my  trump  letter  to  extremities. 

"'Mrs.  Mimpson,'  he  next  went  on  to  say,  as  he 
wrote  down  the  geography  of  Rose  Lodge — 'Mrs 
Mimpson  expects  some  friends  to-morrow — indeed 
some  of  her  very  choice  friends.  If  you  come  early, 
you  will  see  more  of  her  than  if  you  just  save  your 
dinner.  Bring  your  carpetbag,  of  course,  and  stay 
over  night.  Lunch  at  two — dine  at  seven.  I  can't 
be  there  to  receive  you  myself,  but  I  will  prepare  M 
Mimpson  to  save  you  all  trouble  of  introduction. 
Hampstead  road.  Good  morning,  my  dear  sir.' 

"  So,  I  am  in  for  a  suburban  bucolic,  thought  I,  as  I 
regained  daylight  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Mansion 
House. 

"It  turned  out  a  beautiful  day,  sunny  and  warm; 
and  had  I  been  sure  of  my  navigation,  and  sure  of  my 
disposition  to  stay  all  night,  I  should  have  gone  out 
Oy  the  Hampstead  coach,  and  made  the  best  of  my 
way,  carpetbag  in  hand.  I  went  into  Newman's  for  a 
postchaise,  however,  and  on  showing  him  the  written 
address,  was  agreeably  surprised  to  find  he  knew 
Rose  Lodge.  His  boys  had  all  been  there. 

"Away  I  went  through  the  Regent's  park,  behind 
the  blood-posters,  blue  jacket  and  white  hat,  and, 
somewhere  about  one  o'clock,  mounted  Hampstead 
Hill,  and  in  ten  minutes  thence  was  at  my  destination. 
The  postboy  was  about  driving  in  at  the  open  gate, 
but  I  dismounted  and  sent  him  back  to  the  inn  to 
leave  his  horses,  and  then  depositing  my  bag  at  the 
porter's  lodge,  walked  up  the  avenue.  It  was  a  much 
finer  place,  altogether,  than  I  expected  to  see. 

"Mrs.  Mimpson  was  in  the  garden.  The  dashing 
footman  who  gave  me  the  information,  led  me  through 
a  superb  drawing-room  and  out  at  a  glass  door  upon 
the  lawn,  and  left  me  to  make  my  own  way  to  the  la 
dy's  presence. 

"It  was  a  delicious  spot,  and  I  should  have  been 
very  glad  to  ramble  about  by  myself  till  dinner,  but, 
at  a  turn  in  the  grand-walk,  I  came  suddenly  upon 
two  ladies. 

"  I  made  my  bow,  and  begged  leave  to  introduce 
myself  as  '  Mr.  Brown.' 

"With  a  very  slight  inclination  of  the  head,  and  no 
smile  whatever,  one  of  the  ladies  asked  me  if  I  had 
walked  from  town,  and  begged  her  companion  (with 
out  introducing  me  to  her)  to  show  me  in  to  lunch. 
The  spokester  was  a  stout  and  tall  woman,  who  had 
rather  an  aristocratic  nose,  and  was  not  handsome, 
but,  to  give  her  her  due,  she  had  made  a  narrow 
escape  of  it.  She  was  dressed  very  showily,  and  evi 
dently  had  great  pretensions;  but,  that  she  was  not 
at  all  glad  to  see  Mr.  Brown,  was  as  apparent  as  was 
at  all  necessary.  As  the  other,  and  younger  lady, 
who  was  to  accompany  me,  however,  was  very  pretty, 
though  dressed  very  plainly,  and  had,  withal,  a  look 
in  her  eye  which  assured  me  she  was  amused  with  my 
unwelcome  apparition,  I  determined,  as  I  should  not 
otherwise  have  done,  to  stay  it  out,  and  accepted 
her  convoy  with  submissive  civility — very  much  in 
clined,  however,  to  be  impudent  to  somebody,  some 
how. 

"The  lunch  was  on  a  tray  in  a  side-room,  and  I 
rang  the  bell  and  ordered  a  bottle  of  champagne.  The 
servant  looked  surprised,  but  brought  it,  and  mean 
time  I  was  getting  through  the  weather  and  the  other 
commonplaces,  and  the  lady  saying  little,  was  watch 
ing  me  very  calmly.  I  liked  her  looks,  however,  and 
was  sure  she  was  not  a  Mimpson. 


"  '  Hand  this  to  Miss  Armstrong !'  said  I  to  the  foot 
man,  pouring  out  a  glass  of  champagne. 
"'Miss  Bellamy,  you  mean,  sir.' 
"  I  rose  and  bowed,  and,  with  as  grave  a  courtesy 
as  I  could  command,  expressed  my  pleasure  at  my 
first  introduction  to  Miss  Bellamy — through  Thomas, 
the  footman!  Miss  Bellamy  burst  into  a  laugh,  and 
was  pleased  to  compliment  my  American  manners, 
and  in  ten  minutes  we  were  a  very  merry  pair  of 
friends,  and  she  accepted  my  arm  for  a  stroll  through 
the  grounds,  carefully  avoiding  the  frigid  neighbor 
hood  of  Mrs.  Mimpson. 

"Of  course  I  set  about   picking  Miss   Bellamy's 
brains  for  what  information  I  wanted.     She  turned 
out  quite  the  nicest  creature  I  had  seen  in  England — 
|  fresh,  joyous,  natural,  and  clever  ;  and  as  I  was  deliv- 
j  ered  over  to  her  bodily,  by  her  keeper  and  feeder,  she 
made  no  scruple  of  promenading  me   through  the 
grounds  till  the  dressing-bell — four  of  the  most  agree 
able  hours  I  have  to  record  in  my  travels. 

"By  Miss  Bellamy's  account,  my  advent  that  day 
was  looked  upon  by  Mrs.  Mimpson  as  an  enraging 
calamity.  Mrs.  Mimpson  was,  herself,  fourth  cousin 
to  a  Scotch  lord,  and  the  plague  of  her  life  was  the 
drawback  to  the  gentility  of  her  parties  in  Mimpson's 
mercantile  acquaintance.  She  had  married  the  little 
man  for  his  money,  and  had  thought,  by  living 
out  of  town,  to  choose  her  own  society,  with  her  hus 
band  for  her  only  incumbrance;  but  Mimpson  vowed 
that  he  should  be  ruined  in  Mark's  Lane,  if  he  did 
not  house  and  dine  his  mercantile  fraternity  and  their 
envoys  at  Rose  Lodge,  and  they  had  at  last  compro 
mised  the  matter.  No  Yankee  clerk,  or  German 
agent,  or  person  of  any  description,  defiled  by  trade, 
was  to  be  invited  to  the  Lodge  without  a  three  days' 
premonition  to  Mrs.  Mimpson,  and  no  additions  were 
to  be  made,  whatever,  by  Mr.  M.,  to  Mrs.  M's  din 
ners,  soirees,  matinees,  archery  parties,  suppers,  de 
jeuners,  tableaux,  or  private  theatricals.  This  holy 
treaty,  Mrs.  Mimpson  presumed,  was  written  'with  a 
gad  of  steel  on  a  leaf  of  brass' — inviolable  as  her  cous 
in's  coat-of-arms. 

"But  there  was  still  '  Ossa  on  Pelion.'  The  din 
ner  of  that  day  had  a  diplomatic  aim.  Miss  Mimp 
son  (whom  I  had  not  yet  seen)  was  ready  to  'come 
out,'  and  her  mother  had  embarked  her  whole  soul  in 
the  enterprise  of  bringing  about  that  debut  at  Al- 

mack's.     Her  best  card  was  a  certain   Lady  S , 

who  chanced  to  be  passing  a  few  days  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  and  this  dinner  was  in  her  honor — the  com 
pany  chosen  to  impress  her  with  the  exclusiveness  of 
the  Mimpsons,  and  the  prayer  for  her  ladyship's  in 
fluence  (to  procure  vouchers  from  one  of  the  patron 
esses)  was  to  be  made,  when  she  was  '  dieted  to  their 
request.'  And  all  had  hitherto  worked  to  a  charm. 
Lady  S— — —  had  accepted — Ude  had  sent  his  best 
cook  from  Crockford's — the  Belgian  charge,  and  a 
Swedish  attache  were  coming — the  day  was  beautiful, 
and  the  Lodge  was  sitting  for  its  picture ;  and  on  the 
very  morning,  when  every  chair  at  the  table  was  ticketed 
and  devoted,  what  should  Mr.  Mimpson  do,  but  send 
back  a  special  messenger  from  the  city,  to  say  that  he 
had  forgotten  to  mention  to  Mrs.  M.  at  breakfast,  that  he 
had  invited  Mr.  Brown !  Of  course  he  had  forgot 
ten  it,  though  it  would  have  been  as  much  as  his 
eyes  were  worth  to  mention  it  in  person  to  Mrs. 
Mimpson. 

"To  this  information,  which  1  give  you  in  a  lump, 
but  which  came  to  light  in  the  course  of  rather  a  de 
sultory  conversation,  Miss  Bellamy  thought  I  had 
some  title,  from  the  rudeness  of  my  reception.  It 
was  given  in  the  shape  of  a  very  clever  banter,  it  is 
true,  but  she  was  evidently  interested  to  set  me  right 
with  regard  to  Mr.  Mimpson's  good  intentions  in  my 
behalf,  and,  as  far  as  that  and  her  own  civilities  would 
do  it.  to  apologise  for  the  inhospitality  of  Rose  Lodge. 


BROWN'S  DAY  WITH  THE  MIMPSONS. 


33 


Very  kind  of  the  girl — for  I  was  passing,  recollect, 
at  a  most  ha'penny  valuation. 

"I  had  made  some  casual  remark  touching  the  ab 
surdity  of  Almack's  aspirations  in  general,  and  Mrs. 
Mimpson's  in  particular,  and  my  fair  friend,  who  of 
course  fancied  an  Almack's  ticket  as  much  out  of  Mr. 
Brown's  reach  as  the  horn  of  the  new  moon,  took  up 
the  defence  of  Mrs.  Mimpson  on  that  point,  and  un 
dertook  to  dazzle  my  untutored  imagination  by  a  pic 
ture  of  this  seventh  heaven — as  she  had  heard  it  de 
scribed — for  to  herself,  she  freely  confessed,  it  was  not 
even  within  the  limits  of  dream-land.  I  knew  this 
was  true  of  herself,  and  thousands  of  highly-educated 
and  charming  girls  in  England;  but  still,  looking  at 
her  while  she  spoke,  and  seeing  what  an  ornament  she 
would  be  to  any  ballroom  in  the  world,  I  realized, 
with  more  repugnance  than  I  had  ever  felt  before,  the 
arbitrary  barriers  of  fashion  and  aristocracy.  As  ac 
cident  had  placed  me  in  a  position  to  'look  on  the  re 
verse  of  the  shield,'  I  determined,  if  possible,  to1  let 
Miss  Bellamy  judge  of  its  color  with  the  same  ad 
vantage.  It  is  not  often  that  a  plebeian  like  myself 
has  the  authority  to 

*' '  Bid  the  pebbles  on  the  hungry  beach 
Fillip  the  stars.' 

«'  We  were  near  the  open  window  of  the  library, 
and  I  stepped  in  and  wrote  a  note  to  Lady  — 
(one  of  the  lady  patronesses,  and  the  kindest  friend  I 
have  in  England),  asking  for  three  vouchers  for  the 
next  ball.  I  had  had  occasion  once  or  twice  before  to 
apply  for  similar  favors,  for  the  countrywomen  of  my 
own,  passing  through  London  on  their  travels,  and  J 
knew  that  her  ladyship  thought  no  more  of  granting 
them  than  of  returning  bows  in  Hyde  Park.  1  did 
not  name  the  ladies  for  whom  the  three  tickets  were 
intended,  wishing  to  reserve  the  privilege  of  handing 
one  to  Miss  Mimpson,  should  she  turn  out  civil  and 
presentable.  The  third,  of  course,  was  to  Miss  Bel 
lamy's  chaperon,  whoever  that  might  be,  and  the 
party  mi°ht  be  extended  to  a  quartette  by  the  'Mon 
sieur  De  Trop'  of  the  hour — cela  selon.  Quite  a  dra 
matic  plot — wasn't  it  ? 

"  I  knew  that  Lady was  not  very  well,  and 

would  be  found  at  home  by  the  messenger  (my  post 
boy),  and  there  was  time  enough  between  soup  and 
coffee  to  go  to  London  and  back,  even  without  the 
spur  in  his  pocket. 

"The  bell  rang,  and  Miss  Bellamy  took  herself  off 
to  dress.  I  went  to  my  carpetbag  in  the  bachelor 
quarters  of  the  house,  and  through  a  discreet  entretien 
with  the  maid  who  brought  me  hot  water,  became 
somewhat  informed  as  to  my  fair  friend's  position  in 
the  family.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  who 
had  seen  better  days.  They  lived  in  a  retired  cottage 
in  the  neighborhood;  and,  as  Miss  Bellamy*  and  a 
younger  sister  were  both  very  highly  accomplished, 
they  were  usually  asked  to  the  Lodge,  whenever  there 
was  company  to  be  entertained  with  their  music. 

"  I  was  early  in  the  drawing-room,  and  found  there 
Mrs.  Mimpson  and  a  tall  dragoon  of  a  young  lady  I 
presumed  to  be  her  daughter.  She  did  not  introduce 
me.  I  had  hardly  achieved  my  salutary  salaam  when 
Miss  Bellamy  came  in  opportunely,  and  took  me  off 
their  hands,  and  as  they  addressed  no  conversation  to 
us,  we  turned  over  music,  and  chatted  in  the  corner 
while  the  people  came  in.  It  was  twilight  in  the  re 
ception-room,  and  I  hoped,  by  getting  on  the  same 

side  of  the  table  with   Lady  S (whom  I  had 

the  honor  of  knowing),  to  escape  recognizance  till 
we  joined  the  ladies  in  the  drawing-room  after  dinner. 
As  the  guests  arrived,  they  were  formally  introduced 
to  Miss  Mimpson  by  the  mother,  and  everybody  but 

myself  was  formally  presented  to  Lady  S ,  the 

exception   not   noticeable,   of   course,   among   thirty 

people.     Mr.  Mimpson  came  late  from  the  city,  poa- 

3 


jj  sibly  anxious  to  avoid  a  skirmish  on  the  subject  of  his 
friend  Brown,  and  he  entered  the  room  barely  in  time 
to  hand  Lady  S— — —  in  to  dinner. 

"  My  tactics  were  ably  seconded  by  my  unconscious 
ally.  I  placed  myself  in  such  a  position  at  table, 
that,  by  a  little  management,  I  kept  Miss  Bellamy's 

head  between  me  and  Lady  S ,  and  my  name 

was  not  so   remarkable  as  to  draw  attention   to  me 
|  when  called  on  to  take  wine  with  the  peccant  spouse 

i  J  of  the   Scotch  lord's  cousin.     Meantime  I  was  very 
|  charmingly  entertained — Miss  Bellamy  not  having,  at 

•j  all,  the  fear  of  Mrs.  Mimpson  before  her  eyes,  and 
apparently  finding  the  Yankee  supercargo,  or  cotton 
clerk,  or  whatever  he  might  be,  quite  worth  trying  her 
hand  upoo.  The  provender  was  good,  and  the  wine 
was  enough  to  verily  the  apocrypha — at  least  for  the 

il  night — 'a  man  remembering  neither  sorrow  nor  debt' 

i|  with  such  glorious  claret. 

"  As  I  was  vis-a-vis  to  Miss  Mimpson,  and  only  two 
plates  removed  from  her  mother,  I  was  within  reach 

j   of  some  syllable  or  some  civility,  and  one  would  have 

jj  thought  that  good-breeding  might  exact  some  slight 
notice  for  the  devil  himself,  under  one's  own  roof  by 
invitation;  but  the  large  eyes  of  Miss  Aurelia  and  her 
mamma  passed  over  me  as  if  I  had  on  the  invisible 
ring  of  Gyges.  I  wonder,  by-the-way,  whether  the 
ambitious  youths  who  go  to  London  and  Paris  with 
samples,  and  come  back  and  sport  'the  complete  var- 

I  nish  of  a  man'  acquired  in  foreign  society — I  wonder 
\  whether  they  take  these  rubs  to  be  part  of  their  pol- 
I  ishing! 

"The  ladies  rose  and  left  us,  and  as  I  had  no  more 
I  occasion  to  dodge  heads,  or  trouble  myself  with  hu- 

jj  mility,  I  took  Lady  S 's  place  at  old  Mimpson's 

right  hand,  and  was  immediately  recognised  with  great 
!l  empressement  by  the  Belgian  cltargc,  who  had  met  me 
j  'very   often,    in   very    agreeable   society.'     Mimpson 
stared,  and  evidently  took  it  for  a  bit  of  flummery  or 
i;  a  mistake  ;  but  he  presently  stared  again,  for  the  but 
ler  came  in  with  a  coronetted  note  on  his  silver  tray, 
and  the  seal  side  up,  and   presented  it  to  me  with  a 
most  deferential  bend  of  his  white  coat.     I  felt  the 
vouchers  within,  and  pocketed  it  without  opening,  and 
we  soon  after  rose  and  went  to  the  drawing-room  for 
our  coffee. 

"  Lady  S sat  with  her  back  to  the  door,  be 
sieged   by  Mrs.  Mimpson  ;  and   at  the   piano,  beside 
!!  Miss  Bellamy,  who  was  preparing  to  play,  stood  one 
j  of  the  loveliest  young  creatures  possibly  to  fancy.     A 
'   pale  and  high-bred  looking  lady  in  widow's  weeds  sat 

I 1  near  them,  and  I  had  no  difficulty  in  making  out  who 

I  were  the  after-dinner  additions  to  the  party.     I  joined 
|   them,  and  was  immediately  introduced  by  Miss  Bel- 

j  lamy  to  her  mother  and  sister,  with  whom  (after  a 
brilliant  duet  by  the  sisters)  I  strolled  out  upon  the 

I 1  lawn  for  an  hour — for  it  was  a  clear   night,  and  the 
i   moon  and  soft  air  almost  took  me  back  to  Italy.     And 
,i  (perhaps  by  a  hint  from  Miss  Bellamy)  I  was  allowed 
I)  to  get  on  very  expeditiously  in  my  acquaintance  with 
i   her  mother  and  sister. 

"My  new  friends  returned  to  the  drawing-room, 
i  and  as  the  adjoining  library  was  lighted,  I  went  in  and 
|  filled  up  the  blank  vouchers  with  the  names  of  Mrs. 
j  Bellamy  and  her  daughters.  I  listened  a  moment  to 
:|  the  conversation  in  the  next  room.  The  subject  was 
i  Almack's,  and  was  discussed  with  great  animation. 

|  Lady  S ,  who  seemed  to  me  trying   to  escape 

I  the  trap  they  had   baited  for  her,  was  quietly  setting 
j  forth  the  difficulties  of  procuring  vouchers,  and  rec 
ommending  to  Mrs.  Mimpson  not  to  subject  herself 
1  to   the    mortification   of    a   refusal.     Old    Mimpson 
I  backed  up  this  advice  with  a  stout  approval,  and  this 
,   brought  Mrs.  Mimpson  out  'horse  and  foot,'  and  she 
I)  declared  that  she  would  submit  to  anything,  do  any 
thing,  give  anything,  rather  than  fail  in   this  darling 
object  of  her  ambition.     She  would  feel  under  eternal, 


34 


MR.  AND  MRS.  FOLLETT. 


inexpressible  obligations  to  any  friend  who  would  pro 
cure,  for  herself  and  daughter,  admission  for  but  one 
night  to  Almack's. 

"And  then  came  in  the  sweet  voice  of  Miss  Bel 
lamy,  who  '  knew  it  was  both  wrong  and  silly,  but  she 
would  give  ten  years  of  her  life  to  go  to  one  of  Al 
mack's  balls,  and  in  a  long  conversation  she  had  had 
with  Mr.  Brown  on  the  subject  that  morning ' 

"  ' AhJ'  interrupted  Lady  S ,  '  if  it  had  been 

the  Mr.  Brown,  you  would  have  had  very  little  trouble 
about  it.' 

"  '  And  who  is  the  Mr.  Brown?'  asked  Mrs.  Mimpson. 

"'The  pet  and  protege  of  the  only  lady  patroness 

I  do  not  visit,'  said  Lady  S — • ,  '  and  unluckily, 

too,  the  only  one  who  thinks  the  vouchers  great  rub 
bish,  and  gives  them  away  without  thought  or  scruple.' 

"  At  that  moment  I  entered  the  room. 

"'Good  heavens!'  screamed  Lady  S ,  'is 

that  his  ghost?  Why,  Mr.  Brown  !'  she  gasped,  giv 
ing  me  her  hand  very  cautiously,  '  do  you  appear 
when  you  are  talked  of  like — like — like ' 

"'Like  the  devil?  No!  But  I  am  here  in  the 
body,  and  very  much  at  your  ladyship's  service,'  said 
I,  '  for  of  course  you  are  going  to  the  duke's  to-night, 
and  so  am  I.  Will  you  take  me  with  you,  or  shall 
my  po-chay  follow  where  I  belong — in  your  train  ?" 

"  '  I'll  take  you,  of  course,'  said  her  ladyship,  rising, 
'but  first  about  these  vouchers.  You  have  just  come, 
and  didn't  hear  our  discussion.  Mrs.  Mimpson  is  ex 
tremely  anxious  that  her  daughter  should  come  out 
at  Almack's,  and  as  I  happened  to  say,  the  moment 
before  you  entered,  that  you  were  the  very  person  to 

procure  the  tickets  from  Lady .  How  very 

odd  that  you  should  come  in  just  then  !  But  tell 
us — can  you?' 


"  A  dead  silence  followed  the  question.  Mrs. 
Mimpson  sat  with  her  eyes  on  the  floor,  the  picture 
of  dismay  and  mortification.  Miss  Mimpson  blushed 
and  twisted  her  handkerchief,  and  Miss  Bellamy 
looked  at  her  hostess,  half  amused  and  half  dis 
tressed. 

"I  handed  the  three  vouchers  to  Miss  Bellamy, 
and  begged  her  acceptance  of  them,  and  then  turning 
to  Lady  S— — — ,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  regret 
ted  that,  not  having  had  the  pleasure  of  being  pre 
sented  to  Mrs.  Mimpson,  I  had  not  felt  authorized  to 
include  her  in  my  effort  to  oblige  Miss  Bellamy. 
"And  what  with  old  Mimpson's  astonishment,  and 

Lady  S 's  immediate  tact  in  covering,  by  the 

I  bustle   of  departure,  what  she  did   not  quite  under- 
j  stand,  though  she  knew  it  was  some  awkward  contre 
temps  or  other,  I  found  time   to  receive  Miss  Bella 
my's  thanks,  and  get  permission  from  the  mother  to 
|  call  and  arrange  this  unexpected  party,  and  in  ten 
!  minutes   I  was   on    my   way  to    London   with   Lady 
I  S ,  amusing  her  almost  into  fits  with  my  expla 
nations  of  the  Mimpson  mystery. 

"Lady  S — • was  to  be  still  at  Hampstead  for  a 

few  days,  and,  at  my  request,  she  called  with  me  on 
the  Bellamys,  and  invited  the  girls  up  to  town.  Rose 
Bellamy,  the  younger,  is  at  this  moment  one  of  the 
new  stars  of  the  season  accordingly,  and  Miss  Bel 
lamy  and  I  carry  on  the  war,  weekly,  at  Almack's, 
and  nightly  at  some  waxlight  paradise  or  other,  and 

Lady  S has  fallen  in  love  with  them  both,  and 

treats  them  like  daughters. 

"So  you  see,  though  I  passed  for  a  ha'penny  with 
the  Mimpsons,  I  turned  out  a  sovereign  to  the  Bel 
lamys. 

"  Pass  the  bottle  !" 


MR,  AND  MRS,  FOLLETT; 


OR,  THE  DANGERS  OF  MEDDLING  WITH  MARRIED  PEOPLE. 


THERK  are  two  commodities,  much  used  by  gentle 
men,  neither  of  which  will  bear  tinkering  or  tampering 
with — matrimony  and  patent  leather.  Their  necessi 
ties  are  fair  weather  and  untroubled  wear  and  tear. 
Ponder  on  the  following  melancholy  example  ! 

My  friend  Follett  married  a  lady  contrary  to  my 
advice.  I  gave  the  advice  contrary  to  my  wont  and 
against  my  will.  He  would  have  it.  The  lady  was  a 
tolerably  pretty  woman,  on  whose  original  destiny  it 
was  never  written  that  she  should  be  a  belle.  How 
she  became  one  is  not  much  matter;  but  nature  being 
thoroughly  taken  by  surprise  with  her  success,  had 
neglected  to  provide  the  counterpoise.  I  say  it  is  no 
great  matter  how  she  became  a  belle — nor  is  it — for  if 
such  things  were  to  be  accounted  for  to  the  satisfaction 
of  the  sex,  the  world  have  little  time  for  other  specu 
lations  ;  but  I  will  devote  a  single  paragraph  to  the 
elucidation  of  this  one  of  many  mysteries,  for  a  reason 
I  have.  Fcenam  kabet  in  cornu. 

Poets  are  the  least  fastidious,  and  the  least  discrim 
inating  of  men,  in  their  admiration  of  women  (vide 
Byron),  partly  because  their  imagination,  like  sun 
shine,  glorifies  all  that  turns  to  it,  and  partly  because 
the  voluptuous  heart,  without  which  they  were  not. 
poets,  is  both  indolent  and  imperial,  from  both  causes 
waiting  always  to  be  sought.  In  some  circles,  bards 
are  rather  comets  than  stars,  and  the  one  whose  orbit 
for  a  few  days  intersected  that  of  Miss  Adele  Burnham, 
was  the  exclusive  marvel  of  the  hour.  Like  other  po 


ets,  the  one  of  which  I  speak  was  concentrative  in  his 
attentions,  and  he  chose  (why,  the  gods  knew  better 
than  the  belles  of  the  season)  to  have  neither  eyes  nor 
ears,  flowers,  flatteries,  nor  verses,  for  any  other  than 
Miss  Burnham.  He  went  on  his  way,  but  the  incense, 
in  which  he  had  enveloped  the  blest  Adele,  lingered 
like  a  magic  atmosphere  about  her,  and  Tom  Follett 
and  all  his  tribe  breathed  it  in  blind  adoration.  I  trust 
the  fair  reader  has  here  nodded  her  head,  in  evidence 
that  this  history  of  the  belleship  of  Miss  Burnham  is 
no  less  brief  than  natural  and  satisfactory. 

When  Follett  came  to  me  with  the  astounding  in 
formation  that  he  intended  to  propose  to  Miss  Burn- 
ham  (he  had  already  proposed  and  been  accepted,  the 
traitor) !  my  fancy  at  once  took  the  prophetic  stride  so 
natural  on  the  first  breaking  of  such  news,  and  in  the 
five  minutes  which  I  took  for  reflection,  I  had  travelled 
far  into  that  land  of  few  delusions — holy  matrimony. 
Before  me,  in  all  the  changeful  variety  of  a  magic 
mirror,  came  and  went  the  many  phases  of  which  that 
multiform  creature,  woman,  is  susceptible.  I  saw  her 
in  diamonds  and  satin,  and  in  kitchen-apron  and  curl 
papers;  in  delight,  and  in  the  dumps;  in  supplication, 
and  in  resistance  ;  shod  like  a  fairy  in  French  shoes, 
and  slip-shod  (as  perhaps  fairies  are,  too,  in  their  bed 
rooms  and  dairies).  I  saw  her  approaching  the  cli 
macteric  of  age,  and  receding  from  it — a  mother,  a 
nurse,  an  invalid — mum  over  her  breakfast,  chatty  over 
her  tea — doing  the  honors  at  Tom's  table,  and  mend- 


MR.  AND  MRS.  FOLLETT. 


ing  with  sober  diligence  Tom's  straps  and  suspenders.  | 
The  kaleidoscope  of  fancy  exhausted  its  combinations. 

"  Tom  !"  said  I  (looking  up  affectionately,  for  he  j 
was  one  of  my  weaknesses,  was  Tom,  and  I  indulged 
myself  in  loving  him  without  a  reason),  "Miss  Burn- 
ham  is  in  the  best  light  where  she  is.  If  she  cease 
to  be  a  belle,  as  of  course  she  will,  should  she  mar 
ry " 

"  Of  course  !"  interrupted  Tom  very  gravely. 

"Well,  in  that  case,  she  lays  oJf  the  goddess,  trust 
me  !  You  will  like  her  to  dress  plainly " 

"Quite  plain  !" 

"And  stripped  of  her  plumage,  your  bird  of  paradise 
would  be  nothing  but  a  very  indifferent  hen — with  the 
disadvantage  of  remembering  that  she  had  been  a  bird 
of  paradise." 

"But  it  was  not  her  dress  that  attracted  the  brilliant 
author  of " 

Possibly  not.  But  as  the  false  gods  of  mythology 
are  only  known  by  their  insignia,  Jupiter  by  his  thun 
derbolt,  and  Mercury  by  his  talaria  and  caduceus,  so 
a  woman,  worshipped  by  accident,  will  find  a  change 
of  exterior  nothing  less  than  a  laying  aside  of  her  di 
vinity.  That's  a  didactic  sentence,  but  you  will  know 
what  I  mean,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  myself  can  not  see 
a  pair  of  coral  ear-rings  without  a  sickness  of  the 
heart,  though  the  woman  who  once  wore  them,  and 
who  slighted  me  twenty  years  ago,  sits  before  me  in 
church,  without  diverting  a  thought  from  the  sermon. 
Don't  marry  her,  Tom  !" 

Six  weeks  after  this  conversation,  I  was  at  the  wed 
ding,  and  the  reader  will  please  pass  to  the  rear  the 
six  succeeding  months — short  lime  as  it  seems — to 
record  a  change  in  the  bland  sky  of  matrimony.  It  was 
an  ellipse  in  our  friendship  as  well ;  for  advice  (con 
trary  to  our  wishes  and  intentions)  is  apt  to  be  resent 
ed,  and  I  fancied,  from  the  northerly  bows  I  received 
from  Mrs.  Follett,  that  my  friend  had  made  a  merit  to 
her  of  having  married  contrary  to  my  counsel.  At  the 
end  of  this  period  Tom  called  on  me. 

Follett,  I  should  have  said,  was  a  man  of  that  unde 
cided  exterior  which  is  perfectly  at  the  mercy  of  a  cra 
vat  or  waistcoat.  He  looked  "snob"  or  "nob,"  ac 
cording  to  the  care  with  which  he  had  made  his  toilet. 
While  a  bachelor,  of  course,  he  could  never  afford  in 
public  a  negligence  or  a  mistake,  and  was  invariably 
an  elegant  man,  harmonious  and  "  pin-point"  from 
straps  to  whiskers.  But  alas!  the  security  of  wedded 
life  !  When  Tom  entered  my  room,  I  perused  him 
as  a  walking  homily.  His  coat,  still  made  on  the  old 
measure,  was  buttoned  only  at  the  top,  the  waist  being 
rather  snug,  and  his  waistcoat  pockets  loaded  with  the 
copper  which  in  his  gayer  days  he  always  left  on  the 
counter.  His  satin  cravat  was  frayed  and  brownish, 
with  the  tie  slipped  almost  under  his  ear.  The  heel 
of  his  right  boot  (he  trod  straight  on  the  othfer  foot) 
almost  looked  him  in  the  face.  His  pantaloons  (the 
one  article  of  dress  in  which  there  are  no  gradations — 
nothing,  if  not  perfect)  were  bulged  and  strained.  He 
wore  a  frightfully  new  hat,  no  gloves,  and  carried  a 
baggy  brown  umbrella,  which  was,,  in  itself,  a  most  ex 
pressive  portrait  of  "gone  to  seed.1'  Tom  entered 
with  his  usual  uppish  carriage,  and,  through  the  how- 
d'ye-dos,  and  the  getting  into  his  chair,  carried  off  the 
old  manner  to  a  charm.  In  talking  of  the  weather,  a 
moment  after,  his  eye  fell  on  his  stumpy  umbrella, 
which,  with  an  unconscious  memory  of  an  old  affecta 
tion  with  his  cane,  he  was  balancing  on  the  toe  of  his 
boot,  and  the  married  look  slid  over  him  like  a  mist. 
Down  went  his  head  between  his  shoulders,  and  down 
went  the  corners  of  his  mouth — down  the  inflation  of 
his  chest  like  a  collapsed  balloon;  and  down,  in  its 
youth  and  expression  it  seemed  to  me,  every  muscle 
of  his  face.  He  had  assumed  in  a  minute  the  style 
and  countenance  of  a  man  ten  years  older. 

I  smiled.     How  could  I  but  smile  ! 


"  Then  you  have  heard  of  it !"  exclaimed  Tom, 
suddenly  starting  to  his  feet,  and  flushing  purple  to  the 
roots  of  his  hair. 

"Heard  of  what?" 

My  look  of  surprise  evidently  took  him  aback  ;  and, 
seating  himself  again  with  confused  apologies,  Tom 
proceeded  to  "  make  a  clean  breast,"  on  a  subject 
which  I  had  not  anticipated. 

It  seemed  that,  far  from  moulting  her  feathers  after 
marriage,  according  to  my  prediction,  Mrs.  Follett 
clearly  thought  that  she  had  not  yet  "strutted  her 
hour,"  and,  though  everything  Tom  could  wish  behind 
the  curtain,  in  society  she  had  flaunted  and  flirted,  not 
merely  with  no  diminution  of  zest  from  the  wedding- 
day,  but,  her  husband  was  of  opinion,  with  a  ratio 
alarmingly  increasing.  Her  present  alliance  was  with 
a  certain  Count  Hautenbas,  the  lion  of  the  moment, 
and  though  doubtless  one  in  which  vanity  alone  was 
active,  Tom's  sense  of  connubial  propriety  was  at  its 
last  gasp.  He  could  stand  it  no  longer.  He  wished 
my  advice  in  the  choice  between  two  courses.  Should 
he  call  out  the  Frenchman,  or  should  he  take  advan 
tage  of  the  law's  construction  of  "moral  insanity,"  and 
shut  her  up  in  a  mad-house. 

My  advice  had  been  of  so  little  avail  in  the  first  in 
stance,  that  I  shrank  from  troubling  Tom  with  any 
more  of  it,  and  certainly  should  have  evaded  it  alto 
gether,  but  for  an  experiment  I  wished  to  make,  as 
much  for  my  own  satisfaction  as  for  the  benefit  of  that 
large  class,  the  unhappy  married. 

"Your  wife  is  out  every  night,  I  suppose,  Tom  ?" 

"Every  night  when  she  has  no  party  at  home." 

"Do  you  go  with  her  always  ?" 

"  I  go  for  her  usually — but  the  truth  is,  that  since 
I  married,  parties  bore  me,  and  after  seeing  my  wife  off, 
I  commonly  smoke  and  snooze,  or  read,  or  run  into 
Bob  Thomas's  and  '  talk  horse,'  till  I  have  just  time  to 
be  in  at  the  death." 

"And  when  you  get  there,  you  don't  dance  ?" 

"Not  I,  faith  !  I  haven't  danced  since  I  was  mar 
ried  !" 

"But  you  used  to  be  the  best  waltzer  of  the  day." 

"Well,  the  music  sometimes  gets  into  my  heels 
now,  but,  when  I  remember  I  am  married,  the  fit  cools 
off.  The  deuce  take  it !  a  married  man  shouldn't  be 
seen  whirling  round  the  room  with  a  girl  in  his  arms  !" 

"I  presume  that  were  you  still  single,  you  would 
fancy  your  chance  to  be  as  good  for  ladies'  favors  as 
any  French  count's  that  ever  came  over  ?" 

"  Ehem  !  why — yes  !" 

Tom  pulled  up  his  collar. 

"And  if  you  had  access  to  her  society  all  day  and 
all  night,  and  the  Frenchman  only  an  hour  or  two  in 
the  evening,  any  given  lady  being  the  object,  you  would 
bet  freely  on  your  own  head  .'" 

"I  see  your  drift,"  said  Tom,  with  a  melancholy 
smile,  "but  it  won't  do  !" 

"  No,  indeed — it  is  what  would  have  done.  You  had 
at  the  start  a  much  better  chance  with  your  wife  than 
Count  Hautenbas  ;  but  husbands  and  lovers  are  the 
'hare,  and  the  tortoise'  of  the  fable.  We  must  resort 
now  to  other  means.  Will  you  follow  my  advice,  as 
well  as  take  it,  should  I  be  willing  again  to  burn  my 
fingers  in  your  affairs  ?" 

The  eagerness  of  Tom's  protestations  quite  made 
the  amende  to  my  mortified  self-complacency,  and  I 
entered  zealousy  into  my  little  plot  for  his  happiness. 
At  this  moment  I  heartily  wish  I  had  sent  him  and  his 
affairs  to  the  devil,  and  (lest  I  should  forget  it  at  the 
close  of  this  tale)  I  here  caution  all  men,  single  and 
double,  against  "meddling  or  making,"  marring  or 
mending,  in  matrimonial  matters.  The  alliteration 
may,  perhaps,  impress  this  salutary  counsel  on  the 
mind  of  the  reader. 

I  passed  the  remainder  of  the  day  in  repairing  the 
damage  of  Tom's  person.  I  had  his  whiskers  curled 


36 


MR.  AND  MRS.  FOLLETT. 


and  trimmed  even  (his  left  whisker  was  an  inch  nearer 
his  nose  than  the  right),  and  his  teeth  looked  to  by  the 
dentist.  I  stood  by,  to  be  sure  that  there  was  no  care 
lessness  in  his  selection  of  patent  leathers,  and  on  his 
assuring  me  that  he  was  otherwise  well  provided,  I 
suffered  him  to  go  home  to  dress,  engaging  him  to 
dine  with  me  at  seven. 

He  was  punctual  to  the  hour.  By  Jove,  I  could 
scarce  believe  it  was  the  same  man.  The  conscious 
ness  of  being  well  dressed  seemed  to  have  brightened 
his  eyes  and  lips,  as  it  certainly  changed  altogether  his 
address  and  movements.  He  had  a  narrow  escape  of 
being  handsome.  After  all,  it  is  only  a  "  man  of  mark," 
or  an  Apollo,  who  can  well  afford  to  neglect  the  outer 
man ;  and  a  judicious  negligence,  or  a  judicious  plain 
ness,  is  probably  worth  the  attention  of  both  the  man 
of  mark  and  the  Apollo.  Tom  was  quite  another  or 
der  of  creature — a  butterfly  that  was  just  no  w  a  worm — 
and  would  have  been  treated  with  more  consideration 
in  consequence,  even  by  those  least  tolerant  of  "the 
pomps  and  vanities."  We  dined  temperately,  and  I 
superseded  the  bottle  by  a  cup  of  strong  green  tea,  at 
an  early  moment  after  the  removal  of  the  cloth,  deter 
mined  to  have  Tom's  wits  in  as  full  dress  as  his  per 
son.  Without  being  at  all  a  brilliant  man,  he  was — 
the  next  best  thing — a  steady  absorbent;  and  as  most 
women  are  more  fond  of  giving  than  receiving  in  all 
things,  but  particularly  in  conversation,  I  was  not  un 
easy  as  to  his  power  of  making  himself  agreeable.  Nor 
was  he,  faith ! 

The  ball  of  the  night  was  at  the  house  of  an  old 
friend  of  my  own,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Follett  were  but 
newly  introduced  to  the  circle.  I  had  the  company 
very  clearly  in  my  eye,  therefore,  while  casting  about 
for  dramatis  persorxe,  and  fixing  upon  Mrs.  Beverly 
Fairlie,  for  the  prominent  character,  I  assured  suc 
cess,  though  being  very  much  in  love  with  that  co 
quettish  widow  myself,  I  had  occasion  for  some  self- 
denial  in  the  matter.  Of  Mrs.  Fairlie's  weak  points 
(on  which  it  seemed  necessary  that  I  should  enlighten 
Tom),  I  had  information  not  to  be  acquired  short  of 
summering  and  wintering  her,  and  with  my  eye  solely 
directed  to  its  effect  upon  Mrs.  Follett,  I  put  the  clues 
into  my  friend's  hands  in  a  long  after-dinner  conversa 
tion.  As  he  seemed  impatient  to  open  the  campaign 
after  getting  these  definite  and  valuable  instructions,  I 
augured  well  for  his  success,  and  we  entered  the  ball 
room  in  high  spirits. 

It  was  quite  enough  to  say  to  the  mischievous  widow 
that  another  woman  was  to  be  piqued  by  any  attentions  j 
she  might  choose  to  pay  Mr.  Follett.  Having  said 
thus  much,  and  presented  Tom,  I  sought  out  Mrs. 
Follett  myself,  with  the  double  purpose  of  breaking 
up  the  monopoly  of  Mons.  Hautenbas,  and  of  direct 
ing  her  attention,  should  it  be  necessary,  to  the  suavi 
ties  between  Tom  and  the  widow. 

It  was  a  superb  ball,  and  the  music,  as  Tom  said, 
went  to  the  heels.  The  thing  he  did  well  was  waltz 
ing,  and  after  taking  a  turn  or  two  with  Mrs.  Fairlie, 
the  rustic  dame  ran  up  to  Mrs.  Follett  with  the  most 
innocent  air  imaginable,  and  begged  the  loan  of  her 
husband  for  the  rest  of  the  evening  !  I  did  not  half 
like  the  look  of  earnest  with  which  she  entered  into 


the  affair,  indeed,  and  there  was  little  need  of  my 
taking  much  trouble  to  enlighten  Mrs.  Follett ;  for  a 
woman  so  surprised  with  a  six  months'  husband  I  never 
saw.  They  were  so  capitally  matched,  Tom  and  the 
widow,  in  size,  motion,  style  of  waltzing,  and  all,  that 
not  we  only,  but  the  whole  parly,  were  occupied  with 
observing  and  admiring  them.  Mrs.  Follett  and  I  (for 
a  secret  sympathy,  somehow,  drew  us  together,  as  the 
thing  went  on)  kept  up  a  broken  conversation,  in  which 
the  count  was  even  less  interested  than  we  ;  and  after 
a  few  ineffectual  attempts  to  draw  her  into  the  tea 
room,  the  Frenchman  left  us  in  pique,  and  we  gave 
ourselves  up  to  the  observation  of  the  couple  who  (we 
presumed)  severally  belonged  to  us.  They  carried  on 
the  war  famously,  to  be  sure !  Mrs.  Fairlie  was  a 
woman  who  could  do  as  she  liked,  because  she  would ; 
and  she  cared  not  a  sfrraw  for  the  very  pronounce  dem 
onstration  of  engrossing  one  man  for  all  the  quadrilles, 
waltzes,  and  galopades,  beside  being  with  him  to  sup 
per.  Once  or  twice  I  tried  to  find  an  excuse  for  leav 
ing  Mrs.  Follett,  to  put  in  an  oar  for  myself;  but  the 
little  woman  clung  to  me  as  if  she  had  not  the  courage 
to  undertake  another  person's  amusement,  and,  new 
and  sudden  as  the  feeling  must  have  been,  she  was 
pale  and  wretched,  with  a  jealousy  more  bitter  proba 
bly  than  mine.  Tom  never  gave  me  a  look  after  the 
first  waltz ;  and  as  to  the  widow,  she  played  her  part 
with  rather  more  zeal  than  we  set  down  for  her. 
I  passed  altogether  an  uncomfortable  night,  for  a 
gay  one,  and  it  was  a  great  relief  to  me  when 
Mrs.  Follett  asked  me  to  send  Tom  for  the  car 
riage. 

"Be  so  kind  as  to  send  a  servant  for  it,"  said  Fol 
lett,  very  coolly,  "  and  say  to  Mrs.  Follett,  that  I  will 
join  her  at  home.  I  am  going  to  sup,  or  rather  break 
fast,  with  Mrs.  Beverly  Fairlie  !" 

Here  was  a  mess  ! 

"  Shall  I  send  the  count  for  your  shawl  ?"  I  asked, 
after  giving  this  message,  and  wishing  to  know  whether 
she  was  this  side  of  pride  in  her  unhappiness. 

The  little  woman  burst  into  tears. 

"  I  will  sit  in  the  cloak-room  till  my  husband  is 
ready,"  she  said ;  "  go  to  him,  if  you  please,  and  im 
plore  him  to  come  and  speak  to  me." 

As  I  said  before,  I  wished  the  whole  plot  to  the 
devil.  We  had  achieved  our  object,  it  is  true — and 
so  did  the  man  who  knocked  the  breath  out  of  his 
friend's  body,  in  killing  a  fly  on  his  back.  Tom  is 
now  (this  was  years  ago)  a  married  flirt  of  some  celeb 
rity,  for  after  coming  out  of  the  widow's  hands  with  a 
three  months'  education,  he  had  quite  forgot  to  be 
troubled  about  Mrs.  Follett ;  and  instead  of  neglect 
ing  his  dress,  which  was  his  only  sin  when  I  took  him 
in  hand,  he  now  neglects  his  wife,  who  sees  him,  as 
women  are  apt  to  see  their  husbands,  through  other 
women's  eyes.  I  presume  they  are  doomed  to  quite 
as  much  unhappiness  as  would  have  fallen  to  their  lot, 
had  I  let  them  alone — had  Mrs.  Follett  ran  away  with 
the  Frenchman,  and  had  Tom  died  a  divorced  sloven. 
But  when  I  think  that,  beside  achieving  little  for  them, 
I  was  the  direct  means  of  spoiling  Mrs.  Beverly  Fair- 
lie  for  myself,  I  think  I  may  write  myself  down  as  a 
warning  to  meddlers  in  matrimony. 


THE  COUNTESS  NYSCHRIEM. 


37 


THE  COUNTESS  NYSCHRIEM, 


AND  THE  HANDSOME  ARTIST. 


THAT  favored  portion  of  the  light  of  one  summer's  ' 
morning  that  was  destined  to  be  the  transparent  bath 
of  the  master-pieces  on  the   walls  of  the   Pitti,  was 
pouring  in  a  languishing  flood  through  the  massive 
windows  of  the  palace.     The  ghosts  of  the  painters  i 
(who,  ministering  to  the  eye  only,  walk  the  world  from 
cock-crowing  to  sunset)  were  haunting  invisibly  the 
sumptuous  rooms  made  famous  by  their  pictures  ;  ' 
and  the  pictures  themselves,  conscious  of  the  presence 
of  the  fountain  of  soul  from  which  gushed  the  soul 
that  is  in  them,  glowed  with  intoxicated  mellowness 
and  splendor,  and  amazed  the  living  students  of  the 
gallery  with  effects  of  light  and  color  till  that  moment 
undiscovered. 

[And  now,  dear  reader,  having  paid  you  the  com-  j 
plirnent  of  commencing  my  story  in  your  vein  (poetical),  . 
let  me  come  down  to  a  little  every-day  brick-and-mor-  \ 
tar,  and  build  up  a  fair  and  square  common-sense  j 
foundation.] 

Graeme  McDonald  was  a  young  highlander  from 
Rob  Roy's  country,  come  to  Florence  to  study  the 
old  masters.     He  was  an  athletic,  wholesome,  hand 
some  fellow,  who  had  probably  made  a  narrow  escape  j 
of  being  simply  a  fine  animal ;  and,  as  it  was,  you  ; 
never  would  have  picked  him  from  a  crowd  as  any- 
thing  but  a  hussar  out  of  uniform,  or  a  brigand  per 
verted  to  honest  life.     His  peculiarity  was  (and  this  I  ; 
foresee  is  to  be  an  ugly  sentence),  that  he  had  pecu-  | 
liarities  which  did  not  seem  peculiar.     He  was  full  of 
genius  for  his  art,  but  the  canvass  which  served  him 
him  as  a  vent,  gave  him  no  more  anxiety  than  his  ! 
pocket-handkerchief.     He   painted   in  the  palace,  or  J 
wiped  his  forehead  on  a  warm  day  with  equally  small 
care,  to  all  appearance,  and  he  had  brought  his  mother  ! 
and  two  sisters  to  Italy,  and  supported  them  by  a  most  ; 
heroic  economy  and  industry— all  the  while  looking  as 
if  the  "  silver  moon"  and  all  the  small  change  of  the  j 
stars  would  scarce  serve  him  for  a  day's  pocket-money,  j 
Indeed,  the  more  1  knew  of  McDonald,  the  more  I  ! 
became  convinced  that  there  was  another  man  built 
over  him.     The  painter  was  inside.     And  if  he  had 
free  thoroughfare  and  use  of  the  outer  man's  windows 
and  ivory  door,  he  was  at  any  rate  barred  from  hang-  , 
ing  out  the  smallest  sign  or  indication  of  being  at  any 
time  "  within."     Think  as  hard  as  he  would — devise, 
combine,  study,  or  glow  with  enthusiasm — the  pro- 
prietor  of  the  front  door  exhibited  the  same  careless 
and  smiling  bravery  of  mien,  behaving  invariably  as  if 
he  had  the  whole  tenement  to  himself,  and  was  neither 
proud  of,  nor  interested  in  the  doings  of  his  more 

r 'ritual  inmate — leading  you  to  suppose,  almost, 
it  the  latter,  though  billeted  upon  him,  had  not 
been  properly  introduced.  The  thatch  of  this  com 
mon  tenement  was  of  jetty  black  hair,  curling  in  most 
opulent  prodigality,  and,  altogether,  it  was  a  house 
that  Hadad,  the  fallen  spirit,  might  have  chosen,  when 
becoming  incarnate  to  tempt  the  sister  of  Absalom. 

Perhaps  you  have  been  in  Florence,  dear  reader, 
and  know  by  what  royal  liberality  artists  are  permitted 
to  bring  their  easels  into  the  splendid  apartments  of 
the  palace,  and  copy  from  the  priceless  pictxires  on 
the  walls.  At  the  time  I  have  my  eye  upon  (some 
few  years  ago),  McDonald  was  making  a  beginning 
of  a  copy  of  Titian's  Bella,  and  near  him  stood  the 


easel  of  a  female  artist  who  was  copying   from  the 
glorious  picture  of  "  Judith  and   Holofernes,"  in  the 
same   apartment.     Mademoiselle   Folie   (so  she  was 
called   by  the  elderly  lady  who  always  accompanied 
her)  was  a  small  and  very  gracefully-formed  creature, 
i  with  the  plainest  face  in  which  attraction  could  possi 
bly  reside.     She  was  a  passionate  student  of  her  art, 
pouring  upon  it  apparently  the  entire  fulness  of  her 
I  life,  and  as  unconsciously  forgetful  of  her  personal 
|  impressions  on  those  around  her,  as  if  she  wore  the 
I  invisible  ring  of  Gyges.     The  deference  with  which 
|  she  was  treated   by  her  staid  companion  drew  some 
j  notice  upon  her,  however,  and   her  progress,  in  the 
copy  she  was  making,  occasionally  gathered  the  artists 
about  her  easel ;  and,  altogether,  her  position  among 
the  silent  and  patient  company  at  work  in  the  different 
halls  of  the  palace,  was  one  of  affectionate  and  tacit 
respect.     McDonald   was  her   nearest  neighbor,  and 
they  frequently  looked  over  each  other's  pictures,  but, 
as  they  were  both  foreigners  in  Florence  (she  of  Polish 
birth,   as  he  understood),   their  conversation   was  in 
'  French  or  Italian,  neither  of  which  languages  were 
fluently  familiar  to  Graeme,  and  it  was  limited  gene- 
!  rally  to  expressions  of  courtesy  or  brief  criticism  of 
|  each  other's  labors. 

As  I  said  before,  it  was  a  "  proof-impression"  of  a 
celestial  summer's  morning,  and  the  thermometer 
stood  at  heavenly  idleness.  McDonald  sat  with  his 
maul-stick  across  his  knees,  drinking  from  Titian's 
picture.  An  artist,  who  had  lounged  in  from  the 

I  next  room,  had  hung  himself  by  the  crook  of  his  arm 

\  over  a  high  peg,  in  his  comrade's  easel,  and  every  now 
!  and  then  he  volunteered  an  observation  to  which  he 
|  expected  no  particular  answer. 

"  When  I  remember  how  little  beauty  1  have  seen 
!  in  the  world,"  said  Ingarde  (this  artist),  "  I  am  inclined 
to  believe  with  Saturninus,  that  there  is  no  resurrec 
tion  of  bodies,  and  that  only  the  spirits  of  the  good 
return  into  the  body  of  the  Godhead — for  what  is 
ugliness  to  do  in  heaven  !" 

McDonald  only  said,  "  hm — hm  !" 
"  Or  rather,"  said  Ingarde  again,  "  I  should  like  to 
fashion  a  creed  for  myself,  and  believe  that  nothing 

II  was  immortal   but  what  was  heavenly,  and  that  the 
j  I  good  among  men  and  the   beautiful   among  women 
||  would  be  the  only  reproductions  hereafter.     How  will 

i  this  little  plain  woman  look  in  the  streets  of  the  New 
II  Jerusalem,  for  example  ?  Yet  she  expects,  as  we  all 
||  do,  to  be  recognisable  by  her  friends  in  Heaven,  and, 
!  of  ceurse,  to  have  the  same  irredeemably  plain  face  ! 
I  (Does  she  understand  English,  by  the  way— for ^ she 
might  not  be  altogether  pleased  with  my  theory  !") 

"I  have  spoken  to  her  very  often,"  said  McDonald, 
"and  I  think  English  is  Hebrew  to  her— but  my  theo 
ry  of  beauty  crosses  at  least  one  corner  of  your  argu 
ment,  my  friend  !  I  believe  that  the  original  type  ot 
every  human  face  is  beautiful,  and  that  every  human 
being  could  be  made  beautiful,  without,  in  any  essential 
particular,  destroying  the  visible  identity.  The  like 
ness  preserved  in  the  faces  of  a  family  through  several 
'i  generations  is  modified  by  the  bad  mental  qualities, 
i  and  the  bad  health  of  those  who  hand  is  down.  Re- 
j  move  these  modifications,  and,  without  destroying  the 
I  family  likeness,  you  would  take  away  all  that  mars  the 


THE  COUNTESS  NYSCHRIEM- 


beauty  of  its  particular  type.  An  individual  coun 
tenance  is  an  integral  work  of  God's  making,  and  God 
'  saw  that  it  was  good'  when  he  made  it.  Ugliness, 
as  you  phrase  it,  is  the  damage  that  type  of  countenance 
has  received  from  the  sin  and  suffering  of  life.  But 
the  type  can  be  restored,  and  will  be,  doubtless,  in 
Heaven  !" 

"  And  you  think  that  little  woman's  face  could  be 
made  beautiful  ?" 

"  I  know  it." 

"Try  it,  then!  Here  is  your  copy  of  Titian's 
'Bella,'  all  finished  but  the  face.  Make  an  apotheosis 
portrait  of  your  neighbor,  and  while  it  harmonizes 
with  the  body  of  Titian's  beauty,  still  leave  it  recogni 
sable  as  her  portrait,  and  I'll  give  in  to  your  theory — 
believing  in  all  other  miracles,  if  you  like,  at  the  same 
time !" 

Ingarde  laughed,  as  he  went  back  to  his  own  picture, 
and  McDonald,  after  sitting  a  few  minutes  lost  in 
revery,  turned  his  easel  so  as  to  get  a  painter's  view 
of  his  female  neighbor.  He  thought  she  colored 
slightly  as  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  ;  but,  if  so,  she 
apparently  became  very  soon  unconscious  of  his  gaze, 
and  he  was  soon  absorbed  himself  in  the  task  to  which 
his  friend  had  so  mockingly  challenged  him. 


II. 


[Excuse  me,  dear  reader,  while  with  two  epistles  I 
build  a  bridge  over  which  you  can  cross  a  chasm  of  a 
month  in  my  story.] 

"  To  GRAEME  MO-DONALD. 

"Sir:  I  am  intrusted  with  a  delicate  commission, 
which  I   know  not  how  to  broach  to  you,  except  by 
simple  proposal.     Will  you  forgive  my  abrupt  brevity, 
if  I  inform  you,   without  further  preface,   that    the 
Countess  Nyschriem,  a  Polish  lady  of  high  birth  and 
ample  fortune,  does  you  the  honor  to  propose  for  your 
hand.     If  you  are  disengaged,  and  your  affections  are 
not  irrevocably  given  to  another,  I  can  conceive  no 
sufficient  obstacle  to  your  acceptance  of  this  brilliant 
connexion.      The   countess   is   twenty-two,   and   not 
beautiful,  it  must  in  fairness  be  said  ;   but  she   has  j 
high  qualities  of  head  and  heart,  and  is  worthy  of  any 
man's  respect  and  affection.     She  has  seen  you,  of 
course,  and  conceived  a  passion  for  you,  of  which  this 
is  the  result.     I  am  directed  to  add,  that  should  you  ! 
consent,  the  following  conditions  are  imposed — that  j 
you  marry  her  within  four  days,  making  no  inquiry 
except  as  to  her  age,  rank,  and   property,  and  that,  ; 
without  previous  interview,  she  come  veiled  to  the 
altar. 

"An  answer  is  requested  in  the  course  of  to-morrow, 
addressed  to  '  The  Count  Hanswald,  minister  of  his 
majesty  the  king  of  Prussia.' 

"I  have  the  honor,  &c.,  &c.         "HANSWALD." 

McDonald's  answer  was  as  follows  : — • 

"To  HIS  EXCELLENCY,  HANSWALD,  &c.,  &c. 

"You  will  pardon  me  that  I  have  taken  two  days  to 
consider  the  extraordinary  proposition  made  me  in 
your  letter.  The  subject,  since  it  is  to  be  entertained 
a  moment,  requires,  perhaps,  still  further  reflection — 
but  my  reply  shall  be  definite,  and  as  prompt  as  I  can 
bring  myself  to  be,  in  a  matter  so  important. 

"  My  first  impulse  was  to  return  your  letter,  declining 
the  honor  you  would  do  me,  and  thanking  the  lady 
for  the  compliment  of  her  choice.  My  first  reflection 
was  the  relief  and  happiness  which  an  independence 
would  bring  to  a  mother  and  two  sisters  dependant, 
now,  on  the  precarious  profits  of  my  pencil.  And  I 
first  consented  to  ponder  the  matter  with  this  view, 
and  I  now  consent  to  marry  (frankly)  for  this  advan 
tage.  But  still  I  have  a  condition  to  propose. 

"  In  the  studies  I  have  had  the  opportunity  to  make 


of  the  happiness  of  imaginative  men  in  matrimony,  I 
have  observed  that  their  two  worlds  of  fact  and  fancy 
were  seldom  under  the  control  of  one  mistress.  It 
must  be  a  very  extraordinary  woman  of  course,  who, 
with  the  sweet  domestic  qualities  needful  for  common 
life,  possesses  at  the  same  time  the  elevation  and 
spirituality  requisite  for  the  ideal  of  the  poet  and 
painter.  And  I  am  not  certain,  in  any  case,  whethei 
the  romance  of  some  secret  passion,  fed  and  pursued 
in  the  imagination  only,  be  not  the  inseparable  neces 
sity  of  a  poetical  nature.  For  the  imagination  is  in 
capable  of  being  chained,  and  it  is  at  once  disenchant 
ed  and  set  roaming  by  the  very  possession  and  cer 
taiiity,  which  are  the  charms  of  matrimony.  Whethei 
exclusive  devotion  of  all  the  faculties  of  mind  and  bodjf 
be  the  fidelity  exacted  in  marriage,  is  a  question  every 
woman  should  consider  before  making  a  husband  of 
an  imaginative  man.  As  I  have  not  seen  the  countess, 
I  can  generalize  on  the  subject  without  offence,  and 
she  is  the  best  judge  whether  she  can  chain  my  fancy 
as  well  as  my  affections,  or  yield  to  an  imaginative 
mistress  the  devotion  of  so  predominant  a  quality  of 
my  nature.  I  can  only  promise  her  the  constancy  of 
a  husband. 

"  Still — if  this  were  taken  for  only  vague  specula 
tion — she  might  be  deceived.  I  must  declare,  frankly, 
that  I  am,  at  present,  completely  possessed  with  an 
imaginative  passion.  The  object  of  it  is  probably  as 
poor  as  I,  and  I  could  never  marry  her  were  I  to  con 
tinue  free.  Probably,  too,  the  high-born  countess- 
would  be  but  little  jealous  of  her  rival,  for  she  has  no 
pretensions  to  beauty,  and  is  an  humble  artist.  But, 
in  painting  this  lady's  portrait — (a  chance  experiment, 
to  try  whether  so  plain  a  face  could  be  made  lovely) 
— I  have  penetrated  to  so  beautiful  an  inner  counten 
ance  (so  to  speak) — I  have  found  charms  of  impres 
sion  so  subtly  masked  to  the  common  eye — I  have 
traced  such  exquisite  lineament  of  soul  and  feeling, 
visible,  for  the  present,  I  believe,  to  my  eye  only — 
that,  while  I  live,  I  shall  do  irresistible  homage  to  her 
as  the  embodiment  of  my  fancy's  want,  the  very  spirit 
and  essence  suitable  to  rule  over  my  unseen  world  of 
imagination.  Marry  whom  I  will,  and  be  true  to  her 
as  I  shall,  this  lady  will  (perhaps  unknown  to  herself) 
be  my  mistress  in  dream-land  and  revery. 

"  This  inevitable  license  allowed — my  ideal  world 
and  its  devotions,  that  is  to  say,  left  entirely  to  myself 
— I  am  ready  to  accept  the  honor  of  the  countess's 
hand.  If,  at  the  altar,  she  should  hear  me  murmur 
another  name  with  her  own — (for  the  bride  of  my  fancy 
must  be  present  when  I  wed,  and  I  shall  link  the  vows 
to  both  in  one  ceremony)- — let  her  not  fear  for  my 
constancy  to  herself,  but  let  her  remember  that  it  is 
not  to  offend  her  hereafter,  if  the  name  of  the  other 
come  to  my  lip  in  dreams. 

"  Your  excellency  may  command  my  time  and 
presence.  With  high  consideration,  &c. 

'•GRAEME  MCDONALD." 

Rather  agitated  than  surprised  seemed  Mademoiselle 
Folie,  when,  the  next  day,  as  she  arranged  her  brushes 
upon  the  shelf  of  her  easel,  her  handsome  neighbor 
commenced,  in  the  most  fluent  Italian  he  could  com 
mand,  to  invite  her  to  his  wedding.  Very  much 
surprised  was  McDonald  when  she  interrupted  him 
in  English,  and  begged  him  to  use  his  native  tongue, 
as  madatne,  her  attendant,  would  not  then  understand 
him.  He  went  on  delightedly  in  his  own  honest 
language,  and  explained  to  her  his  imaginative  ad 
miration,  though  he  felt  compunctious,  somewhat, 
that  so  unreal  a  sentiment  should  bring  the  blood  into 
her  cheek.  She  thanked  him — drew  the  cloth  from 
the  upper  part  of  her  own  picture,  and  showed  him  an 
admirable  portrait  of  his  handsome  features,  substituted 
for  the  masculine  head  of  Judith  in  the  original  from 
which  she  copied — and  promised  to  be  at  his  wedding, 


MY  ONE  ADVENTURE  AS  A  BRIGAND. 


and  to  listen  sharply  for  her  murmured  name  in  his 
vow  at  the  altar.  He  chanced  to  wear  at  the  moment 
a  ring  of  red  cornelian,  and  he  agreed  with  her"  that 
she  should  stand  where  he  could  see  her,  and,  at  the 
moment  of  his  putting  the  marriage  ring  upon  the 
bride's  fingers,  that  she  should  put  on  this,  and  for 
ever  after  wear  it,  as  a  token  of  having  received  his 
spiritual  vows  of  devotion. 

The  day  came,  and  the  splendid  equipage  of  the 
countess  dashed  into  the  square  of  Santa  Maria,  with 
a  veiled  bride  and  a  cold  bridegroom,  and  deposited 
them  at  the  steps  of  the  church.  And  they  were  fol 
lowed  by  other  coroneted  equipages,  and  gayly  dress 
ed  from  each — the  mother  and  sisters  of  the  bride 
groom  gayly  dressed,  among  them,  but  looking  pale 
with  incertitude  and  dread. 

The  veiled  bride  was  small,  but  she  moved  grace 
fully  up  the  aisle,  and  met  her  future  husband  at  the 
altar  with  a  low  courtesy,  and  madia  sign  to  the  priest 
to  proceed  with  the  ceremony.  McDonald  was  color 


less,  but  firm,  and  indeed  showed  little  interest,  except 
by  an  anxious  look  now  and  then  among  the  crowd  of 
spectators  at  the  sides  of  the  altar.  He  pronounced 
with  a  steady  voice,  but  when  the  ring  was  to  be  put 
on,  he  looked  around  for  an  instant,  and  then  sudden 
ly,  and  to  the  great  scandal  of  the  church,  clasped  his 
bride  with  a  passionate  ejaculation  to  his  bosom. 
The  cornelian  ring  was  on  her  finger — and  the  Countess 
Nyschriem  and  Mademoiselle  Folie — his  bride  and 
his  fancy  queen — were  one. 

This  curious  event  happened  in  Florence  some 
eight  years  since — as  all  people  then  there  will  re 
member — and  it  was  prophesied  of  the  countess  that 
she  would  have  but  a  short  lease  of  her  handsome  and 
gay  husband.  But  time  does  not  say  so.  A  more 
constant  husband  than  McDonald  to  his  plain  and 
titled  wife,  and  one  more  continuously  in  love,  does 
not  travel  and  buy  pictures,  and  patronize  artists — 
though  few  except  yourself  and  I,  dear  reader,  know 
the  philosophy  of  it! 


MY  ONE  ADVENTURE   AS  A  BRIGAND, 


I  WAS  standing  in  a  hostelry,  at  Geneva,  making  a 
bargain  with  an  Italian  for  a  place  in  a  return  carriage 
to  Florence,  when  an  Englishman,  who  had  been  in 
the  same  steamer  with  me  on  Lake  Leman,  the  day 
before,  came  in  and  stood  listening  to  the  conversa 
tion.  We  had  been  the  only  two  passengers  on  board, 
but  had  passed  six  hours  in  each  other's  company 
without  speaking.  The  road  to  an  Englishman's 
friendship  is  to  have  shown  yourself  perfectly  indiffer 
ent  to  his  acquaintance,  and,  as  I  liked  him  from  the 
first,  we  were  now  ready  to  be  conscious  of  each  oth 
er's  existence. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  he,  advancing  in  a  pause  of 
the  vetturino's  oration,  "will  you  allow  me  to  engage 
a  place  with  you?  1  am  going  to  Florence,  and,  if 
agreeable  to  you,  we  will  take  the  carriage  to  our 
selves." 

I  agreed  very  willingly,  and  in  two  hours  we  were 
free  of  the  gates  of  Geneva,  and  keeping  along  the 
edge  of  the  lake  in  the  cool  twilight  of  one  of  the  love 
liest  of  heaven's  summer  evenings.  The  carriage  was 
spaciously  contrived  for  four;  and,  with  the  curtains 
up  all  around,  our  feet  on  the  forward  seat,  my  com 
panion  smoking,  and  conversation  bubbling  up  to 
please  itself,  we  rolled  over  the  smooth  road,  gliding 
into  the  first  chapter  of  our  acquaintance  as  tuanquilly 
as  Geoffrey  Crayon  and  his  reader  into  the  first  chap 
ter  of  anything  he  has  written. 

My  companion  (Mr.  St.  John  Elmslie,  as  put  down 
in  his  passport)  seemed  to  have  something  to  think  of 
beside  propitiating  my  good  will,  but  he  was  consid 
erate  and  winning,  from  evident  high  breeding,  and 
quite  open,  himself,  to  my  most  scrutinizing  study. 
He  was  about  thirty,  and,  without  any  definite  beauty, 
was  a  fine  specimen  of  a  man.  Probably  most  per 
sons  would  have  called  him  handsome.  I  liked  him 
better,  probably,  from  the  subdued  melancholy  with 
which  he  brooded  on  his  secret  thought,  whatever  it 
might  be — sad  men,  in  this  world  of  boisterous  gayety 
or  selfish  ill-humor,  interesting  me  always. 

From  that  something,  on  which  his  memory  fed  in 
quiet  but  constant  revery,  nothing  aroused  my  com 
panion  except  the  passing  of  a  travelling  carriage,  go 
ing  in  the  other  direction,  on  our  own  arrival  at  an  inn. 
I  began  to  suspect,  indeed,  after  a  little  while,  that 
Elmslie  had  some  understanding  with  our  vetturino, 


for,  on  the  approach  of  any  vehicle  of  pleasure,  our 
horses  became  restiff,  and,  with  a  sudden  pull-up, 
stood  directly  across  the  way.  Out  jumped  my  friend 
to  assist  in  controlling  the  restift'  animals,  and,  in  the 
five  minutes  during  which  the  strangers  were  obliged 
to  wait,  we  generally  saw  their  heads  once  or  twice 
thrust  inquiringly  from  the  carriage  window.  This 
done,  our  own  vehicle  was  again  wheeled  about,  and 
the  travellers  allowed  to  proceed. 

We  had  arrived  at  Bologna  with  but  one  interruption 
to  the  quiet  friendliness  of  our  intercourse.  Apropos 
of  some  vein  of  speculation,  I  had  asked  my  companion 
if  he  were  married.  He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  in  a  jocose  tone  of  voice,  which  was  new  to  me, 
replied,  "  1  believe  I  have  a  wife — somewhere  in  Scot 
land."  But  though  Elmslie  had  determined  to  show 
me  that  he  was  neither  annoyed  nor  offended  at  my 
inquisitiveness,  his  manner  changed.  He  grew  cere 
monious.  For  the  remainder  of  that  day,  I  felt  un 
comfortable,  I  scarce  knew  why;  and  I  silently  deter 
mined  that  if  my  friend  continued  so  exceedingly  well- 
bred  in  his  manner  for  another  day,  I  should  find  an 
excuse  for  leaving  him  at  Bologna. 

But  we  had  left  Bologna,  and,  at  sunset  of  a  warm 
day,  were  slowly  toiling  up  the  Apennines.  The  inn  to 
which  we  were  bound  was  in  sight,  a  mile  or  two  above 
us,  and,  as  the  vetturiuo  stopped  to  breathe  his  horses, 
Elmslie  jumped  from  the  carriage  and  started  to  walk 
on.  I  took  advantage  of  his  absence  to  stretch  myself 
over  the  vacated  cushions,  and,  on  our  arrival  at  the 
inn,  was  soundly  asleep. 

My  friend's  voice,  in  an  unusual  tone,  awoke  me, 
and,  by  his  face,  as  he  looked  in  at  the  carriage  win 
dow,  1  saw  that  he  was  under  some  extraordinary  ex 
citement.  This  I  observed  by  the  light  of  the  stable- 
lantern for  the  hostelry,  Italian  fashion,  occupied 

the  lower  story  of  the  inn,  and  our  carriage  was  driven 

under  the  archway,  where  the  faint  light  from  without 

I   made  but  little  impression  on  the  darkness.    I  followed 

Elmslie's  beckoning  finger,  and  climbing  after  him  up 

the  stairway  of  stone,  stood  in  a  large  refectory  occu- 

|  pying  the  whole  of  the  second  story  of  the  building. 

At  the  first  glance  I  saw  that  there  was  an  English 
'I  party  in  the  house.  An  Italian  inn  of  the  lower  order 
i  has  no  provision  for  private  parties,  and  few,  except 
I]  English  travellers,  object  to  joining  the  common  even- 


40 


MY  ONE  ADVENTURE  AS  A  BRIGAND. 


ing  meal.  The  hall  was  dark  with  the  twilight,  but  a 
large  curtain  was  suspended  across  the  farther  ex 
tremity,  and,  by  the  glimmer  of  lights,  and  an  occa 
sional  sound  of  a  knife,  a  party  was  within  supping  in 
silence. 

"  If  you  speak,  speak  in  Italian,"  whispered  Elms- 
lie,  taking  me  by  the  arm,  and  leading  me  on  tiptoe  to 
one  of  the  corners  of  the  curtain. 

I  looked  in  and  saw  two  persons  seated  at  a  table — • 
a  bold  and  soldierly-looking  man  of  fifty,  and  a  young 
lady,  evidently  his  daughter.  The  beauty  of  the  last- 
mentioned  person  was  so  extraordinary  that  I  nearly 
committed  the  indiscretion  of  an  exclamation  in  Eng 
lish.  She  was  slight,  but  of  full  and  well-rounded 
proportions,  and  she  sat  and  moved  with  an  emi 
nent  grace  and  ladylikeness  altogether  captivating. 
Though  her  face  expressed  a  settled  sadness,  it  was 
of  unworn  and  faultless  youth  and  loveliness,  and 
while  her  heavily-fringed  eyes  would  have  done,  in 
their  expression,  for  a  Niobe,  Hebe's  lips  were  not 
more  ripe,  nor  Juno's  arched  more  proudly.  She  was 
a  blonde,  with  eyes  and  eyelashes  darker  than  her 
hair — a  kind  of  beauty  almost  peculiar  to  England. 

The  passing  in  of  a  tall  footman,  in  a  plain  livery  of 
gray,  interrupted  my  gaze,  and  Elmslie  drew  me  away 
by  the  arm,  and  led  me  into  the  road  in  front  of  the 
locanda.  The  night  had  now  fallen,  and  we  strolled 
up  and  down  in  the  glimmer  of  the  starlight.  My 
companion  was  evidently  much  disturbed,  and  we 
made  several  turns  after  I  had  seen  very  plainly  that 
he  was  making  up  his  mind  to  communicate  to  me  the 
secret. 

"1  have  a  request  to  make  of  you,"  he  said,  at  last; 
"  a  service  to  exact,  rather,  to  which  there  were  no 
hope  that  you  would  listen  for  a  moment  if  I  did  not 
first  tell  you  a  very  singular  story.  Have  a  little  pa 
tience  with  me,,  and  I  will  make  it  as  brief  as  I  can — 
the  briefer,  that  I  have  no  little  pain  in  recalling  it  with 
the  distinctness  of  description." 

I  expressed  my  interest  in  all  that  concerned  my 
new  friend,  and  begged  him  to  go  on. 

"Hardly  six  years  ago,"  said' Elmslie,  pressing  my 
arm  gently  in  acknowledgment  of  my  sympathy,  "  I 
left  college  and  joined  my  regiment,  for  the  first  time, 
in  Scotland.  By  the  way,  I  should  re-introduce  my 
self  to  you  as  Viscount  S ,  of  the  title  of  which, 

then,  I  was  in  prospect.  My  story  hinges  somewhat 
upon  the  fact  that,  as  an  honorable  captain,  a  noble 
man  in  expectancy,  I  was  an  object  of  some  extrane 
ous  interest  to  the  ladies  who  did  the  flirting  for  the 
garrison.  God  forgive  me  for  speaking  lightly  on  the 
subject ! 

"  A  few  evenings  after  my  arrival,  we  had  been  dining 
rather  freely  at  mess,  and  the  major  announced  to  us 
that  we  were  invited  to  take  tea  with  a  linen-draper, 
whose  house  was  a  popular  resort  of  the  officers  of 
the  regiment.  The  man  had  three  or  four  daughters, 
who,  as  the  phrase  goes,  '  gave  you  a  great  deal  for 
your  money,'  and,  for  romping  and  frolicking,  they 
had  good  looks  and  spirit  enough.  The  youngest  was 
really  very  pretty,  but  the  eldest,  to  whom  I  was  ex 
clusively  presented  by  the  major,  as  a  sort  of  quiz  on 
a  new-comer,  was  a  sharp  and  sneering  old  maid,  red 
headed,  freckled,  and  somewhat  lame.  Not  to  be  out 
done  in  frolic  by  my  persecutor,  I  commenced  making 
love  to  Miss  Jacky  in  mock  heroics,  and  we  were  soon 
marching  up  and  down  the  room,  to  the  infinite  enter 
tainment  of  my  brother  officers,  lavishing  on  each  other 
every  possible  term  of  endearment. 

"In  the  midst  of  this,  the  major  came  up  to  me  with 
rather  a  serious  face. 

"  'Whatever  you  do,'  said  he,  'for  God's  sake  don't 
call  the  old  girl  your  wife.  The  joke  might  be  seri 
ous.' 

"  It  was  quite  enough  that  I  was  desired  not  to  do 
anything  in  the  reign  of  misrule  then  prevailing.  I 


immediately  assumed  a  connubial  air,  to  the  best  of 
my  dramatic  ability,  begged  Miss  Jacky  to  join  me  in 
the  frolic,  and  made  the  rounds  of  the 'room,  introdu 
cing  the  old  girl  as  Mrs.  Elmslie,  and  receiving  from 
her  quite  as  many  tendernesses  as  were  bearable  by 
myself  or  the  company  present.  I  observed  that  the 
lynx-eyed  linen-draper  watched  this  piece  of  fun  very 
closely,  and  my  friend,  the  major,  seemed  distressed 
and  grave  about  it.  But  we  carried  it  out  till  the 
party  broke  up,  and  the  next  day  the  regiment  was 
ordered  over  to  Ireland,  and  I  thought  no  more,  for 
awhile,  either  of  Miss  Jacky  or  my  own  absurdity. 

"Two  years  afterward,  I  was,  at  a  drawing-room  at 
St.  James's,  presented,  for  the  first  time,  by  the  name 
which  I  bear.  It  was  not  a  very  agreeable  event  to  me, 
as  our  family  fortunes  were  inadequate  to  the  proper 
support  of  the  title,  and  on  the  generosity  of  a  maternal 
uncle,  who  had  been  at  mortal  variance  with  my  father, 
depended  our  hopes*>f  restoration  to  prosperity.  From 
the  mood  of  bitter  melancholy  in  which  I  had  gone 
through  the  ceremony  of  an  introduction,  I  was  aroused 
by  the  murmur  in  the  crowd  at  the  approach  of  a  young 
girl  just  presented  to  the  king.  She  was  following  a 
lady  whom  I  slightly  knew,  and  had  evidently  been 
presented  by  her;  and,  before  I  had  begun  to  recover 
from  my  astonishment  at  her  beauty,  I  was  requested 
by  this  lady  to  give  her  jjrotege  an  arm  and  follow  to  a 
less  crowded  apartment  of  the  palace. 

"Ah,  my  friend!  the  exquisite  beauty  of  Lady 
Meiicent — but  you  have  seen  her.  She  is  here,  and 
I  must  fold  her  in  my  arms  to-night,  or  perish  in  the 
attempt. 

'Pardon  me!"  he  added,  as  I  was  about  to  inter 
rupt  him  with  an  explanation.  "  She  has  been — she 
s — my  wife  !  She  loved  me  and  married  me,  making 
ife  a  heaven  of  constant  ecstacy — for  I  worshipped 
her  with  every  fibre  of  my  existence." 

He  paused  and  gave  me  his  story  brokenly,  and  I 
waited  for  him  to  go  on  without  questioning. 

"We  had  lived  together  in  absolute  and  unclouded 
bappiness  for  eight  months,  in  lover-like  seclusion  at 
ber  father's  house,  and  I  was  looking  forward  to  the 
airth  of  my  child  with  anxiety  and  transport,  when  the 
death  of  my  uncle  left  me  heir  to  his  immense  fortune, 
and  I  parted  from  my  greater  treasure  to  go  and  pay 
the  fitting  respect  at  his  burial. 

"  I  returned,  after  a  week's  absence,  with  an  impa 
tience  and  ardor  almost  intolerable,  and  found  the  door 
closed  against  me. 

"  There  were  two  letters  for  me  at  the  porter's  lodge 

— one  from  Lord  A ,  my  wife's  father,  informing 

me  that  the  Lady  Meiicent  had  miscarried  and  was 
dangerously  ill,  and  enjoining  upon  me  as  a  man  of 
honor  and  delicacy,  never  to  attempt  to  see  her  again ; 
ind  another  from  Scotland,  claiming  a  fitting  support 
or  rny  lawful  wife,  the  daughter  of  the  linen-draper. 
The  proofs  of  the  marriage,  duly  sworn  to  and  certi 
fied  by  the  witnesses  of  my  fatal  frolic,  were  enclosed, 
and  on  my  recovery,  six  weeks  after,  from  the  delirium 
nto  which  these  multiplied  horrors  precipitated  me,  I 
bund  that,  by  the  Scotch  law,  the  first  marriage  was 
valid,  and  my  ruin  was  irrevocable." 

"And  how  long  since  was  this  ?"  I  inquired,  break- 
ng  in  upon  his  narration  for  the  first  time. 

"A  year  and  a  month — and  till  to-night  I  have  not 
seen  her.  But  I  must  break  through  this  dreadful 
eparation  now — and  I  must  speak  to  her,  and  press 
icr  to  my  breast — and  you  will  aid  me  1" 

"To  the  last  drop  of  my  blood,  assuredly.  But 
how  ?" 

"  Come  to  the  inn  !     You  have  not  supped,  and  we 

11  devise  as  you  eat.  And  you  must  lend  me  your 
nvention,  for  my  heart  and  brain  seem  to  me  going 
rild." 

Two  hours  after,  with  a  pair  of  loaded  pistols  in  my 
reast,  we  went  to  the  chamber  of  the  host,  and  bound 


WIGWAM  VERSUS  ALMACK'S. 


41 


him  and  his  wife  to  the  posts  of  their  beds.  There 
was  but  one  man  about  the  house,  the  hostler,  and  we 
had  made  him  intoxicated  with  our  travelling  flask  of 
brandy.  Lord  A and  his  daughter  were  still  sit 
ting  up,  and  she,  at  her  chamber  window,  was  watch 
ing  the  just  risen  moon,  over  which  the  clouds  were 
drifting  very  rapidly.  Our  business  was,  now,  only 
with  them,  as,  in  their  footman,  my  companion  had 
found  an  attached  creature,  who  remembered  him,  and 
willingly  agreed  to  offer  no  interruption. 

After  taking  a  pull  at  the  brandy-flask  myself  (for, 
in  spite  of  my  blackened  face  and  the  slouched  hat  of 
the  hostler,  I  required  some  fortification  of  the  mus 
cles  of  my  face  before  doing  violence  to  an  English 
nobleman),  I  opened  the  door  of  the  chamber  which 
must  be  passed  to  gain  access  to  that  of  Lady  Meli- 

cent.    It  was  Lord  A 's  sleeping-room,  and,  though 

the  light  was  extinguished,  I  could  see  that  he  was 
still  up,  and  sitting  at  the  window.  Turning  my  lan 
tern  inward,  I  entered  the  room  and  set  it  down,  and, 

to  my  relief,  Lord  A soliloquized  in  English,  that 

it  was  the  host  with  a  hint  that  it  was  time  to  go  to 
bed.  My  friend  was  at  the  door,  according  to  my  ar-  ! 
rangement,  ready  to  assist  me  should  I  find  any  diffi 
culty;  but,  from  the  dread  of  premature  discovery  of  ! 
the  person,  he  was  to  let  me  manage  it  alone  if  pos-  ' 
sible. 

Lord  A sat  unsuspectingly  in  his  chair,  with 

his  head  turned  half  way  over  his  shoulders  to  see  why 
the  officious  host  did  not  depart.     I  sprung  suddenly 
upon  him,  drew  him  backward  and  threw  him  on  his  \ 
face,  and,  with  my  haud  over  his  mouth,  threatened  •, 


him  with  death,  in  my  choicest  Italian,  if  he  did  not 
remain  passive  till  his  portmanteau  had  been  looked 
into.  I  thought  he  might  submit,  with  the  idea  that 
it  was  only  a  robbery,  and  so  it  proved.  He  allowed 
me,  after  a  short  struggle,  to  tie  his  hands  behind  him, 
and  march  him  down  to  his  carriage,  before  the  muz 
zle  of  my  pistol.  The  hostelry  was  still  as  death,  and, 
shutting  his  carriage  door  upon  his  lordship,  I  mount 
ed  guard. 

The  night  seemed  to  me  very  long,  but  morning 
dawned,  and,  with  the  earliest  gray,  the  postillions 
came  knocking  at  the  outer  door  of  the  locanda.  My 
friend  went  out  to  them,  while  I  marched  back  Lord 

A to  his  chamber,  and,  by  immense  bribing,  the 

horses  were  all  put  to  our  carriage  a  half  hour  after, 
and  the  outraged  nobleman  was  left  without  the  means 
of  pursuit  till  their  return.  We  reached  Florence  iu 
safety,  and  pushed  on  immediately  to  Leghorn,  where 
we  took  the  steamer  for  Marseilles  and  eluded  arrest, 
very  much  to  my  most  agreeable  surprise. 

By  a  Providence  that  does  not  always  indulge  mor 
tals  with  removing  those  they  wish  in  another  world, 

Lord  S has  lately  been  freed  from  his  harrowing 

chain  by  the  death  of  his  so-called  lady;  and,  having 
re-married  Lady  Melicent,  their  happiness  is  renewed 
and  perfect.  In  his  letter  to  me,  announcing  it,  he 
gives  me  liberty  to  tell  the  story,  as  the  secret  was  di 
vulged  to  Lord  A on  the  day  of  his  second  nup 
tials.  He  said  nothing,  however,  of  his  lordship's 
forgiveness  for  my  rude  handling  of  his  person,  and, 
in  ceasing  to  be  considered  a  brigand,  possibly  I  am 
;  responsible  as  a  gentleman. 


WIGWAM  versus  ALMACK'S, 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN  one  of  the  years  not  long  since  passed  to  your 
account  and  mine  by  the  recording  angel,  gentle  read 
er,  I  was  taking  my  fill  of  a  delicious  American  June, 
as  Ducrow  takes  his  bottle  of  wine,  on  the  back  of  a 
beloved  horse.  In  the  expressive  language  of  the 
raftsmen  on  the  streams  of  the  West,  I  was  "  follow 
ing"  the  Chemung — a  river  whose  wild  and  peculiar 
loveliness  is  destined  to  be  told  in  undying  song,  when 
ever  America  can  find  leisure  to  look  up  her  poets. 
Such  bathing  of  the  feet  of  precipices,  such  kissing 
of  flowery  slopes,  such  winding  in  and  out  of  the  bo 
soms  of  round  meadows,  such  frowning  amid  Broken 
rocks,  and  smiling  through  smooth  valleys,  you  would 
never  believe  could  go  in  this  out-of-doors  world, 
unvisited  and  uncelebrated. 

Not  far  from  the  ruins  of  a  fortification,  said  to  have 
been  built  by  the  Spaniards  before  the  settlement  of 
New-England  by  the  English,  the  road  along  the  Che 
mung   dwindles  into  a  mere   ledge  at  the  foot  of  a 
precipice,  the  river  wearing  into  the  rock  at  this  spot  j 
by  a  black  and  deep  eddy.     At  the  height  of  your  lip  ! 
above  the  carriage  track,  there  gushes  from  the  rock 
a  stream  of  the  size   and  steady  clearness  of  a  glass 
rod,  and  all  around  it  in  the  small  rocky  lap  which  it  ; 
has  worn  away,   there   grows  a  bed  of  fragrant  mint, 
kept  by  the  shade  and  moisture  of  a  perpetual  green, 
bright  as  emerald.     Here  stops  every  traveller  who  is 
not   upon  an  errand  of  life  or  death,   and   while  his 
horse  stands  up  to  his  fetlocks  in  the  river,  he  parts  ' 
the  dewy  stems  of  the  mint,   and  drinks,  for  once  in  \ 
his  life,  like  a  fay  or  a  poet.     It  is  one  of  those  ex 
quisite  spots  which  paint  their  own  picture  insensibly 


in  the  memory,  even  while  you  look  on  them,  natural 
"  Daguerrotypes,"  as  it  were  ;  and  you  are  surprised, 
years  afterward,  to  find  yourself  remembering  every 
leaf  and  stone,  and  the  song  of  every  bird  that  sung 
in  the  pine-trees  overhead  while  you  were  watching 
the  curve  of  the  spring-leap.  As  I  said  before,  it  will 
be  sung  and  celebrated,  when  America  sits  down  weary 
with  her  first  century  of  toil,  and  calls  for  her  min 
strels,  now  toiling  with  her  in  the  fields. 

Within  a  mile  of  this  spot,  to  which  I  had  been 
looking  forward  with  delight  for  some  hours,  I  over 
took  a  horseman.  Before  coming  up  with  him  I  had 
at  once  decided  he  was  an  Indian.  His  relaxed  limbs 
swaying  to  every  motion  of  his  horse  with  the  grace 
and  ease  of  a  wreath  of  smoke,  his  neck  and  shoulders 
so  cleanly  shaped,  and  a  certain  watchful  look  about 
his  ears  which  I  cannot  define,  but  which  you  see  in 
a  spirited  horse — were  infallible  marks  of  the  race 
whom  we  have  driven  from  the  fair  land  of  our  inde 
pendence.  He  was  mounted  upon  a  small  black  horse 
— of  the  breed  commonly  called  Indian  ponies,  now 
not  very  common  so  near  the  Atlantic — and  rode  with 
a  slack  rein  and  air,  I  thought,  rather  more  dispirited 
than  indolent. 

The  kind  of  morning  I  have  described,  is,  as  every 
one  must  remember,  of  a  sweetness  so  communicative 
that  one  would  think  two  birds  could  scarce  meet  on 
the  wing  without  exchanging  a  carol;  and  I  involun 
tarily  raised  my  bridle  after  a  minute's  study  of  the 
traveller  before  me,  and  in  a  brief  gallop  was  at  his 
side.  With  the  sound  of  my  horse's  feet,  however, 
he  changed  in  all  his  characteristics  to  another  man — 
sat  erect  in  his  saddle,  and  assumed  the  earnest  air  of 
an  American  who  never  rides  but  upon  some  errand  ; 


42 


WIGWAM  VERSUS  ALMACK'S. 


and,  on  his  giving  me  back  my  "  good  morning"  in 
the  unexceptionable  accent  of  the  country,  1  presum 
ed  I  had  mistaken  my  man.  He  was  dark,  but  not 
darker  than  a  Spaniard,  of  features  singularly  hand 
some  and  regular,  dressed  with  no  peculiarity  except 
an  otter-skin  cap  of  a  silky  and  golden-colored  fur,  too  j 
expensive  and  rare  for  any  but  a  fanciful,  as  well  as  a  |j 
luxurious  purchaser.  A  slight  wave  in  the  black  hair 
which  escaped  from  it,  and  fell  back  from  his  temples, 
confirmed  me  in  the  conviction  that  his  blood  was  of 
European  origin. 

We  rode  on  together  with  some  indifferent  conver 
sation,  till  we  arrived  at  the  spring-leap  T  have  de 
scribed,  and  here  my  companion,  throwing  his  right 
leg  over  the  neck  of  his  poney,  jumped  to  the  ground 
very  actively,  and  applying  his  lips  to  the  spring,  drank 
a  free  draught.  His  horse  seemed  to  know  the  spot, 
and,  with  the  reins  on  his  neck,  trotted  on  to  a  shal 
lower  ledge  in  the  river  and  stood  with  the  water  to 
his  knees,  and  his  quick  eye  turned  on  his  master  with 
an  expressive  look  of  satisfaction. 

"You  have  been  here  before,"  I  said,  tying  my 
less  disciplined  horse  to  the  branch  of  an  overhanging 
shrub. 

"  Yes — often  !"  was  his  reply,  with  a  tone  so  quick 
and  rude,  however,  that,  but  for  the  softening  quality  j 
of  the  day,  I  should  have  abandoned  there  all  thought  j 
of  further  acquaintance. 

I  took  a  small  valise  from  the  pommel  of  my  sad 
dle,  and  while  my  fellow-traveller  sat  on  the  rock-side 
looking  moodily  into  the  river,  I  drew  forth  a  flask  of  I 
wins  and  a  leathern  cup,  a  cold  pigeon  wrapped  in  a 
cool  cabbage  leaf,  the  bigger  end  of  a  large  loaf,  and  i 
as  much  salt  as  could  be  tied  up  in  the  cup  of  a  large  | 
water-lily — a   set-out   of   provender  which   owed  its 
daintiness  to  the  fair  hands  of  my  hostess  of  the  night 
before. 

The  stranger's  first  resemblance  to  an  Indian  had  : 
probably  given  a  color  to  my  thoughts,  for,  as  I  hand 
ed  him  a  cup  of  wine,  I  said,  "I  wish  the  Shawanee 
chief  to  whose  tribe  this  valley  belongs,  were  here  to 
get  a  cup  of  my  wine." 

The  young  man  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  sudden 
flash  through  his  eyes,  and  while  he  looked  at  me,  he 
seemed  to  stand  taller  than,  from  my  previous  impres 
sion  of  his  height,  I  should  have  thought  possible. 
Surprised  as  I  was  at  the  effect  of  my  remark,  I  did 
not  withdraw  the  cup,  and  with  a  moment's  searching 
look  into  my  face,  he  changed  his  attitude,  begged 
pardon  rather  confusedly,  and,  draining  the  cup,  said 
with  a  faint  smile,  "  The  Shawanee  chief  thanks 
you  !" 

"  Do  you  know  the  price  of  land  in  the  valley?"  I 
asked,  handing  him  a  slice  of  bread  with  the  half 
pigeon  upon  it,  and  beginning  to  think  it  was  best  to 
stick  to  commonplace  subjects  with  a  stranger. 

"  Yes  !"  he  said,  his  brow  clouding  over  again.  "  It 
was  bought  from  the  Shawanee  chief  you  speak  of  for 
a  string  of  beads  the  acre.  The  tribe  had  their  burial- 
place  on  the  Susquehannah,  some  twenty  miles  from 
this,  and  they  cared  little  about  a  strip  of  a  valley 
which,  now,  I  would  rather  have  for  my  inheritance 
than  the  fortune  of  any  white  man  in  the  land." 

"  Throw  in  the  landlord's  daughter  at  the  village 
below,"  said  I,  "  and  I  would  take  it  before  any  half- 
dozen  of  the  German  principalities.  Have  you  heard 
the  news  of  her  inheritance  ?" 

Another  moody  look  and  a  very  crisp  "  Yes,"  put 
a  stop  to  all  desire  on  my  part  to  make  further  advan 
ces  in  my  companion's  acquaintance.  Gathering  my 
pigeon  bones  together,  therefore,  and  putting  them  on 
the  top  of  a  stone  where  they  would  be  seen  by  the  j 
first  "lucky  dog"  that  passed,  flinging  my  emptied 
water-lily  on  the  river,  and  strappingiip  cup  and  flask 
once  more  in  my  valise,  I  mounted,  and  with  a  crusty 
good  morning,  set  off  at  a  hand-gallop  down  the  river. 


My  last  unsuccessful  topic  was,  at  the  time  I  write 
of,  the  subject  of  conversation  all  through  the  neigh 
borhood  of  the  village  toward  which  I  was  travelling. 
The  most  old-fashioned  and  comfortable  inn  on  the 
Susquehannah,  or  Chemung,  was  kept  at  the  junction 
of  these  two  noble  rivers,  by  a  certain  Robert  Plymton, 
who  had  "one  fair  daughter  and  no  more."  He  was 
a  plain  farmer  of  Connecticut,  who  had  married  the 
grand-daughter  of  an  English  emigrant,  and  got,  with 
his  wife,  a  chest  of  old  papers,  which  he  thought  had 
better  be  used  to  mend  a  broken  pane  or  wrap  up  gro 
ceries,  but  which  his  wife,  on  her  death-bed,  told  him 
"  might  turn  out  worth  something."  With  this  slen 
der  thread  of  expectation,  he  had  kept  the  little  chest 
under  his  bed,  thinking  of  it  perhaps  once  a  year,  and 
satisfying  his  daughter's  inquisitive  queries  with  a 
shake  of  his  head,  and  something  about  "  her  poor 
mother's  tantrums,"  concluding  usually  with  some 
reminder  to  keep  the  parlor  in  order,  or  mind  her 
housekeeping.  Ruth  Plymton  had  had  some  sixteen 
"  winters'  schooling,"  and  was  known  to  be  much 
"  smarter"  (Anglice,  cleverer),  than  was  quite  neces 
sary  for  the  fulfilment  of  her  manifold  duties.  Since 
twelve  years  of  age  (the  period  of  her  mother's  death) 
she  had  officiated  with  more  and  more  success  as  bar 
maid  and  host's  daughter  to  the  most  frequented  inn 
of  the  village,  till  now,  at  eighteen,  she  was  the  only 
ostensible  keeper  of  the  inn,  the  old  man  usually  be 
ing  absent  in  the  fields  with  his  men,  or  embarking  his 
grain  in  an  "  ark,"  to  take  advantage  of  the  first 
freshet.  She  was  civil  to  all  comers,  but  her  manner 
was  such  as  to  make  it  perfectly  plain  even  to  the 
rudest  raftsman  and  hunter,  that  the  highest  respect 
they  knew  how  to  render  to  a  woman  was  her  due. 
She  was  rather  unpopular  with  the  girls  of  the  village 
from  what  they  called  her  pride  and  "keeping  to  her 
self,"  but  the  truth  was,  that  the  cheap  editions  of 
romances  which  Ruth  took  instead  of  money  for  the 
lodging  of  the  itinerant  book-pedlars,  were  more 
agreeable  companions  to  her  than  the  girls  of  the  vil 
lage  ;  and  the  long  summer  forenoons,  and  half  the 
long  winter  nights,  were  little  enough  for  the  busy 
young  hostess,  who,  seated  on  her  bed,  devoured  tales 
of  high-life  which  harmonized  with  some  secret  long 
ing  in  her  breast — she  knew  not  and  scarce  thought 
of  asking  herself  why. 

I  had  been  twice  at  Athens  (by  this  classical  name 
is  known  the  village  I  speak  of),  and  each  time  had 
prolonged  my  stay  at  Plymton's  inn  for  a  day  longer 
than  my  horse  or  my  repose  strictly  exacted.  The 
scenery  at  the  junction  is  magnificent,  but  it  was 
scarce  that.  And  I  cannot  say  that  it,  was  altogther 
admiration  of  the  host's  daughter;  for  though  I  break 
fasted  late  for  the  sake  of  having  a  clean  parlor  while 
I  ate  my  broiled  chicken,  and,  having  been  once  to 
Italy,  Miss  Plymton  liked  to  pour  out  my  tea  and  hear 
me  talk  of  St.  Peter's  and  the  Carnival,  yet  there  was 
that  marked  rctenu  and  decision  in  her  manner  that 
made  me  feel  quite  too  much  like  a  culprit  at  school, 
and  large  and  black  as  her  eyes  were,  and  light  and 
airy  as  were  all  her  motions,  1  mixed  up  with  my  pro 
pensity  for  her  society,  a  sort  of  dislike.  In  short,  I 
never  felt  a  tenderness  for  a  woman  who  could  "queen 
it"  so  easily,  and  I  went  heart-whole  on  my  journey, 
though  always  with  a  high  respect  for  Ruth  Plymton, 
and  a  pleasant  remembrance  of  her  conversation. 

The  story  which  1  had  heard  farther  up  the  river 
was,  briefly,  that  there  had  arrived  at  Athens  an  Eng 
lishman,  who  had  found  in  Miss  Ruth  Plymton,  the 
last  surviving  descendant  of  the  family  of  her  mother; 
that  she  was  the  heiress  to  a  large  fortune,  if  the 
proof  of  her  descent  were  complete,  and  that  the  con 
tents  of  the  little  chest  had  been  the  subject  of  a 
week's  hard  study  by  the  stranger,  who  had  departed 
after  a  vain  attempt  to  persuade  old  Plymton  to  ac 
company  him  to  England  with  his  daughter.  This 


WIGWAM  VERSUS  ALMACK'S. 


43 


was  the  rumor,  the  allusion  to  which  had  been  re 
ceived  with  such  repulsive  coldness  by  my  dark  com 
panion  at  the  spring-leap. 

America  is  so  much  of  an  asylum  for  despairing 
younger  sons  and  the  proud  and  starving  branches  of 
great  families,  that  a  discovery  of  heirs  to  property 
among  people  of  very  inferior  condition,  is  by  no 
means  uncommon.  It  is  a  species  of  romance  in  real 
life,  however,  which  we  never  believe  upon  hearsay, 
and  I  rode  on  to  the  village,  expecting  my  usual  re 
ception  by  the  fair  damsel  of  the  inn.  The  old  sign 
still  hung  askew  as  I  approached,  and  the  pillars  of 
the  old  wooden  "stoop"  or  portico,  were  as  much  off 
their  perpendicular  as  before,  and  true  to  my  augury, 
out  stepped  my  fair  acquaintance  at  the  sound  of  my 
horse's  feet,  and  called  to  Reuben  the  ostler,  and  gave 
me  an  unchanged  welcome.  The  old  man  was  down 
at  the  river  side,  and  the  key  of  the  grated  bar  hung 
at  the  hostess's  girdle,  and  with  these  signs  of  times 
as  they  were,  my  belief  in  the  marvellous  tale  vanish 
ed  into  thin  air. 

"  So  you  are  not  gone  to  England  to  take  posses 
sion  ?"  I  said. 

Her  serious  "  No  !"  unsoftened  by  any  other  re 
mark,  put  a  stop  to  the  subject  again,  and  taking  my 
self  to  task  for  having  been  all  day  stumbling  on 
mal-apropos  subjects,  I  asked  to  be  shown  to  my  room, 
and  spent  the  hour  or  two  before  dinner  in  watching 
the  chickens  from  the  window,  and  wondering  a  great 
deal  as  to  the  "  whereabouts"  of  my  friend  in  the 
otter-skin  cap. 

The  evening  of  that  day  was  unusually  warm,  and 
I  strolled  down  to  the  bank  of  the  Susquehannah,  to 
bathe.  The  moon  was  nearly  full  and  half  way  to  the 
zenith,  and  between  the  lingering  sunset  and  the  clear 
splendor  of  the  moonlight,  the  dusk  of  the  "  folding 
hour"  was  forgotten,  and  the  night  went  on  almost  as 
radiant  as  day.  I  swam  across  the  river,  delighting 
myself  with  the  gold  rims  of  the  ripples  before  my 
breast,  and  was  within  a  yard  or  two  of  the  shore  on 
my  return,  when  I  heard  a  woman's  voice  approaching 
in  earnest  conversation.  I  shot  forward  and  drew  my 
self  in  beneath  a  large  clump  of  alders,  and  with  only 
my  head  out  of  water,  lay  in  perfect  concealment. 

"  You  are  not  just,  Shahatan  !"  were  the  first  words 
I  distinguished,  in  a  voice  I  immediately  recognised 
as  that  of  my  fair  hostess.  "You  are  not  just.  As 
far  as  I  know  myself  I  love  you  better  than  any  one  I 
ever  saw — but" — 

As  she  hesitated,  the  deep  low  voice  of  my  com 
panion  at  the  spring-leap,  uttered  in  a  suppressed  and 
impatient  guttural,  "But  what?"  He  stood  still  with 
his  back  to  the  moon,  and  while  the  light  fell  full  on 
her  face,  she  withdrew  her  arm  from  his  and  went  on. 
"  I  was  going  to  say  that  I  do  not  yet  know  myself 
or  the  world  sufficiently  to  decide  that  I  shall  always 
love  you.  I  would  not  be  too  hasty  in  so  important  a 
thins*,  Shahatan  !  We  have  talked  of  it  before,  and 
therefore  I  may  say  to  you,  now,  that  the  prejudices 
of  my  father  and  all  my  friends  are  against  it." 

"  My  blood" — interrupted  the  young  man,  with  a 
movement  of  impatience. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "  Stay  !  the  objec 
tion  is  not  mine.  Your  Spanish  mother,  besides 
shows  more  in  your  look  and  features  than  the  blood 
of  your  father.  But  it  would  still  be  said  I  married 
an  Indian,  and  though  I  care  little  for  what  the  village 
would  say,  yet  I  must  be  certain  that  I  shall  love  you 
with  all  my  heart  and  till  death,  before  I  set  my  face 
with  yours  against  the  prejudices  of  every  white  man 
and  woman  in  my  native  land  !  You  have  urged  me 
for  my  secret,  and  there  it  is.  I  feel  relieved  to  have 
unburthened  my  heart  of  it." 

41  That  secret  is  but  a  summer  old  !"  said  he,  half 
turning  on  his  heel,  and  looking  from  her  upon  the 
moon's  path  across  the  river. 


"  Shame  !"  she  replied  ;  "  you  know  that  long  be 
fore  this  news  came,  I  talked  with  you  constantly  of 
other  lands,  and  of  my  irresistible  desire  to  see  the 
people  of  great  cities,  and  satisfy  myself  whether  I 
was  like  them.  That  curiosity,  Shahatan,  is,  I  fear, 
even  stronger  than  my  love,  or  at  least,  it  is  more  im 
patient  ;  and  now  that  I  have  the  opportunity  fallen  to 
me  like  a  star  out  of  the  sky,  shall  I  not  go  ?  I  must. 
Indeed  I  must." 

The  lover  felt  that  all   had   been  said,  or  was  too 
proud  to  answer,  for  they  fell  into  the  path  again,  side 
by  side,  in  silence,  and  at  a  slow  step  were  soon  out  of 
my  sight  and  hearing.     I  emerged  from  my  compul 
sory  hiding-place   wiser  than  I  went  in,  dressed   and 
I  strolled  back  to  the  village,  and  finding  the  old  land- 
j  lord  smoking  his  pipe  alone  under  the  portico,  I  light- 
I  ed  a  cigar,  and  sat  down  to  pick  his  brains  of  the  little 
information  I  wanted  to  fill  out  the  story. 

I  took  my  leave  of  Athens  on  the  following  morn 
ing,  paying  my  bill  duly  to  Miss  Plymton,  from  whom 
i  I  requested  a  receipt  in  writing,  for  I  foresaw  without 
|  any  very  sagacious  augury  beside  what  the  old  man 
told   me,    that  it  might  be  an  amusing   document  by- 
and-by.     You  shall  judge  by  the  sequel  of  the  story, 
i  dear  reader,  whether  you  would  like  it  in  your  book 
of  autographs. 


Not  long  after  the  adventure  described  in  the  pre 
ceding  chapter,  I  embarked  for  a  ramble  in  Europe. 
Among  the  newspapers  which  were  lying  about  in  the 
cabin  of  the  packet,  was  one  which  contained  this 
paragraph,  extracted  from  a  New-Orleans  Gazette. 
The  American  reader  will  at  once  remember  it : — 

"Extraordinary  attachment  to  savage  life. — The  of 
ficers  at  Fort (one  of  the  most  distant  outposts 

of  human  habitation  in  the  west),  extended  their  hos 
pitality  lately  to  one  of  the  young  proteges  of  govern 
ment,  a  young  Shawanee  chief,  who  has  been  educated 
at  public  expense  for  the  purpose  of  aiding  in  the 
civilization  of  his  tribe.  This  youth,  the  son  of  a 
Shawanee  chief  by  a  Spanish  mother,  was  put  to  a 
preparatory  school  in  a  small  village  on  the  Susque 
hannah,  and  subsequently  was  graduated  at  

College  with  the  first  honors  of  his  class.  He  had 
become  a  most  accomplished  gentleman,  was  appa 
rently  fond  of  society,  and,  except  in  a  scarce  distin 
guishable  tinge  of  copper  color  in  his  skin,  retained 
no  trace  of  his  savage  origin.  Singular  to  relate, 
however,  he  disappeared  suddenly  from  the  fort,  leav 
ing  behind  him  the  clothes  in  which  he  had  arrived, 
and  several  articles  of  a  gentleman's  toilet ;  and  as  the 
sentry  on  duty  was  passed  at  dawn  of  the  same  day  by 
a  mounted  Indian  in  the  usual  savage  dress,  who  gave 
the  pass-word  in  issuing  from  the  gate,  it  is  presumed 
it  was  no  other  than  the  young  Shahatan,  and  that  he 
has  joined  his  tribe,  who  were  removed  some  years 
since  beyond  the  Mississippi." 

The  reader  will  agree  with  me  that  I  possessed  the 
!  key  to  the  mystery. 

As  no  one'thinks  of  the  thread  that  disappears  in  an 
]  intricate  embroidery  till  it  comes  out  again  on  the 
surface,  I  was  too  busy  in  weaving  my  own  less  inter- 
!  esting  woof  of  adventure  for  the  two  years  following, 
to  give  Shahatan  and  his  love  even  a  passing  thought. 
On  a  summer's  night  in  18 — ,  however,  I  found  my 
self  on  a  banquette  at  an  Almack's  ball,  seated  beside 
a  friend  who,  since  we  had  met  last  at  Almack's,  had 
given  up  the  white  rose  of  girlhood  for  the  diamonds 
of  the  dame,  timidity  and  blushes  for  self-possession 
and  serene  sweetness,  dancing  for  conversation,  and 
the  promise  of  beautiful  and  admired  seventeen  for  the 
perfection  of  more  lovely  and  adorable  twenty-two. 
She  was  there  as  chaperon  to  a  younger  sister,  and  it 
was  delightful  in  that  whirl  of  giddy  motion,  and  more 
giddy  thought,  to  sit  beside  a  tranquil  and  unfevered 


44 


WIGWAM  VERSUS  ALMACK'S. 


mind  and  talk  with  her  of  what  was  passing,  without 
either  bewilderment  or  effort. 

"  What  is  it,"  she  said,  "  that  constitutes  aristocratic 
beauty  ? — for  it  is  often  remarked  that  it  is  seen  no 
where  in  such  perfection  as  at  Almack's;  yet,  I  have 
for  a  half-hour  looked  in  vain  among  these  handsome 
faces  for  a  regular  profile,  or  even  a  perfect  figure.  It 
is  not  symmetry,  surely,  that  gives  a  look  of  high 
breeding — nor  regularity  of  feature." 

44  If  you  will  take  a  leaf  out  of  a  traveller's  book," 
I  replied,  "we  may  at  least  have  the  advantage  of 
a  comparison.  I  remember  recording,  when  travel 
ling  in  the  East,  that  for  months  I  had  not  seen  an 
irregular  nose  or  forehead  in  a  female  face ;  and,  al 
most  universally,  the  mouth  and  chin  of  the  Orientals 
are,  as  well  as  the  upper  features,  of  the  most  classic 
correctness.  Yet  where,  in  civilized  countries,  do 
women  look  lower-born  or  more  degraded?" 

"Then  it  is  not  in  the  features,"  said  my  friend. 

44  No,  nor  in  the  figure,  strictly,"  I  went  on  to  say, 
44  for  the  French  and  Italian  women  (vide  the  same 
book  ofmems),  are  generally  remarkable  for  shape  and 
fine  contour  of  limb,  and  the  French  are,  we  all  know 
(begging  your  pardon),  much  better  dancers,  and  more 
graceful  in  their  movements,  than  all  other  nations. 
Yet  what  is  more  rare  than  a  'thorough-bred'  looking 
Frenchwoman  ?" 

41  We  are  coming  to  a  conclusion  very  fast,"  she 
said,  smiling.  "  Perhaps  we  shall  find  the  great  secret 
in  delicacy  of  skin,  after  all." 

44  Not  unless  you  will  agree  that  Broadway  in  New- 
York  is  the  lpralo  fiarito,'  of  aristocratic  beauty — for 
nowhere  on  the  face  of  the  earth  do  you  see  such 
complexions.  Yet,  my  fair  countrywomen  stoop  too 
much,  and  are  rather  too  dressy  in  their  tastes  to  con 
vey  very  generally  the  impression  of  high  birth." 

44  Stay!"  interrupted  my  companion,  laying  her 
hand  on  my  arm  with  a  look  of  more  meaning  than  I 
quite  understood  ;  "before  you  commit  yourself  far 
ther  on  that  point,  look  at  this  tall  girl  coming  up  the 
floor,  and  tell  me  what  you  think  of  her,  apropos  to 
the  subject." 

44  Why,  that  she  is  the  very  forth-shadowing  of 
noble  parentage,"  I  replied,  "  in  step,  air,  form — every 
thing.  But  surely  the  face  is  familiar  to  me." 

"  It  is  the  Miss  Trevanion  whom  you  said  you  had 
never  met.  Yet  she  is  an  American,  and  with  such  a 
fortune  as  hers,  I  wonder  you  should  not  have  heard 
of  her  at  least." 

44  Miss  Trevanion  !  I  never  knew  anybody  of  the 
name,  I  am  perfectly  sure — yet  that  face  I  have  seen 
before,  and  I  would  stake  my  life  I  have  known  the 
lady,  and  not  casually  either." 

My  eyes  were  riveted  to  the  beautiful  woman  who 
now  sailed  past  with  a  grace  and  stateliness  that  were 
the  subject  of  universal  admiration,  and  I  eagerly  at 
tempted  to  catch  her  eye  ;  but  on  the  other  side  of 
her  walked  one  of  the  most  agreeable  flatterers  of  the 
hour,  and  the  crowd  prevented  my  approaching  her, 
even  if  I  had  solved  the  mystery  so  far  as  to  know  in 
what  terms  to  address  her.  Yet  it  was  marvellous 
that  I  could  ever  have  seen  such  beauty  and  forgotten 
the  when  and  where,  or  that  such  fine  and  "unusually 
lustrous  eyes  could  ever  have  shone  on  me  without 
inscribing  well  in  my  memory  their  4l  whereabout" 
and  history. 

44 Well!"  said  my  friend,  "are  you  making  out 
your  theory,  or  are  you  4  struck  home'  with  the  first 
impression,  like  many  another  dancer  here  to-night?" 

"  Pardon  me  !  I  shall  find  out  presently,  who" Miss 
Trevanion  is — but,  meantime,  revenous.  I  will  tell 
you  where  I  think  lies  the  secret  of  the  aristocratic 
beauty  of  England.  It  is  in  the  lofty  maintien  of  the 
h#ad  and  bust — the  proud  carriage;  if  you  remark,  in 
all  these  women — the  head  set  back,  the  chest  eleva 
ted  and  expanded,  and  the  whole  port  and  expression, 


that  of  pride  and  conscious  superiority.  This,  mind 
you,  though  the  result  of  qualities  in  the  character,  is 
not  the  fcork  of  a  day,  nor  perhaps  of  a  single  gener 
ation.  The  effect  of  expanding  the  breast  and  pre 
serving  the  back  straight,  and  the  posture  generally 
erect,  is  the  high  health  and  consequent  beauty  of 
those  portions  of  the  frame  ;  and  the  physical  advan 
tage,  handed  down  with  the  pride  which  produced  it, 
from  mother  to  child,  the  race  gradually  has  become 
perfect  in  those  points,  and  the  look  of  pride  and  high- 
bearing  is  now  easy,  natural,  and  unconscious.  Glance 
your  eye  around  and  you  will  see  that  there  is  not  a 
defective  bust,  and  hardly  a  head  ill  set  on,  in  the 
room.  In  an  assembly  in  any  other  part  of  the  world, 
to  find  a  perfect  bust  with  a  gracefully  carried  head,  is 
as  difficult  as  here  to  find  the  exception." 

41  What  a  proud  race  you  make  us  out,  to  be  sure," 
said  my  companion,  rather  dissentingly. 

44  And  so  you  are,  eminently  and  emphatically 
proud,"  I  replied.  "What  English  family  does  not 
revolt  from  any  proposition  of  marriage  from  a  for 
eigner  ?  For  an  English  girl  to  marry  a  Frenchman 
or  an  Italian,  a  German  or  a  Russian,  Greek,  Turk,  or 
Spaniard,  is  to  forfeit  a  certain  degree  of  respectabili 
ty,  let  the  match  be  as  brilliant  as  it  may.  The  first 
feeling  on  hearing  of  it  is  against  the  girl's  sense  of 
delicacy.  It  extends  to  everything  else.  Your  sol 
diers,  your  sailors,  your  tradesmen,  your  gentlemen, 
your  common  people,  and  your  nobles,  are  all  (who 
ever  doubted  it,  you  are  mentally  asking)  out  of  all 
comparison  better  than  the  same  ranks  and  professions 
in  any  other  country.  John  Bull  is  literally  surprised 
if  any  one  doubts  this — nay,  he  does  not  believe  that 
any  one  does  doubt  it.  Yet  you  call  the  Americans 
ridiculously  vain  because  they  believe  their  institutions 
better  than  yours,  that  their  ships  fight  as  well,  their 
women  are  as  fair,  and  their  men  as  gentlemanly  aa 
any  in  the  world.  The  4  vanity'  of  the  French,  who 
believe  in  themselves,  just  as  the  English  do,  only  in  a 
less  blind  entireness  of  self-glorification,  is  a  common 
theme  of  ridicule  in  English  newspapers  ;  and  the 
French  and  the  Americans,  for  a  twentieth  part  of 
English  intolerance  and  self-exaggeration,  are  written 
down  daily  by  the  English,  as  the  two  vainest  nations 
on  earth." 

41  Stop!"  said  my  fair  listener,  who  was  beginning 
to  smile  at  my  digression  from  female  beauty  to  na 
tional  pride,  "let  me  make  a  distinction  there.  As  the 
English  and  French  are  quite  indifferent  to  the  opin 
ion  of  other  nations  on  these  points,  and  not  at  all 
shaken  in  their  self-admiration  by  foreign  incredulity, 
theirs  may  fairly  be  dignified  by  the  name  of  pride. 
But  what  shall  I  say  of  the  Americans,  who  are  in  a 
perpetual  fever  at  the  ridicule  of  English  newspapers, 
and  who  receive,  I  understand,  with  a  general  convul 
sion  throughout  the  states,  the  least  slur  in  a  review, 
or  the  smallest  expression  of  disparagement  in  a  tory 
newspaper.  This  is  not  pride,  but  vanity." 

44 1  atn  hit,  I  grant  you.  A  home  thrust  that  I  wish 
I  could  foil.  But  here  comes  Miss  Trevanion,  again, 
and  I  must  make  her  out,  or  smother  of  curiosity.  I 
leave  you  a  victor." 

The  drawing  of  the  cord  which  encloses  the  dan 
cers,  narrowed  the  path  of  the  promenaders  so  effect 
ually,  that  I  could  easily  take  my  stand  in  such  a 
position  that  Miss  Trevanion  could  not  pass  without 
seeing  me.  With  my  back  to  one  of  the  slight  pil 
lars  of  the  orchestra,  I  stood  facing  her  as  she  came 
down  the  room  ;  and  within  a  foot  or  two  of  my  po- 
ition,  yet  with  several  persons  between  us,  her  eye 
I  for  the  first  time  rested  on  me.  There  was  a  sudden 
flush,  a  look  of  embarrassed  but  momentary  curiosity, 
and  the  beautiful  features  cleared  up,  and  I  saw,  with 
vexatious  mortification,  that  she  had  the  advantage 
of  me,  and  was  even  pleased  to  remember  where  we 
had  met.  She  held  out  her  hand  the  next  moment, 


WIGWAM  VERSUS  ALMACK'S. 


but  evidently  understood  my  reserve,  for,  with  a  mis 
chievous  compression  ol'  the  lips,  she  leaned  over,  and 
said  in  a  voice  intended  only  Cor  my  ear,  "Reuben! 
take  the  gentleman's  horse  !" 

My  sensations  were  very  much  those  of  the  Irish 
man  who  fell  into  a  pit  in  a  dark  night,  and  catching 
a  straggling  root  in  his  descent,  hung  suspended  by 
incredible  exertion  and  strength  of  arm  till  morning, 
when  daylight  disclosed  the  bottom,  at  just  one  inch 
below  the  points  of  his  toes.  So  easy  seemed  the 
solution — after  it  was  discovered. 


Mis 


Trevanion  (ci-devant  Plymton)  took  my  arm. 
Her  companion  was  engaged  to  dance.  Our  meeting 
at  Almack's  was  certainlv  one  of  the  last  events  either 
could  have  expected  when  we  parted  —  but  Almack's 
is  not  the  place  to  express  strong  emotions.  We 
walked  leisurely  down  the  sides  of  the  quadrilles  to 
the  tea-room,  and  between  her  bows  and  greetings  to 
her  acquaintances,  she  put  me  au  coaranl  of  her 
movements  for  the  last  two  years  —  Miss  Trevanion 
being  the  name  she  had  inherited  with  the  fortune 
from  her  mother's  family,  and  her  mother's  high  but 
distant  connexions  having  recognised  and  taken  her 
by  the  hand  in  England.  She  had  come  abroad  with 
the  representative  of  her  country,  who  had  been  at 
the  trouble  to  see  her  installed  in  her  rights,  and  had 
but  lately  left  her  on  his  return  to  America.  A  house 
in  May  Fair,  and  a  chaperon  in  the  shape  of  a  card- 
playing  and  aristocratic  aunt,  were  the  other  principal 
points  in  her  parenthetical  narration.  Her  communi 
cativeness,  of  course,  was  very  gracious,  and  indeed 
her  whole  manner  was  softened  and  mellowed  down, 
from  the  sharpness  and  hauteur  of  Miss  Plymton. 
Prosperity  had  improved  even  her  voice. 

As  she  bent  over  her  tea,  in  the  ante-room,  I  could 
not  but  remark  how  beautiful  she  was  by  the  change 
usually  wrought  by  the  soft  moisture  of  the  English 
air,  on  persons  from  dry  climates  —  Americans  particu 
larly.  That  filling  out  and  rounding  of  the  features, 
and  renewing  and  freshening  of  the  skin,  becoming 
and  improving  to  all,  had  to  her  been  like  Juno's 
bath.  Then  who  does  not  know  the  miracles  of 
dress?  A  circlet  of  diamonds  whose  "water"  was 
light  itself,  followed  the  fine  bend  on  either  side  back 
ward  from  her  brows,  supporting,  at  the  parting  of  her 
hair,  one  large  emerald.  And  on  what  neck  (ay  — 
even  of  age)  is  not  a  diamond  necklace  beautiful  ? 
Miss  Trevanion  was  superb. 


The  house  in  Grosvenor  Place,  at  which  I  knocked 
the  next  morning,  1  well  remembered  as  one  of  the 

most  elegant  and  sumptuous  in  London.  Lady  L 

had  ruined  herself  in  completing  and  furnishing  it, 
and  her  parties  "in  my  time"  were  called,  by  the  most 
apathetic  blase,  truly  delightful.  . 

"  I  bought  this  house  of  Lady  L ,"  said  Miss 

Trevanion,  as  we  sat  down  to  breakfast,  "  with  all  its 
furniture,  pictures,  books,  incumbrances,  and  trifles, 
even  to  the  horses  in  the  stables,  and  the  coachman 
in  his  wig ;  for  I  had  too  many  things  to  learn,  to 
study  furniture  and  appointments,  and  in  this  very 
short  life,  time  is  sadly  wasted  in  beginnings.  People 
are  for  ever  gelling  ready  to  live.  What  think  you  ? 
Is  it  not  true  in  everything?" 

"  Not  in  love,  certainly." 

"Ah!  very  true!"  And  she  became  suddenly 
thoughtful,  and  for  some  minutes  sipped  her  coffee  in 
silence.  I  did  not  interrupt  it,  for  I  was  thinking  of 
Shahatan,  and  our  thoughts  very  possibly  were  on  the 
same  long  journey. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  said  I,  looking  round  at  the 
exquisitely-furnished  room  in  which  we  were  break- 
lasting,  "you  have  bought  these  things  at  their  intrin 
sic  value,  and  you  have  all  Lady  L 's  taste,  trouble, 

and  vexatiou  for  twenty  years,  thrown  into  the  bar 


gain.  It  is  a  matter  of  a  lifetime  to  complete  a  house 
like  this,  and  just  as  it  is  all  done,  Lady  L re 
tires,  an  old  woman,  and  you  come  all  the  way  from  a 
country-inn  on  the  Susquehannah  to  enjoy  it.  What 
a  whimsical  world  we  live  in  !" 

"Yes!"  she  said,  in  a  sort  of  soliloquizing  tone, 
"  I  do  enjoy  it.  It  is  a  delightful  sensation  to  take  a 
long  stride  at  once  in  the  art  of  life — to  have  lived  for 
years  believing  that  the  wants  you  felt  could  only  be 
supplied  in  fairy-land,  and  suddenly  to  change  your 
sphere,  and  discover  that  not  only  these  wants,  but  a 
thousand  others,  more  unreasonable,  and  more  im 
aginary,  had  been  the  subject  of  human  ingenuity 
and  talent,  till  those  who  live  in  luxury  have  no  wants — 
that  science  and  chymistry  and  mechanics  have  left 
no  nerve  in  the  human  system,  no  recess  in  human 
sense,  unquestioned  of  its  desire,  and  that  every  de 
sire  is  supplied !  What  mistaken  ideas  most  people 
have  of  luxury!  They  fancy  the  senses  of  the  rich 
are  over-pampered,  that  their  zest  of  pleasure  is  al 
ways  dull  with  too  much  gratification,  that  their 
health  is  ruined  with  excess,  and  their  tempers  spoiled 
with  ease  and  subserviency.  It  is  a  picture  drawn  by 
the  poets  in  times  when  money  could  buy  nothing  but 
excess,  and  when  those  who  were  prodigal  could  only 
be  gaudy  and  intemperate.  It  was  necessary  to  prac 
tise  upon  the  reverse,  too  ;  and  hence  all  the  world  is 
convinced  of  the  superior  happiness  of  the  plough 
man,  the  absolute  necessity  of  early  rising  and  coarse 
food  to  health,  and  the  pride  that  must  come  with  the 
flaunting  of  silk  and  satin." 

I  could  not  but  smile  at  this  cool  upset  of  all  the 
received  philosophy  of  the  poets. 

"You  laugh,"  she  continued,  "but  is  it  not  true 
that  in  England,  at  this  moment,  luxury  is  the  sci 
ence  of  keeping  up  the  zest  of  the  senses  rather  than 
of  pampering  them — that  the  children  of  the  wealthy 
are  the  healthiest  and  fairest,  and  the  sons  of  the  aris 
tocracy  are  the  most  athletic  and  rational,  as  well  as 
the  most  carefully  nurtured  and  expensive  of  all  clas 
ses — that  the  most  costly  dinners  are  the  most  digesti 
ble,  the  most  expensive  wines  the  least  injurious,  the 
most  sumptuous  houses  the  best  ventilated  and  whole 
some,  and  the  most  aristocratic  habits  of  life  the  most 
conducive  to  the  preservation  of  the  constitution  and 
consequent  long  life.  There  will  be  excesses,  of 
course,  in  all  spheres,  but  is  not  this  true  ?" 

"  I  am  wondering  how  so  gay  a  life  as  yours  could 
furnish  such  very  grave  reflections." 

"  Pshaw  !  I  am  the  very  person  to  make  them.  My 
aunt  (who,  by-the-way,  never  rises  till  four  in  the  af 
ternoon)  has  always  lived  in  this  sublimated  sphere, 
and  takes  all  these  luxuries  to  be  matters  of  course, 
as  much  as  I  take  them  to  be  miracles.  She  thinks 
a  good  cook  as  natural  a  circumstance  as  a  fine  tree, 
and  would  be  as  much  surprised  and  shocked  at  the 
absence  of  wax  candles,  as  she  would  at  the  going  out 
of  the  stars.  She  talks  as  if  good  dentists,  good  mil 
liners,  opera-singers,  perfumers,  etc.,  were  the  com 
mon  supply  of  nature,  like  dew  and  sunshine  to  the 
flowers.  My  surprise  and  delight  amuse  her,  as  the 
child's  wonder  at  the  moon  amuses  the  nurse." 

"Yet  you  call  this  dull  unconsciousness  the  per 
fection  of  civilized  life." 

"I  think  my  aunt  altogether  is  not  a  bad  specimen 
of  it,  certainly.     You  have  seen  her,  I  think." 
"Frequently." 

"Well,  you  will  allow  that  she  is  still  a  very  haud- 
I  some  woman.  She  is  past  fifty,  and  has  every  fac- 
I  ulty  in  perfect  preservation;  an  erect  figure,  undimin- 
j  ished  delicacy  and  quickness  in  all  her  senses  and 
tastes,  and  is  still  an  ornament  to  society,  and  an  at- 
i  tractive  person  in  appearance  and  conversation.  Con- 
|  trast  her  (and  she  is  but  one  of  a  class)  with  the 
j  women  past  fifty  in  the  middle  and  lower  walks  of  life 
I  in  America.  At  that  age,  with  us,  they  are  old 


46 


WIGWAM  VERSUS  ALMACK'S. 


Avomen  in  the  commonest  acceptation  of  the  term. 
Their  teeth  are  gone  or  defective  from  neglect,  their 
faces  are  wrinkled,  their  backs  bent,  ther  feet  enlarged, 
their  voices  cracked,  their  senses  impaired,  their  rel 
ish  in  the  joys  of  the  young  entirely  gone  by.  What 
makes  the  difference  ?  Costly  care.  The  physician 
has  watched  over  her  health  at  a  guinea  a  visit.  The 
dentist  has  examined  her  teeth  at  twenty  guineas  a 
year.  Expensive  annual  visits  to  the  seaside  have  re 
newed  her  skin.  The  friction  of  the  weary  hands  of 
her  maid  has  kept  down  the  swelling  of  her  feet  and 
preserved  their  delicacy  of  shape.  Close  and  open 
carriages  at  will,  have  given  her  daily  exercise,  either 
protected  from  the  damp,  or  refreshed  with  the  fine 
sir  of  the  country.  A  good  cook  has  kept  her  diges 
tion  untaxed,  and  good  wines  have  invigorated  with 
out  poisoning  her  constitution." 

"  This  is  taking  very  unusual  care  of  oneself,  how 
ever." 

"  Not  at  all.  My  aunt  gives  it  no  more  thought 
than  the  drawing  on  of  her  glove.  It  is  another  ad 
vantage  of  wealth,  too,  that  your  physician  and  den 
tist  are  distinguished  persons  who  meet  you  in  society, 
and  call  on  you  unprofessionally,  see  when  they  are 
needed,  and  detect  the  approach  of  disease  before 
you  are  aware  of  it  yourself.  My  aunt,  though  '  nat 
urally  delicate,'  has  never  been  ill.  She  was  watched 
in  childhood  with  great  cost  and  pains,  and,  with  the 
habit  of  common  caution  herself,  she  is  taken  such 
care  of  by  her  physician  and  servants,  that  nothing 
but  some  extraordinary  fatality  could  bring  disease 
near  her." 

"  Blessed  are  the  rich,  by  your  showing." 

"  Why,  the  beatitudes  were  not  written  in  our  times. 
If  long  life,  prolonged  youth  and  beauty,  and  almost 
perennial  health,  are  blessings,  certainly,  now-a-days, 
blessed  are  the  rich." 

"But  is  there  no  drawback  to  all  this?  Where 
people  have  surrounded  themselves  with  such  costly 
and  indispensable  luxuries,  are  they  not  made  selfish 
by  the  necessity  of  preserving  them?  Would  any 
exigence  of  hospitality,  for  instance,  induce  your  aunt 
to  give  up  her  bed,  and  the  comforts  of  her  own  room, 
to  a  stranger?" 

"  Oh  dear,  no  !" 

"Would  she  eat  her  dinner  cold  for  the  sake  of 
listening  to  an  appeal  to  her  charity  ?" 

"How  can  you  fancy  such  a  thing?" 

"Would  she  take  a  wet  and  dirty,  but  perishing 
beggar-woman  into  her  chariot  on  her  way  to  a  din 
ner-party,  to  save  her  from  dying  by  the  roadside?" 

"Um — why,  I  fear  she  would  be  very  nearsighted 
till  she  got  fairly  by." 

"  Yet  these  are  charities  that  require  no  great  ef 
fort  in  those  whose  chambers  are  less  costly,  whose 
stomachs  are  less  carefully  watched,  and  whose  car 
riages  and  dresses  are  of  a  plainer  fashion." 

"Very  true!" 

"  So  far,  then,  'blessed  are  the  poor!'  But  is  not 
the  heart  slower  in  all  its  sympathies  among  the  rich? 
Are  not  friends  chosen  and  discarded,  because  their 
friendship  is  convenient  or  the  contrary  ?  Are  not 
many  worthy  people  'ineligible'  acquaintances,  many 
near  relations  unwelcome  visitors,  because  they  are 
out  of  keeping  with  these  costly  circumstances,  or 
involve  some  sacrifice  of  personal  luxury  ?  Are  not 
people,  who  would  not  preserve  their  circle  choice 
and  aristocratic,  obliged  to  inflict  cruel  insults  on 
sensitive  minds,  to  slight,  to  repulse,  to  neglect,  to 
equivocate  and  play  the  unfeeling  and  ungrateful,  at 
the  same  time  that  to  their  superiors  they  must  often 
sacrifice  dignity,  and  contrive,  and  flatter,  and  de 
ceive — all  to  preserve  the  magic  charm  of  the  life  you 
have  painted  so  attractive  and  enviable?" 

"  Heigho  !  it's  a  bad  world,  I  believe !"  said  Miss 
Trevanion,  betraying  by  that  ready  sigh,  that  even 


while  drawing  the  attractions  of  high  life,  she  had  not 
been  blind  to  this  more  unfavorable  side  of  the  pic 
ture. 

"  And,  rather  more  important  query  still,  for  an 
heiress,"  I  said,  "does  not  an  intimate  acquaintance 
with  these  luxurious  necessities,  and  the  habit  of 
thinking  them  indispensable,  make  all  lovers  in  this 
class  mercenary,  and  their  admiration,  where  there  is 
wealth,  subject,  at  least,  to  scrutiny  and  suspicion?" 

A  quick  flush  almost  crimsoned  Miss  Trevanion's 
face,  and  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  me  so  inquisitively 
as  to  leave  me  in  no  doubt  that  I  had  inadvertently 
touched  upon  a  delicate  subject.  Embarrassed  by  a 
searching  look,  and  not  seeing  how  I  could  explain 
that  1  meant  no  allusion,  I  said  hastily,  "  I  was  think 
ing  of  swimming  across  the  Susquehannah  by  moon 
light." 

"Puck  is  at  the  door,  if  you  please,  miss!"  said 
the  butler,  entering  at  the  moment. 

"  Perhaps  while  I  am  putting  on  my  riding-hat," 
said  Miss  Trevanion,  with  a  laugh,  "I  may  discover 
the  connexion  between  your  last  two  observations.  It 
certainly  is  not  very  clear  at  present." 

I  took  up  my  hat. 

"Stay — you  must  ride  with  me.  You  shall  have 
the  groom's  horse,  and  we  will  go  without  him.  I 
hate  to  be  chased  through  the  park  by  a  flying  ser 
vant — one  English  fashion,  at  least,  that  I  think  un 
comfortable.  They  manage  it  better  where  1  learned 
to  ride,"  she  added  with  a  laugh. 

"Yes,  indeed!  I  do  not  know  which  they  would 
first  starve  to  death  in  the  backwoods — the  master  for 
his  insolence  in  requiring  the  servant  to  follow  him, 
or  the  servant  for  being  such  a  slave  as  to  obey." 

I  never  remember  to  have  seen  a  more  beautiful 
animal  than  the  highbred  blood-mare  on  which  my 
ci-devant  hostess  of  the  Plymton  inn  rode  through 
the  park  gates,  and  took  the  serpentine  path  at  a  free 
gallop.  I  was  as  well  mounted  myself  as  I  had  ever 
been  in  my  life,  and  delighted,  for  once,  not  to  fret  a 
hundred  yards  behind  ;  the  ambitious  animal  seemed 
to  have  wings  to  his  feet. 

"  Who  ever  rode  such  a  horse  as  this,"  said  my 
companion,  "  without  confessing  the  happiness  of 
riches!  It  is  the  one  luxury  of  this  new  life  that  I 
should  find  it  misery  to  forego.  Look  at  the  eager 
ness  of  his  ears !  See  his  fine  limbs  as  he  strikes  for 
ward  !  What  nostrils !  What  glossy  shoulders ! 
What  bounding  lightness  of  action  !  Beautiful  Puck  ! 
I  could  never  live  without  you!  What  a  shame  to 
nature  that  there  are  no  such  horses  in  the  wilder 
ness!" 

"  I  remember  seeing  an  Indian  pony,"  said  I,  watch 
ing  her  face  for  the  effect  of  my  observation,  "which 
had  as  many  fine  qualities,  though  of  a  different 
kind — at  least  when  his  master  was  on  him." 

She  looked  at  me  inquiringly. 

"By-the-way.  too,  it  was  at  your  house  on  the  Sus 
quehannah,"  I  added,  "you  must  remember  the 
horse — a  black,  double-jointed " 

"Yes,  yes!  I  know.  I  remember.  Shall  we 
quicken  our  pace?  I  henr  some  one  overtaking  us, 
and  to  be  passed  with  such  horses  as  ours  were  a 
shame  indeed." 

We  loosed  our  bridles  and  flew  away  like  the  wind; 
but  a  bright  tear  was  presently  tossed  from  her 
dark  eyelash,  and  fell  glittering  on  the  dappled  shoul 
der  of  her  horse.  "  Her  heart  is  Shahatan's,"  thought 
I,  "  whatever  chance  there  may  be  that  the  gay  hon- 
orabJe  who  is  at  our  heels  may  dazzle  her  into  throw 
ing  away  her  hand." 

Mounted  on  a  magnificent  hunter,  whose  powerful 
and  straightforward  "leaps  soon  told  against  the  lavish 
and  high  action  of  our  more  showy  horses,  the  Hon. 

Charles (the  gentleman  who  had  engrossed  the 

attention    of    Miss    Trevanion    the   night   before  at 


WIGWAM  VERSUS  ALMACK'S. 


47 


Almack's)  was  soon  beside  my  companion,  and  leaning 
from  his  saddle,  was  taking  pains  to  address  conversa 
tion  to  her  in  a  tone  not  meant  for  my  ear.  As  the 
lady  picked  out  her  path  with  a  marked  preference 
for  his  side  of  the  road,  I  of  course  rode  with  a  free 
rein  on  the  other,  rather  discontented,  however,  I 
must  own,  to  be  playing  Monsieur  de  Trop.  The 
Hon.  Charles,  I  very  well  knew,  was  enjoying  a  tem 
porary  relief  from  the  most  pressing  of  his  acquaint 
ances  by  the  prospect  of  his  marrying;  an  heiress,  and 
in  a  two  years'  gay  life  in  London  1  had  traversed  his 
threads  too  often  to  believe  that  he  had  a  heart  to  be 
redeemed  from  dissipation,  or  a  soul  to  appreciate  the 
virtues  of  a  high-minded  woman.  I  found  myself, 
besides,  without  wishing  if,  attorney  for  Shahatan  in 
the  case. 

Observing  that  I  "  sulked,"  Miss  Trevanion,  in  the 
next  round,  turned  her  horse's  .head  toward  the  Ser 
pentine  Bridge,  and  we  entered  into  Kensington  Gar 
dens.  The  band  was  playing  on  the  other  side  of  the 
ha-ha,  and  fashionable  London  was  divided  between 
the  equestrians  on  the  road,  and  the  promenaders  on 
the  greensward.  We  drew  up  in  the  thickest  of  the 
crowd,  and  presuming  that,  by  Miss  Trevanion's  tac 
tics,  I  was  to  find  some  other  acquaintance  to  chat 
with  while  our  horses  drew  breath,  I  spurred  to  a  lit 
tle  distance,  and  sat  mum  in  my  saddle  with  forty  or 
fifty  horsemen  between  me  and  herself.  Her  other 
companion  had  put  his  horse  as  close  by  the  side  of 
Puck  as  possible;  but  there  were  other  dancers  at 
Almack's  who  had  an  eye  upon  the  heiress,  and  their 
tete-d-tetc  was  interrupted  presently  by  the  how-d'ye- 
do's  and  attentions  of  half  a  dozen  of  the  gayest  men 
about  town.  After  looking  black  at  them  for  a  mo 
ment,  Charles drew  bridle,  and  backing  out  of 

the  press  rather  unceremoniously,  rode  to  the  side  of 
a  lady  who  sat  in  her  saddle  with  a  mounted  servant 
behind  her,  separated  from  me  by  only  the  trunk  of  a 
superb  lime-tree.  I  was  fated  to  see  all  the  workings 
of  Miss  Trevanion's  destiny. 

"You  see  what  I  endure  for  you!"  he  said,  as  a 
flush  came  and  went  in  his  pale  face. 

"You  are  false!"  was  the  answer.  "I  saw  you 
ride  in — your  eyes  fastened  to  hers — your  lips  open 
with  watching  for  her  words — your  horse  in  a  foam 
with  your  agitated  and  nervous  riding.  Never  call 
her  a  giraffe,  or  laugh  at  her  again,  Charles!  She  is 
handsome  enough  to  be  loved  for  herself,  and  you 
love  her !" 

"  No,  by  Heaven  !" 

The  lady  made  a  gesture  of  impatience  and  whipped 
her  stirrup  through  the  folds  of  her  riding-dress  till  it  | 
was  heard  even  above  the  tinkling  triangle  of  the  band.  ; 

"No  !"  he  continued,  "and  you  are  less  clever  than  [ 
you  think,  if  you  interpret  my  excitement  into  love.  ' 
I  am  excited — most  eager  in  my  chase  after  this  wo 
man.      You,  shall  know  why.     But  for  herself — good 
heavens ! — why,  you   have   never   heard   her  speak  ! 
She  is   never   done  wondering  at   silver  forks,  never 
done  with  ecstatics  about  finger-glasses  and   pastilles. 
She  is  a  boor — and  you  are  silly  enough  to  put  her 
beside  yourself!" 

The  lady's  frown  softened,  and  she  gave  him  her 
whip  to  hold  while  she  reimprisoned  a  stray  ringlet. 

"Keep  an  eye  on  her,  while  J  am  talking  to  you,"  j 
he  continued,  "  for  I  must  stick  to  her  like  her  shad 
ow.  She  is  full  of  mistrust,  and  if  I  lose  her  by  the 
want  of  attention  for  a  single  hour,  that  hour  will  cost 
me  yourself,  dearest,  first  and  most  important  of  all, 
and  it  will  cost  me  England  or  my  liberty — for  failing 
this,  I  have  not  a  chance." 

"  Go  !  go !"  said  the  lady,  in  a  new  and  now  anx 
ious  tone,  touching  his  horse  at  the  same  time  with 
the  whip  he  had  just  restored  to  her,  "she  is  off! 
Adieu !" 

And  with  half  a  dozen  attendants,  Miss  Trevanion 


took  the  road  at  a  gallop,  while  her  contented  rival 
followed  at  a  pensive  amble,  apparently  quite  content 
to  waste  the  time  as  she  best  might  till  dinner.  The 
handsome  fortune-hunter  watched  his  opportunity 
and  regained  his  place  at  Miss  Trevanion's  side,  and 
with  an  acquaintance,  who  was  one  of  her  self-select 
ed  troop,  I  kept  in  the  rear,  chatting  of  the  opera, 
and  enjoying  the  movement  of  a  horse  of  as  free  and 
admirable  action  as  I  had  ever  felt  communicated, 
like  inspiration,  through  my  blood. 

I  was  resumed  as  sole  cavalier  and  attendant  at 
Hyde  Park  gate. 

"Do  you  know  the  Baroness ?"  I  asked,  as 

we  walked  our  horses  slowly  down  Grosvenor  Place. 

"Not  personally,"  she  replied,  "  but  I  have  heard 
my  aunt  speak  of  her,  and  I  know  she  is  a  woman  of 
most  seductive  manners,  though  said  to  be  one  of 

very  bad  morals.  But  from  what  Mr.  Charles 

tells  me,  I  fancy  high  play  is  her  only  vice.  And 
meantime  she  is  received  everywhere." 

"I  fancy,"  said  I,  "that  the  Hon.  Charles is 

good  authority  for  the  number  of  her  vices,  and  beg 
ging  you,  as  a  parting  request,  to  make  this  remark 
the  key  to  your  next  month's  observation,  I  have  the 
honor  to  return  this  fine  horse  to  you,  and  make  my 
I  adieux." 

"But  you  will  come  to  dinner!  And,  by-the-by, 
I  you  have  not  explained  to  me  what  you  meant  by 
j  'swimming  across  the  Susquehannah,'  in  the  middle 

iof  your  breakfast,  this  morning." 
While   Miss  Trevanion    gathered  up   her  dress  to 
'  mount  the  steps,  I  told   her  the  story  which   I  have 
j  already  told  the  reader,  of  my  involuntary  discovery, 
|  while  lying  in  that  moonlit  river,  of  Shahatan's  unfor- 
j  tunate  passion.     Violently  agitated  by  the  few  words 
i  in  which  I  conveyed  it,  she   insisted  on   my  entering 
!  the  house,  and  waiting  while  she  recovered  herself 
sufficiently  to   talk  to  me  on  the  subject.     But  I  had 
no  fancy  for  match-making  or  breaking.     I  reiterated 
my  caution  touching  the  intimacy  of  her  fashionable 
admirer  with  the  baroness,  and  said  a  word  of  praise 
of  the  noble  savage  who  loved  her. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN  the  autumn  of  the  year  after  the  events  outlined 
in  the  previous  chapter,  I  received  a  visit  at  my  resi 
dence  on  the  Susquehannah,  from  a  friend  I  had  never 
before  seen  a  mile  from  St.  James's  street — a  May-fair 
man  of  fashion  who  took  me  in  his  way  back  from 
Santa  Fe.  He  stayed  a  few  days  to  brush  the  cob 
webs  from  a  fishing-rod  and  gun  which  he  found  in 
inglorious  retirement  in  the  lumber-room  of  my  cot 
tage,  and,  over  our  dinners,  embellished  with  his  trout 
and  woodcock,  the  relations  of  his  adventures  (com 
pared,  as  everything  was,  with  London  experience  ex 
clusively)  were  as  delightful  to  me  as  the  tales  of 
Scheherezade  to  the  calif. 

"I  have  saved  to  the  last,"  he  said,  pushing  me  the 
!  bottle,' the  evening  before  his  departure,  "a  bit  of  ro 
mance  which  I  stumbled  over  in  the  prairie,  and  I 
|  dare  swear  it  will  surprise  you  as  much  as  it  did  me, 
!  for  I  think  you  will  remember  having  seen  the  heroine 
at  A.lmack's." 

"At  Almack's  ?" 

"You  may  well  stare.  I  have  been  afraid  to  tell 
you  the  story,  lest  you  should  think  I  drew  too  long 
a  bow.  I  certainly  should  never  be  believed  in  Lon 
don." 

»  Well— the  story?" 

"  I  told  you  of  my  leaving  St.  Louis  with  a  trading 
party  for  Santa  Fe.  Our  leader  was  a  rough  chap, 
big-boned,  and  ill  put  together,  but  honestly  fond  of 
fight,  and  never  content  with  a  stranger  till  he  had 


48 


WIGWAM  VERSUS  ALMACK'S. 


settled  the  question  of  which  was  the  better  man.  He 
refused  at  first  to  take  me  into  his  party,  assuring  me 
that  his  exclusive  services  and  those  of  his  company 
had  been  engaged  at  a  high  price,  by  another  gentle 
man.  By  dint  of  drinking  'juleps'  with  him,  how 
ever,  and  giving  him  a  thorough  'mill'  (for  though 
strong  as  a  rhinoceros,  he  knew  nothing  of  'the  sci 
ence'),  he  at  last  elected  me  to  the  honor  of  his  friend 
ship,  and  took  me  into  the  party  as  one  of  his  own 
men. 

"  I  bought  a  strong  horse,  and  on  a  bright  May 
morning  the  party  set  forward,  bag  and  baggage,  the 
leader  having  stolen  a  march  upon  us,  however,  anc 
gone  ahead  with  the  person  who  hired  his  guidance 
It  was  fine  fun  at  first,  as  I  have  told  you,  to  galloj 
away  over  the  prairie  without  fence  or  ditch,  but  1 
soon  tired  of  the  slow  pace  and  the  monotony  of  the 
scenery,  and  began  to  wonder  why  the  deuce  our 
leader  kept  himself  so  carefully  out  of  sight — for  i 
three  days'  travel  I  had  seen  him  but  once^  and  the 
at  our  bivouac  fire  on  the  second  evening.  The  men 
knew  or  would  tell  nothing,  except  that  he  had  one 
man  and  a  packhorse  with  him,  and  that  the  '  gentle 
man'  and  he  encamped  farther  on.  I  was  under  prom 
ise  to  perform  only  the  part  of  one  of  the  hired  carriers 
of  the  party,  or  I  should  soon  have  made  a  push  to 
penetrate  '  the  gentleman's'  mystery. 

"  I  think  it  was  on  the  tenth  day  of  our  travels  that 
the  men  began  to  talk  of  falling  in  with  a  tribe  of  In 
dians,  whose  hunting-grounds  we  were  close  upon, 
and  at  whose  village,  upon  the  bank  of  a  river,  they 
usually  got  fish  and  bufialo-huinp,  and  other  luxuries 
not  picked  up  on  the  wing.  We  encamped  about 
sunset  that  night  as  usual,  and  after  picketing  my 
horse,  I  strolled  off  to  a  round  mound  not  far  from  the 
fire,  and  sat  down  upon  the  top  to  see  the  moon  rise. 
The  east  was  brightening,  and  the  evening  was  de 
licious. 

"Up  came  the  moon,  looking  like  one  of  the  duke 
of  Devonshire's  gold  plates  (excuse  the  poetry  of  the 
comparison),  and  still  the  rosy  color  hung  on  in  the 
west,  and  turning  my  eyes  from  one  to  the  other,  I  at 
last  perceived,  over  the  southwestern  horizon,  a  mist 
slowly  coming  up,  which  indicated  the  course  of  a 
river.  It  was  just  in  our  track,  and  the  whim  struck 
me  to  saddle  my  horse  and  ride  on  in  search  of  the 
Indian  village,  which,  by  their  description,  must  be  on 
its  banks. 

"  The  men  were  singing  songs  over  their  supper, 
and  with  a  flask  of  brandy  in  my  pocket,  I  got  off  un 
observed,  and  was  soon  in  a  flourishing  gallop  over  the 
wild  prairie,  without  guide  or  compass.  It  was  a  silly 
freak,  and  might  have  ended  in  an  unpleasant  adven 
ture.  Pass  the  bottle  and  have  no  apprehensions, 
however. 

"  For  an  hour  or  so,  I  was  very  much  elated  with 
my  independence,  and  my  horse  too  seemed  delighted 
to  get  out  of  the  slow  pace  of  the  caravan.  It  was  as 
light  as  day  with  the  wonderful  clearness  of  the  atmo 
sphere,  and  the  full  moon  and  the  coolness  of  the 
evening  air  made  exercise  very  exhilarating.  I  rode 
on,  looking  up  occasionally  to  the  mist,  which  retreat 
ed  long  after  I  thought  I  should  have  reached  the 
river,  till  I  began  to  feel  uneasy  at  last,  and  wondered 
whether  I  had  not  embarked  in  a  very  mad  adventure. 
As  I  had  lost  sight  of  our  own  fires,  and  might  miss 
my  way  in  trying  to  retrace  my  steps,  I  determined  to 
push  on. 

"  My  horse  was  in  a  walk,  and  I  was  beginning  to 
feel  very  grave,  when  suddenly  the  beast  pricked  up 
his  ears  and  gave  a  loud  neigh.  I  rose  in  my  stirrups, 
and  looked  round  in  vain  for  the  secret  of  his  improved 
spirits,  till  with  a  second  glance  forward,  I  discovered 
what  seemed  the  faint  light  reflected  upon  the  smoke 
of  a  concealed  fire.  The  horse  took  his  own  counsel, 
and  set  up  a  sharp  gallop  for  the  spot,  and  a  few  min- 


utes  brought  me  in  sight  of  a  fire  half  concealed  by  a 
clump  of  shrubs,  and  a  white  object  near  it,  which  to 
my  surprise  developed  to  a  tent.  Two  horses  picketed 
near,  and  a  man  sitting  by  the  fire  with  his  hands 
crossed  before  his  shins,  and  his  chin  on  his  knees, 
completed  the  very  agreeable  picture. 

"  'Who  goes  there  ?'  shouted  this  chap,  springing 
to  his  rifle  as  he  heard  my  horse's  feet  sliding  through 
the  grass. 

"  I  gave  the  name  of  the  leader,  comprehending  at 
once  that  this  was  the  advanced  guard  of  our  party  ; 
but  though  the  fellow  lowered  his  rifle,  he  gave  me  a 
very  scant  welcome,  and  motioned  me  away  from  the 
tent-side  of  the  fire.  There  was  no  turning  a  man  out 
of  doors  in  the  midst  of  a  prairie ;  so,  without  cere 
mony,  I  tethered  my  horse  to  his  stake,  and  getting 
out  my  dried  beef  and  brandy,  made  a  second  supper 
with  quite  as  good  an  appetite  as  had  done  honor  to 
the  first. 

"  My  brandy-flask  opened  the  lips  of  my  sulky  friend 
after  a  while,  though  he  kept  his  carcass  very  obsti 
nately  between  me  and  the  tent,  and  I  learned  that  the 
leader  (his  name  was  Rolfe,  by-the-by),  had  gone  on 
to  the  Indian  village,  and  that  'the  gentleman'  had 
dropped  the  curtain  of  his  tent  at  my  approach,  and 
was  probably  asleep.  My  word  of  honor  to  Rolfe  that 
I  would  '  cut  no  capers'  (his  own  phrase  in  adminis 
tering  the  obligation),  kept  down  my  excited  curiosity, 
and  prevented  me,  of  course,  from  even  pumping  the 
man  beside  me,  though  I  might  have  done  so  with  a 
little  more  of  the  contents  of  my  flask. 

"  The  moon  was  pretty  well  overhead  when  Rolfe 
returned,  and  found  me  fast  asleep  by  the  fire.  I  awoke 
with  the  trampling  and  neighing  of  horses,  and,  spring 
ing  to  my  feet,  I  saw  an  Indian  dismounting,  and  Rolfe 
and  the  fire-tender  conversing  together  while  picketing 
their  horses.  The  Indian  had  a  tall  feather  in  his  cap, 
and  trinkets  on  his  breast,  which  glittered  in  the  moon 
light  ;  but  he  was  dressed  otherwise  like  a  white  man, 
with  a  hunting-frock  and  very  loose  large  trowsers. 
By  the  way,  he  had  moccasins,  too,  and  a  wampum 
belt ;  but  he  was  a  clean-limbed,  lithe,  agile-looking 
devil,  with  an  eye  like  a  coal  of  fire. 

"  'You've  broke  your  contract,  mister!'  said  Rolfe, 
coming  up  to  me;  'but  stand  by  and  say  nothing.' 

"  He  then  went  to  the  tent,  gave  an  '  ehem"!'  by 
way  of  a  knock,  and  entered 

"  'It's  a  fine  night !'  said  the  Indian,  coming  up  to 
the  fire  and  touching  a  brand  with  the  toe  of  his  moc 
casin. 

"  I  was  so  surprised  at  the  honest  English  in  which 
he  delivered  himself,  that  I  stared  at  him  without  an 
swer. 

"  '  Do  you  speak  English  ?'  he  said. 
"  '  Tolerably  well,'  said  I,  '  but  I  beg  your  pardon 
for  being  so  surprised  at  your  own  accent  that  I  forgot 
to  reply  to  you.     And  now  I  look  at  you  more  closely, 
I  see  that  you  are  rather  Spanish  than  Indian.' 

"  '  My  mother's  blood,'  he  answered  rather  coldly, 
'but  my  father  was  an  Indian,  and  I  am  a  chief.' 

"  'Well,  Rolfe,'  he  continued,  turning  the  next  in 
stant  to  the  trader,  who  came  toward  us,  'who  is  this 
that  would  see  Shahatan  ?' 

"  The  trader  pointed  to  the  lent.  The  curtain  was 
put  aside,  and  a  smart-looking  youth,  in  a  blue  cap 
and  cloak,  stepped  out  and  took  his  way  off  into  the 
prairie,  motioning  to  the  chief  to  follow. 

'  Go  along  !  he  won't  eat  ye  !'  said  Rolfe,  as  the 
Indian  hesitated,  from  pride  or  distrust,  and  laid  his 
hand  on  his  tomahawk. 

I  wish  I  could  tell  you  what  was  said  at  that  in 
terview,  for  my  curiosity  was  never  so  strongly  excited. 
Rolfe  seemed  bent  on  preventing  both  interference  and 
observation,  however,  and  in  his  loud  and  coarse  voice 
commenced  singing  and  making  preparations  for  his 
supper;  and,  persuading  rne  into  the  drinking  part  of 


WIGWAM  VERSUS  ALMACK'S. 


49 


it,  I  listened  to  his  stories  and  toasted  my  shins  till  I 
was  too  sleepy  to  feel  either  romance  or  curiosity; 
and  leaving  the  moon  to  waste  its  silver  on  the  wilder 
ness,  and  the  mysterious  colloquists  to  ramble  and 
finish  their  conference  as  they  liked,  I  rolled  over  on 
my  buffalo-skin  and  dropped  off  to  sleep. 

"  The  next  morning  I  rubbed  my  eyes  to  discover 
whether  all  1  have  been  telling  you  was  not  a  dream, 
for  tent  and  demoiselle  had  evaporated,  and  I  lay  with 
my  feet  to  the  smouldering  fire,  and  all  the  trading 
party  preparing  for  breakfast  around  me.  Alarmed  at 
my  absence,  they  had  made  a  start  before  sunrise  to 
overtake  Rolfe,  and  had  come  up  while  I  slept.  The 


the  trader  found  himself  apparently  among  old  ac 
quaintances.  The  chief  sent  a  lad  with  my  horse 
down  into  the  plain  to  be  picketed  where  the  grass  was 
better,  and  took  me  into  a  small  hut,  where  I  treated 
myself  to  a  little  more  of  a  toilet  than  I  had  been  ac 
customed  to  of  late,  in  compliment  to  the  unusual 
prospect  of  supping  with  a  lady.  The  hut  was  lined 
with  bark,  and  seemed  used  by  the  chief  for  the  same 
purpose,  as  there  were  sundry  articles  of  dress  and 
other  civilized  refinements  hanging  to  the  bracing- 
poles,  and  covering  a  rude  table  in  the  corner. 

"  Fancy  my  surprise,  on  coming  out,  to  meet  the 
chief  strolling  up  and  down  his  prairie  shelf  with,  not 


leader  after  a  while  gave  me  a  slip  of  paper  from  the  one  lady,  but  half  a  dozen—  a  respectable  looking  gen 
chief,  saying  that  he  should  be  happy  to  give  me  a  !  tleman  in  black  (I  speak  of  his  coat),  and  a  bevy  of 
specimen  of  Indian  hospitality  at  the  Shawanee  vil-  |  nice-looking  girls,  with  our  Almack's  acquaintance  in 
lage,  on  my  return  from  Santa  Fe—  a  neat  hint  that  I  j|  the  centre—  the  whole  party,  except  the  chief,  dressed 
was  not  to  intrude  upon  him  at  present." 

"  Which  you  took  ?" 

"  Rolfe  seemed  to  have  had  a  hint  which  was  prob 
ably  in  some  more  decided  shape,  since  he  took  it  for 
us  all.  The  men  grumbled  at  passing  the  village  with 
out  stopping  for  fish,  but  the  leader  was  inexorable, 
and  we  left  it  to  the  riht  and  '  made  tracks,'  as  the 


hunters  say,  for  our  destination.  Two  days  from  there 
we  saw  a  buffalo  -  " 

"  Which  you  demolished.  You  told  me  that  story 
last  night.  Come,"  get  back  to  the  Shawanees  !  You 
called  on  the  village  at  your  return  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  an  odd  place  it  was.  We  came  upon  it 
from  the  west,  Rolfe  having  made  a  bend  to  the  west 


n  a  way  that  would  pass  muster  in  any  village  in  Eng 
land.  Shahatan  wore  the  Indian's  blanket,  modified 
with  a  large  mantle  of  fine  blue  cloth,  and  crossed  over 
his  handsome  bare  chest  something  after  the  style  of 
a  Hieland  tartan.  I  really  never  saw  a  better  made  or 
more  magnificent  looking  fellow,  though  I  am  not  sure 
that  his  easy  and  picturesque  dress  would  not  have  im 


proved  a  plainer  man. 

"  I  remembered  directly  that  Rolfe  had  said  some 
thing  to  me  about  missionaries  living  among  the  Shaw 
anees,  and  I  was  not  surprised  to  hear  that  the  gende- 
man  in  a  black  coat  was  a  reverend,  and  the  ladies  the 
sisterhood  of  the  mission.  Miss  Trevanion  seemed 
rather  in  haste  to  inform  me  of  the  presence  of  '  the 


irom  me  west,  none  Having  maae  a  oenu  10  itie  wesi-  .   inm^i  m 

ward,  on  his  return  back.     We  had  been  travelling  all     cloth,'  and  in  the  next  breath  claimed  my  congratula- 


day  over  a  long  plain,  wooded  in  clumps,  looking  very 
much  like  an  immense  park,  and  I  began  to  think  that 
the  trader  intended  to  cheat  me  out  of  mv  visit — for 


tions  on  her  marriage  !     She  had  been  a  chieftainess 
for  two  months. 

We  strolled  up  and  down  the  grassy  terrace,  divi- 


he  said  we  should  sup  with  the  Shawanees 'that  night,  |  ding  our  attention  between  the  effects  of  the  sunset  on 
an3  I  did  not  in  the  least  recognise  the  outline  of' the  [  the  prairie  below  and  the  preparations  for  OIH  supper, 
country.  We  struck  the  bed  of  a  small  and  very  beau 


tiful  river,  presently,  however,  and  after  following  it 
through  a  wood  for  a  mile,  came  to  a  sharp  brow 
where  the  river  suddenly  descended  to  a  plain  at  least 
two  hundred  feet  lower  than  the  table-land  on  which 
we  had  been  travelling.  The  country  below  looked 
as  if  it  might  have  been  the  bed  of  an  immense  lake, 
and  we  stood  on  the  shore  of  it. 

I  sat  on  my  horse  geologizing  in  fancy  about  thi 


which  was  going  on  by  the  light  of  pine-knots  stuck 
in  the  clefts  of  the  rock  in  the  rear.  A  dozen  Indian 
girls  were  crossing  and  recrossing  before  the  fires, 
and  with  the  bright  glare  upon  the  precipice,  and  the 
moving  figures,  wigwams,  &c.,  it  was  like  a  picture  of 
Salvator  Rosa's.  The  fair  chieftainess,  as  she  glided 
across  occasionally  to  look  after  the  people,  with  a  step 
as  light  as  her  stately  figure  would  allow,  was  not  the 
least  beautiful  feature  of  the  scene.  We  lost  a  fine 


singular  formation   of 'land,   till,  hearing  a  shout,  I  !|  creature  when  we  let  her  slip  through  our  fingers,  my 


found  the  party  had  gone  on,  and  Rolfe  was  hallooing 
to  me  to  follow.  As  I  was  trying  to  get  a  glimpse  of 
him  through  the  trees,  up  rode  my  old  acquaintance 
Shahatan,  with  his  rifle  across  his  thigh,  and  gave  me 
a  very  cordial  welcome.  He  then  rode  on  to  show  me 
the  way.  We  left  the  river,  which  was  foaming  among 
some  fine  rapids,  and  by  a  zig-zag  side-path  through 
the  woods,  descended  about  half  way  to  the  plain, 
where  we  rounded  a  huge  rock,  and  stood  suddenly  in 
the  village  of  the  Shawanees.  You  can  not  fancy  any 
thing  so  picturesque.  On  the  left,  for  a  quarter  of  a 
mile,  extended  a  natural  steppe,  or  terrace,  a  hundred 
yards  wide,  and  rounding  in  a  crescent  to  the  south. 
The  river  came  in  toward  it  on  the  right  in  a  superb 
cascade,  visible  from  the  whole  of  the  platform,  and 
against  the  rocky  wall  at  the  back,  and  around  on  the 
edge  overlooking  the  plain,  were  built  the  wigwams 
and  log-huts  of  the  tribe,  in  front  of  which  lounged 
men,  women,  and  children,  enjoying  the  cool  of  the 
summer  evening.  Not  far  from  the  base  of  the  hill 
the  river  reappeared  from  the  woods,  and  I  distin 
guished  some  fields  planted  with  corn  along  its  banks, 
and  horses  and  cattle  grazing.  What,  with  the  pleas 
ant  sound  of  the  falls,  and  the  beauty  of  the  scene  al 
together,  it  was  to  me  more  like  the  primitive  Arcadia 
we  dream  about,  than  anything  I  ever  saw. 

"  Well,  Rolfe  and  his  party  reached  the  village  pres-  ! 
ently,  for  the  chief  had  brought  me  by  a  shorter  cut,  ' 
and  in  a  moment  the  whole  tribe  was  about  us, 


HU, 

and  i 


dear  fellow  ! 

"  Thereby  hangs  a  tale, 


have  little  doubt,  and  I 


can  give  you  some  data  for  a  good  guess  at  it  —  but  as 
the  'nigger  song'  has  it  — 

"  Tell  us  what  dey  had  for  supper— 
Black-eyed  pease,  or  bread  and  butter  ?" 

"We  had  everything  the  wilderness  could  produce 
—  appetites  included.  Lying  in  the  track  of  the  tra 
ding-parties,  Shahatan,  of  course,  made  what  additions 
he  liked  to  the  Indian  mode  of  living,  and  except  that 
our  table  was  a  huge  buffalo-skin  stretched  upon  stakes, 
the  supper  might  have  been  a  traveller's  meal  among 
Turks  or  Arabs,  for  all  that  was  peculiar  about  it.  I 
should  except,  perhaps,  that  no  Turk  or  Arab  ever  saw 
so  pretty  a  creature  as  the  chiefs  sister,  who  was  my 
neighbor  at  the  feast." 

«'  So  —  another  romance  !" 

"  No,  indeed  !  For  though  her  eyes  were  eloquent 
enough  to  persuade  one  to  forswear  the  world  and  turn 
Shawanee,  she  had  no  tongue  for  a  stranger.  What 
little  English  she  had  learned  of  the  missionaries  she 
was  too  sly  to  use,  and  our  flirtation  was  a  very  unsat 
isfactory  pantomime.  I  parted  from  her  at  night  in 
the  big  wigwam,  without  having  been  out  of  ear-shot 
of  the  chief  for  a  single  moment;  and  as  Rolfe  was  in 
exorable  about  getting  off  with  the  daybreak  the  next 
morning,  it  was  the  last  I  saw  of  the  little  fawn.  But 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  had  forty  minds  between  that 


MISS  JONES'S  SON. 


and  St.  Louis  to  turn  about  and  have  another  look 
at  her. 

"  The  big  wigwam,  I  should  tell  you,  was  as  large 
as  a  common  breakfast-room  in  London.  It  was  built 
of  bark  very  ingeniously  sewed  together,  and  lined 
throughout  with  the  most  costly  furs,  even  the  floor 
covered  with  highly-dressed  bear-skins.  After  finish 
ing  our  supper  in  the  open  air,  the  large  curtain  at  the 
door,  which  was  made  of  the  most  superb  gold-colored 
otters,  was  thrown  up  to  let  in  the  blaze  of  the  pine 
torches  stuck  in  the  rock  opposite,  and,  as  the  evening 
was  getting  cool,  we  followed  the  chieftainess  to  her 
savage  drawing-room,  and  took  coffee  and  chatted  till 
a  late  hour,  lounging  on  the  rude,  fur-covered  couch 
es.  I  had  not  much  chance  to  talk  with  our  old 
friend,  but  I  gathered  from  what  little  she  said  that 
she  had  been  disgusted  with  the  heartlessness  of  Lon 
don,  and  preferred  the  wilderness  with  one  of  nature's 
nobility  to  all  the  splendors  of  matrimony  in  high-life. 


She  said,  however,  that  she  should  try  to  induce  Sha- 
hatan  to  travel  abroad  for  a  year  or  two,  and  after  that, 
she  thought  their  time  would  be  agreeably  spent  in 
such  a  mixture  of  savage  and  civilized  life  as  her  for 
tune  and  his  control  over  the  tribe  would  enable  them 
to  manage." 

When  my  friend  had  concluded  his  story,  I  threw 
what  little  light  I  possessed  upon  the  undeveloped 
springs  of  Miss  Trevanion's  extraordinary  movements, 
and  we  ended  our  philosophizings  on  the  subject  by 
promising  ourselves  a  trip  to  the  Shawanees  some  day 
together.  Now  that  we  are  together  in  London,  how 
ever,  and  have  had  the  benefit  of  Mrs.  Melicent's  ad 
ditional  chapter,  with  the  still  later  news  that  Shahatan 
and  his  wife  were  travelling  by  the  last  accounts  in  the 
east,  we  have  limited  our  programme  to  meeting  them 
in  England,  and  have  no  little  curiosity  to  see  whether 
the  young  savage  will  decide  like  his  wife  in  the  ques 
tion  of  "Wigwam  versus  Almack's." 


MISS  JONES'S  SON, 


ONE  night,  toward  the  close  of  the  London  season 
— the  last  week  in  August,  or  thereabouts — the  Dept- 
ford  omnibus  set  down  a  gentleman  at  one  of  the  small 
brick-block  cottages  on  the  Kent  road.  He  was  a 
very  quietly  disposed  person,  with  a  face  rather  in 
scrutable  to  a  common  eye,  and  might,  or  might  not, 
pass  for  what  he  was — a  man  of  mark.  His  age  was 
perhaps  thirty,  and  his  manners  and  movements  had 
that  cool  security  which  can  come  only  from  con 
versance  with  a  class  of  society  that  is  beyond  being 
laughed  at.  He  was  handsome — but  when  the  style 
of  a  man  is  well  pronounced,  that  is  an  unobserved 
trifle. 

Perhaps  the  reader  will  step  in  to  No.  10,  Verandah 
Row,  without  further  ceremony. 

The  room — scarce  more  than  a  squirrel-box  from 
back  to  front — was  divided  by  folding  doors,  and  the 
furniture  was  fanciful  and  neatly  kept.  The  canary- 
bird,  in  a  very  small  cage,  in  the  corner,  seemed  rather 
an  intruder  on  such  small  quarters.  You  could  scarce 
give  a  guess  what  style  of  lady  was  the  tenant  of  such 
miniature  gentility. 

The  omnibus  passenger  sat  down  in  one  of  the  little 
cane-bottomed  and  straight  backed  chairs,  and  present 
ly  the  door  opened  and  a  stout  elderly  woman,  whose 
skirts  really  filled  up  the  remaining  void  of  the  little 
parlor,  entered  with  a  cordial  exclamation,  and  an 
affectionate  embrace  was  exchanged  between  them. 

"  Well,  my  dear  mother  !"  said  the  visiter,  "  I  am 
off  to-morrow  to  Warwickshire  to  pass  the  shooting 
season,  and  I  came  to  wind  up  your  household  clock 
work,  to  go  for  a  month — (ticking,  1  am  sorry  to  say!) 
What  do  you  want  ?  How  is  the  tea-caddy  ?" 

"  Out  of  green,  James,  but  the  black  will  do  till  you 
come  back.  La!  don't  talk  of  such  matters  when  you 
are  just  going  to  leave  me.  I'll  step  up  stairs  and 
make  you  out  a  list  of  my  wants  presently.  Tell  me 
— where  are  you  going  in  Warwickshire  ?  I  went  to 
school  in  Warwickshire.  Dear  me  !  the  lovers  I  had 
there  !  Well,  well !  Where  did  you  say  you  were 
going?" 

"  To  the  marquis  of  Headfort — Headfort  court,  I 
think  his  place  is  called— a  post  and  a  half  from  Strat 
ford.  Were  you  ever  there,  mother  ?" 

"  I  there,  indeed  !  no,  my  son  !  But  I  had  a  lover 
near  Stratford— young  Sir  Humphrey  Fencher,  he 
was  then— old  Sir  Humphrey  now  !  I'm  sure  he  re 


members  me,  long  as  it  is  since  I  saw  him — and,  James, 
I'll  give  you  a  letter  to  him.  Yes — I  should  like  to 
know  how  he  looks,  and  what  he  will  say  to  my  grown 
up  boy.  I'll  go  and  write  it  now,  and  I'll  look  over 
the  groceries  at  the  same  time.  If  you  move  your 
chair,  James,  don't  crush  the  canary-bird  !" 

The  mention  of  the  letter  of  introduction  lingered 
in  the  ear  of  the  gentleman  left  in  the  parlor,  and 
smiling  to  himself  with  a  look  of  covert  humor,  he 
drew  from  his  pocket  a  letter  of  which  it  reminded 
him — the  letter  of  introduction,  on  the  strength  of 
which  he  was  going  to  Warwickshire.  As  this  and 
the  one  which  was  being  written  up  stairs,  were  the 
two  pieces  of  ordnance  destined  to  propel  the  incidents 
of  our  story,  the  reader  will  excuse  us  for  presenting 
them  as  a  "  make  ready." 

"  Crochford's,  Monday. 

"  DEAR  FRED  :  Nothing  going  on  in  town,  except 
a  little  affair  of  my  own,  which  I  can't  leave  to  go 
down  to  you.  Dull  even  at  Crocky's — nobody  plays 
this  hot  weather.  And  now,  as  to  your  commissions. 
You  will  receive  Dupree,  the  cook,  by  to-night's  mail. 
Grisi  won't  come  to  you  without  her  man — '  'twasn't 
thus  when  we  were  boys." — so  I  send  you  a  figurante, 
and  you  must  do  tableaux.  I  was  luckier  in  finding 

you  a  wit.     S will  be  withyou  to-morrow,  though, 

by  the  way,  it  is  only  on  condition  of  meeting  Lady 
Midge  Bellasys,  for  whom,  if  she  is  not  with  you,  you 
must  exert  your  inveiglements.  This,  by  way  only 
of  shuttlecock  and  battledore,  however,  for  they  play 
at  wit  together — nothing  more,  on  her  part  at  least. 
Look  out  for  this  devilish  fellow,  my  lord  Fred  ! — 
and  live  thin  till  you  see  the  last  of  him — for  he'll 
laugh  you  into  your  second  apoplexy  with  the  danger 
ous  ease  of  a  hair-trigger.  I  coRld  amuse  you  with 
a  turn  or  two  in  my  late  adventures,  but  black  and 
white  are  bad  confidants,  though  very  well  as  a  busi 
ness  firm.  And,  mentioning  them,  I  have  drawn  on 
you  for  a  temporary  c£500,  which  please  lump  with 
my  other  loan,  and  oblige  "  Yours,  faithfully, 

"  VAURIEN." 

And  here  follows  the  letter  of  Mrs.  S —  —  to  her 
ancient  lover,  the  baronet  of  Warwickshire  : — 

"  No.  10,  Verandah  Row,  Kent  Road. 
"DEAR  SIR  HUMPHREY  :  Perhaps  you  will  scarce 
remember  Jane  Jones,  to  whom  you  presented  the 


MISS  JONES'S  SON. 


brush  of  your  first  fox.  This  was  thirty  years  ago. 
I  was  then  at  school  in  the  little  village  near  Tally-ho 
hall.  Dear  me  !  how  well  I  remember  it !  On  hear 
ing  of  your  marriage,  I  accepted  an  offer  from  my  late 

husband,  Mr.  S ,   and  our  union  was   blessed 

with  one  boy,  who,  I  must  say,  is  an  angel  of  good 
ness.  Out  of  his  small  income,  my  dear  James  fur 
nished  and  rented  this  very  genteel  house,  and  he 
tells  me  I  shall  have  it  for  life,  and  provides  me  one 
servant,  and  everything  I  could  possibly  want.  Thrice 
a  week  he  comes  out  to  spend  the  day  and  dine  with 
me,  and,  in  short,  he  is  the  pattern  of  good  sons.  As 
this  dear  boy  is  going  down  to  Warwickshire,  I  can  not 
resist  the  desire  I  have  that  you  should  know  him, 
and  that  he  should  bring  me  back  an  account  of  my 
lover  in  days  gone  by.  Any  attention  to  him,  dear 
Sir  Humphrey,  will  very  much  oblige  one  whom  you 
once  was  happy  to  oblige,  and  still 

"  Your  sincere  friend,     JANE  S , 

"Formerly  JONES." 

It  was  a  morning  astray  from  paradise  when  S — 
awoke  at  Stratford.  Ringing  for  his  breakfast,  he  re 
quested  that  the  famous  hostess  of  the  red  horse 
would  grace  him  so  far  as  to  join  him  over  a  muffin 
and  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  between  the  pauses  of  his 
toilet,  he  indited  a  note,  enclosing  his  mother's  letter 
of  introduction  to  Sir  Humphrey. 

Enter  dame   hostess,  prim   and   respectful,  and  as 

breakfast  proceeded,  S easily  informed  himself 

of  the  geography  of  Tally-ho  hall,  and  the  existing 
branch  and  foliage  of  the  family  tree.  Sir  Humphrey's 
domestic  circle  consisted  of  a  daughter  and  a  neice 
(his  only  son  having  gone  with  his  regiment  to  the 
Canada  wars),  and  the  hall  lay  half  way  to  Headfort 
court — the  Fenchers  his  lordship's  nearest  neighbors, 
Mrs.  Boniface  was  inclined  to  think. 

S divided  his  morning  very  delightfully  be 
tween  the  banks  of  the  Avon,  and  the  be-scribbled 
localities  of  Shakspere's  birth  and  residence,  and  by 
two  o'clock  the  messenger  had  returned  with  this  note 
from  Sir  Humphrey  : — 

"DEAR  SIR:  I  remember  Miss  Jones  very  well, 
God  bless  me,  I  thought  she  had  been  dead  many 
years.  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  see  her 
son.  Will  you  come  out  and  dine  with  us  ? — dinner 
at  seven.  Your ob't  servant,  "HUMPHREY  FENCHER. 

"James  S ,  Esq." 

As  the  crack  wit  and  diner-out  of  his  time,  S 

was  as  well  known  to  the  brilliant  society  of  London 
as  the  face  of  the  "gold  stick  in  waiting"  at  St. 
James's,  and,  with  his  very  common  name,  he  was  a 
little  likely  to  be  recognised  out  of  his  peculiar  sphere 
as  the  noble  lord,  when  walking  in  Cheapside,  to  be 
recognised  as  the  "  stick,"  so  often  mentioned  in  the 
Court  Journal.  He  had  delayed  his  visit  to  Headfort 
court  for  a  day,  and  undertaken  to  deliver  his  mother's 
letter,  and  look  up  her  lang-syne  lover,  very  much  as 
he  would  stop  in  the  Strand  to  purchase  her  a  parcel 
of  snuff— purely  from  the  filial  habit  of  always  doing 
her  bidding,  even  in  whims.  He  had  very  little  curiosi 
ty  to  see  a  Warwickshire  Nimrod,  and,  till  his  post- 
chaise  stopped  at  the  lodge-gate  of  Tally-ho  hall,  it 
had  never  entered  his  head  to  speculate  upon  the 
ground  of  his  introduction  to  Sir  Humphrey,  nor  to 
anticipate  the  nature  of  his  reception.  His  nmne  had 
been  so  long  to  him  an  "  open  sesame,"  that  he  had 
no  doubt  of  its  potency,  and  least  of  all  when  he  pro 
nounced  it  at  an  inferior  gate  in  the  barriers  of  society. 

The  dressing-bell  had  rang,  and  S was  shown 

into  the  vacant  drawing-room,  where  he  buried  him 
self  in  the  deepest  chair  he  could  find,  and  sat  looking 
at  the  wall  with  the  composure  of  a  barber's  customer 
waiting  to  be  shaved.  There  presently  entered  two 
young  ladies,  very  showily  dressed,  who  called  him 
Mr.  "Jones,"  in  replying  to  his  salutation,  and  im 


mediately  fell  to  promenading  between  the  two  old 
mirrors  at  the  extremities  of  the  room,  discoursing 
upon  topics  evidently  chosen  to  exclude  the  new 
comer  from  the  conversation.  With  rather  a  feeling 
that  it  was  their  loss,  not  his,  S  ---  recomposed 
himself  in  the  leathern  chair  and  resumed  the  perusal 
of  the  oaken  ceiling.  The  neglect  sat  upon  him  a 
little  uncomfortable  withal. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  young  man  !  What  !  you  are  Miss 
Jones's  son,  eh  ?"  was  the  salutation  of  a  burly  old 
gentleman,  who  now  entered  and  shook  hands  with 
the  great  incognito.  "  Here,  'Bel  !  Fan  !  Mr.  Jones, 
My  daughter  and  my  niece,  Mr.  Jones  !" 

S  -  was  too  indignant  for  a  moment  to  explain 
that  Miss  Jones  had  changed  her  name  before  his 
birth,  and  on  second  thought,  finding  that  this  real 
character  was  not  suspected,  and  that  he  represented 
to  Sir  Humphrey  simply  the  obscure  son  of  an  obscure 
girl,  pretty,  thirty  years  ago,  he  fell  quietly  into  the 
role  expected  of  him,  and  walked  patiently  in  to  dinner 
with  Miss  Fencher,  who  accepted  his  arm  for  that 
purpose,  but  forgot  to  take  it  ! 

It  was  hard  to  be  witty  as  a  Mr.  Jones,  but  the  habit 
was  strong  and  the  opportunities  were  good,  and 
S  --  ,  warming  with  his  first  glass  of  sherry,  struck 
out  some  sparks  that  would  have  passed  for  gems  of 
the  first  water,  with  choicer  listeners  ;  but  wit  is  slowly 
recognised  when  not  expected,  and  though  now  and 
then  the  young  ladies  stared,  and  now  and  then  the 
old  baronet  chuckled  and  said  "  egad  !  very  well  !' 
there  was  evidently  no  material  rise  in  the  value  of 
Mr.  Jones,  and  he  at  last  confined  his  social  talents 
exclusively  to  his  wine-glass  and  nut-picker,  feeling. 
spite  of  himself,  as  stupid  as  he  seemed. 

Relieved  of  the  burden  of  replying  to  their  guess, 
the  young  ladies  now  took  up  a  subject  which  evident 
ly  lay  nearest  their  hearts  —  a  series  of  dejeuners,  the 
first  of  which  was  to  come  off  the  following  morning 
at  Headfort  court.  As  if  by  way  of  caveat,  in  case 
Mr.  Jones  should  fancy  that  he  could  be  invited  to 
accompany  Sir  Humphrey,  Miss  Fencher  took  the 
trouble  to  explain  that  these  were,  by  no  means,  com 
mon  country  entertainments,  but  exclusive  and  select 
arties,  under  the  patronage  of  the  beautiful  and  witty 
ady  Imogen  Bellasys,  now  a  guest  at  Headfort. 
Her  ladyship  had  not  only  stipulated  for  societe  choisie, 
but  had  invited  down  a  celebrated  London  wit,  a  great 
friend  of  her  own,  to  do  the  mottoes  and  keep  up  the 
spirit  of  the  masques  and  tableaux.  Indeed,  Miss 
Fencher  considered  herself  as  more  particularly  the 
guest  and  ally  of  Lady  Imogen,  never  having  been 
permitted  during  her  mother's  life  to  visit  Headfort 
(though  she  did  not  see  what  the  marquis's  private 
character  had  to  do  with  his  visiting  list),  and  she  ex 
pected  to  be  called  upon  to  serve  as  a  sort  of  maid  of 
honor,  or  in  some  way  to  assist  Lady  Imogen,  who 
had  invited  her  very  affectionately,  after  church,  on 
Sunday.  She  thought,  perhaps,  she  had  better  wake 
up  Sir  Humphrey  while  she  thought  of  it  (and  while 
papa  was  good  natured,as  he  always  was  after  dinner), 
and  exact  of  him  a  promise  that  the  great  London 
i  Mr.,  'what  d'ye  call  'itn,  should  be  invited  to  pass  a 
week  at  Tally-ho  hall—  for,  of  course,  as  mutual 
allies  of  Lady  Imogen,  Miss  Feucher  and  he  would 
become  rather  well  acquainted. 

To  this  enliahtenment,  of  which  we  have  given  only 

a  brief  resumer,  Mr.  Jones  listened  attentively,  as  he 

I  was  expected  to  do,  and  was  very  graciously  answered, 

!  when  by  way  of  feeling  one  of  the  remote  pulses  of 

his  celebrity,  he  ventured  to  ask  for  some  further  par- 

i  ticulars  about  the  London  wit  aforementioned.     He 

j  learned,  somewhat  to  his  disgust,  that  his  name  was 

either  Brown  or  Simpson,  some  very  common  name, 

'  however,  but  that  he  had  a  wonderful  talent  for  writing 

!  impromptuepigrams  on  people  and  singing  them  after- 

I  ward  to  impromptu  music  on  the  piano,  and  that  he 


pa 
L 


52 


MISS  JONES'S  SON. 


was  supposed  to  be  a  natural  son  of  Talleyrand  or 
Lord  Byron,  Miss  Fencher  had  forgotten  which.  He 
had  written  something,  but  Miss  Fencher  had  for 
gotten  what.  He  was  very  handsome — no,  very  plain 
— indeed,  Miss  Fencher  had  forgotten  which — but  it 
was  one  or  the  other. 

At  this  crisis  of  the  conversation  Sir  Humphrey 
roused  from  his  post-prandial  snooze,  and  begged  Mr. 
Jones  to  pa,ss  the  port  and  open  the  door  for  the 
ladies.  By  the  time  the  gloves  were  rescued  from 
under  the  table,  the  worthy  baronet  had  drained  a 
bumper,  and,  with  his  descending  glass,  dropped  his 
eyes  to  the  level  of  his  daughter's  face,  where  they 
rested  with  paternal  admiration.  Miss  Fencher  was 
far  from  ill-looking,  and  she  well  knew  that  her  father 
waxed  affectionate  over  his  wine. 

"Papa!"  said  she,  coming  behind  him,  and  looking 
down  his  throat,  as  he  strained  his  head  backward, 
leaving  his  reluctant  double  chin  resting  on  his  cravat. 
"  I  have  a  favor  to  ask,  my  dear  papa  !" 

"  He  shall  go,  my  dear!  he  shall  go  !  I  have  been 
thinking  of  it — I'll  arrange  it,  Bel,  I'll  arrange  it !  Go 
your  ways,  chick,  and  send  me  my  slippers  !"  gurgled 
the  baronet,  with  his  usual  rapid  brevity,  when  slight 
ly  elevated. 

Miss  Fencher  turned  quite  pale. 

"Pa — pa!"  she  exclaimed,  with  horror  in  her  voice, 
coming  round  front,  "  pa — pa  ! — good  gracious  !  Do 
you  know  it  is  the  most  exclusive — however,  papa  ! 
let  us  talk  that  over  in  the  other  room.  What  I  wish 
to  ask  is  quite  another  matter.  You  know  that 
Mr.—  Mr.—" 

"  The  gentleman  you  mean  is  probably  James 
S ,"  interrupted  Mr.  Jones. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  so  it  is !"  continued  Miss  Fencher, 
putting  her  hand  upon  the  Baronet's  mouth,  who  was 

about   to  speak — "  It  is   Mr.   James  S ;    and 

what  I  wish,  papa,  is,  to  have  Mr.  James  S —  —  in 
vited  to  pass  a  week  with  us.  You  know,  papa,  we 

shall  be  very  intimate — James  S and  I — both  ; 

of  us  assisting  Lady  Imogen,  you  know,  papa  !  and 
— and — stay  till  I  get  some  note-paper — will  you, 
dear  papa  ?" 

"  You  will  have  your  way,  chick,  you  will  have 
your  way,"  sighed  Sir  Humphrey,  getting  his  specta 
cles  out  of  a  very  tight  pocket  on  his  hip.  "But, 
bless  me,  I  can't  write  in  the  evening.  Mr.  Jones — 
perhaps  Mr.  Jones  will  write  the  note  for  me — just 

present  my  compliments  to  Mr.  S • — ,  and  request 

the  honor,  and  all  that — can  you  do  it,  Mr.  Jones?" 

S —  —  rapidly  indited  a  polite  note  to  himself,  | 
which  he  handed  to  Miss  Fencher  for  her  approba-  ! 
tion,  and  meantime  entered  the  butler  with  the  coffee,  j 

"  Stuggins  !"  cried  Sir  Humphrey — "  I  wish  Mr. 
Jones — " 

"  Good  Heavens!  papa  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Fencher, 
ending  the  remainder  of  her  objurgation  in  a  whisper 
in  her  father's  ear.  But  the  baronet  was  not  in  a 
mood  to  be  controlled. 

"  My  love! — Bel,  I  say ! — he  shall  go.  You  d-d.-d- 
diddedent  see  Miss  Jones'sletter.  He'sap-p-p-pattern 
of  filial  duty  ! — he  gives  his  mother  a  house,  and  all 
she  wants! — he's  a  good  son,  I  tell  you!  St-Stuggins, 
come  here  !  Pass  the  port,  Jones,  my  good  fellow!" 

Stuggins  stepped  forward  a  pace,  and  presented  his 
white  waistcoat,  and  Miss  Fencher  flounced  out  of  the 
room  in  a  passion. 

"  Stuggins!"  said  the  old  man,  a  little  more  tran 
quilly,  since  he  had  no  fear  now  of  being  interrupted, 
"  I  wish  my  friend,  Mr.  Jones,  here,  to  see  this  cock- 
a-hoop  business  to-morrow.  It'll  be  a  fine  sight,  they 
tell  me.  I  want  him  to  see  it,  Stuggins !  You  under 
stand  me.  His  mother,  Miss  Jones,  was  a  pretty  girl, 
Stuggins !  And  she'll  be  very  glad  to  hear  that  her 
boy  has  seen  such  a  fine  show — eh,  Jones  ?  eh,  Stug 
gins  ?  Well,  you  know  what  I  want.  The  Headfort 


tenants  will  have  a  place  provided  for  them,  of  course 
— some  shrubbery,  eh  ? — some  gallery — some  place 
behind  the  musicians,  where  they  are  out  of  the  way, 
but  can  see — isn't  it  so  ?  eh  ?  eh  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir  Humphrey — no  doubt,  Sir  Humphrey  !" 
acceded  Stuggins,  with  his  ears  still  open  to  know  how 
the  details  were  to  be  managed. 

"  Well — very  well — and  you'll  take  Jones  with  you 
in  the  dickey — eh  ? — Thomas  will  go  on  the  box — eh? 
Will  that  do  ? — and  Mr.  Jones  will  stay  with  us 
to-nighl,  and  perhaps  you'll  show  him  his  room,  now, 
and  talk  it  over,  eh,  Stuggins  ? — good  night,  Mr. 
Jones  ! — good  night,  Jones,  my  good  fellow  !" 

And  Sir  Humphrey,  having  done  this  act  of  grate 
ful  reminiscence  for  his  old  sweetheart,  managed  to 
find  his  way  into  the  next  room  unaided. 

S —  —  had  begun,  by  this  time,  to  see  "  straw  for 
his  bricks,"  in  the  course  matters  were  taking  ;  and 
instead  of  throwing  a  decanter  after  Sir  Humphrey, 
and  knocking  down  the  butler  for  calling  him  Mr. 
Jones,  he  accepted  Stuggins's  convoy  to  the  house 
keeper's  room,  and  with  his  droll  stories  and  funny 
ways,  kept  the  maids  and  footmen  in  convulsions  of 
laughter  till  break  of  day.  Such  a  merry  time  had 
not  come  off  in  servants'  hall  for  many  a  day,  and  of 
many  a  precious  morsel  of  the  high  life  below  stairs 
of  Tally-ho  hall  did  he  pick  the  brains  of  the  delight 
ed  Abigails. 

The  ladies,  busied  with  their  toilets,  had  their 
breakfasts  in  their  own  rooms,  and  Mr.  Jones  did  not 
make  his  appearance  till  after  the  baronet  had  achieved 
his  red  herring  and  seltzer.  The  carriage  came  round 
at  twelve,  and  the  ladies  stepped  in,  dressed  for  triumph, 
tumbled  after  by  burly  Sir  Humphrey,  who  required 
one  side  of  the  vehicle  to  himself — Mr.  Jones  outside, 
on  the  dickey  with  Stuggins,  as  previously  arranged. 

Half  way  up  the  long  avenue  of  Headfort  court, 
Stuggins  relinquished  the  dickey  to  its  rightful  oc 
cupant,  Thomas,  and,  with  Mr.  Jones,  turned  off  by 
a  side  path  that  led  to  the  dairy  and  offices — the  latter 
barely  saving  his  legs,  however,  for  the  manoeuvre 
was  performed  servant  fashion,  while  the  carriage  kept 
its  way. 

Lord  Headfort  was  a  widower,  and  his  niece,  Lady 
Imogen  Bellasys,  the  wittiest  and  loveliest  girl  in 
England,  stood  upon  the  lawn  for  the  mistress  of  the 
festivities.  She  had  occasion  for  a  petticoat  aid-de- 
camj),  and  she  knew  that  Lord  Headfort  wished  to 
propitiate  his  Warwickshire  neighbors;  and  as  Miss 
Fencher  was  a  fine  grenadier  looking  girl,  she  pro 
moted  her  to  that  office  immediately  on  her  arrival, 
decking  her  for  the  nonce  with  a  broad  blue  riband  of 
authority.  Miss  Fencher  made  the  best  use  of  her 
powers  of  self  congratulation,  and  thanked  God  private 
ly  besides,  that  Sir  Humphrey  had  provided  an  eclipse 
for  Mr.  Jones  ;  for  with  the  drawback  of  presenting 
such  a  superfluous  acquaintance  of  their  own  to  the 
fastidious  eyes  of  Lady  Imogen,  she  felt  assured  that 
her  new  honors  would  never  have  arrived  to  her. 
She  had  had  a  hint,  moreover,  from  her  dressing- 
maid,  of  Mr.  Jones'  comicalities  below  stairs  ;  and 
the  fact  that  he  was  a  person  who  could  be  funny  in 
a  kitchen,  was  quite  enough  to  confirm  the  aristocratic 
instinct  by  which  she  had  at  once  pronounced  upon 
his  condition.  If  her  papa/;«(/  been  gay  in  his  youth, 
there  was  no  reason  why  every  Miss  Jones  should 
send  her  child  to  him  to  be  made  a  gentleman  of! 
"Filial  pattern,"  indeed ! 

The  gayeties  began.  The  French  figurante,  de 
spatched  by  Lord  Vaurien  from  the  opera,  made  up 
her  tableaux  from  the  beauties,  and  those  who  had 
ugly  faces,  but  good  figures,  tried  their  attitudes  on 
the  archery-lawn,  and  those  whose  complexions  would 
stand  the  aggravation,  tripped  to  the  dancing  tents, 
and  the  falcon  was  flown,  and  the  greyhounds  were 
coursed,  and  a  few  couple  of  Warwickshire  lads  tried 


MISS  JONES'S  SON. 


their  backs  at  a  wrestling  fall,  and  the  time  wore  on. 
But  to  Lady  Imogen's  shrewd  apprehension,  it  wore 
on  very  heavily.  There  was  no  wit  afloat.  Nobody 
seemed  gayer  than  he  meant  to  be.  The  bubble  w;is 
wanting  to  their  champagne  of  enjoyment.  Miss 
Fencher's  blue  riband  went  to  and  fro  like  a  pendulum, 
perpetually  crossing  the  lawn  between  Lady  Imogen 
and  the  footman  in  waiting,  to  inquire  if  a  post-chaise 
had  arrived  from  London. 

"  I  will  never  forgive  that  James  S ,  never  !" 

pettishly  vowed  her  ladyship,  as  Miss  Fencher  came 
back  for  the  fiftieth  time  with  no  news  of  his  arrival. 

"Better  feed  your  menagerie  at  once  !"  whispered 
Lord  Headfort  to  his  niece,  as  he  caught  a  glance  at 
her  vexed  face  in  passing. 

The  decision  with  which  the  order  was  given  to 
serve  breakfast,  seemed  to  hurry  the  very  heat  of  the 
kitchen  fires,  for  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  the  hot 
soups  and  delicate  entremets  of  Monsieur  Dupres 
were  on  the  tables,  and  breakfast  was  announced.  The 
band  played  a  march,  the  games  were  abandoned,  Miss 
Fencher  followed  close  upon  the  heels  of  her  chef,  to 
secure  a  seat  in  her  neighborhood,  and  in  ten  minutes 
a  hundred  questions  of  precedence  were  settled,  and 
Sir  Humphrey,  somewhat  to  his  surprise,  and  as  much 
to  his  delight,  was  called  to  the  left  hand  of  the  mar 
quis.  Tally-ho  hall  was  in  the  ascendant. 

During  the  first  assault  upon  the  soups,  the  band 
played  a  delicious  set  of  waltzes,  terminating  with  the 
clatter  of  changing  plates.  But  at  the  same  moment, 
above  all  the  ring  of  impinging  china,  arose  a  shout 
of  laughter  from  a  party  somewhere  without  the 
pavilion,  and  so  sustained  and  hearty  was  the  peal, 
that  the  servants  stood  petrified  with  their  dishes, 
and  the  guests  sat  in  wondering  silence.  The  steward 
was  instantly  despatched  to  enforce  order,  and  Lord 
Headfort  explained,  that  the  tenants  were  feasted  on 
beef  and  ale,  in  the  thicket  beyond,  though  he  could 
scarce  imagine  what  should  amuse  them  so  uncom 
monly. 

14  They  have  promised  to  maintain  order,  my  lord!" 
said  the  steward,  returning,  and  stooping  to  his  master's 
ear,  "  but  there  is  a  droll  gentleman  among  them,  my 
lord  !" 

"Then  I  dare  swear  it's  better  fun  than  this!" 
mumbled  his  lordship  for  the  steward's  hearing,  as 
he  looked  round  upon  the  unamused  faces  in  his 
neighborhood. 

"  Headfort,"  cried  Lady  Imogen,  presently,  from 
the  other  end  of  the  table,  "did  you  send  to  Stratford 

for  S ,  or  did  you  not?     Let  us  know  whether 

there  is  a  chance  of  his  coming  !" 

44  Upon  my  honor,  Lady  Imogen,  my  own  chariot 
has  been  at  the  Stratford  inn,  waiting  for  him  since 
morning,"  was  the  marquis's  answer.  "  Vaurien  wrote 
that  he  had  booked  him  by  the  mail  of  the  night  be 
fore  !  I'd  give  a  thousand  pounds  if  he  were  nere !" 

Bursts  of  laughter,  breaking  through  all  efforts  to 
suppress  them,  again  rose  from  the  offending  quarter. 

"It's   a  Mr.  Jones,   my   lord,"  said    the   steward,' 
speaking  between  the  marquis  and  Sir  Humphrey;!! 
•'he's  a  friend  of  Sir  Humphrey's  butler — and — if  you 
will  excuse  me,  my  lord — Stuggins  says  he  is  the  son 
of  a  Miss  Jones,  formerly   an  acquaintance  of  Sir 
Humphrey's !" 

Red  as  a  turkey-cock  grew  the  old  baronet  in  a 
moment.  "  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons  for  having 
intruded  him  here,  my  lord  !"  said  Sir  Humphrey  ; 
44  it's  a  poor  lad  that  brought  me  a  letter  from  his 
mother,  and  I  told  Stuggins — " 


But  here  Stuggins  approached  with  a  couple  of 
notes  for  his  master,  and,  begging  permission  of  the 
marquis,  Sir  Humphrey  put  on  his  spectacles  to  read. 
The  guests  at  the  table,  meantime,  were  passing  the 
wine  very  slowly,  and  conversation  more  slowly  still, 
and,  with  the  tranquillity  that  reigned  in  the  pavilion, 
the  continued  though  half-smothered  merriment  of 
the  other  party  was  provokingly  audible. 

"Can't  we  borrow  a  little  fun  from  those  merry 
people  ?"  cried  Lady  Imogen,  throwing  up  her  eyes 
despairingly  as  the  marquis  exchanged  looks  with  her. 

"  If  we  could  persuade  Sir  Humphrey  to  introduce 
his  friend,  Jones,  to  us — " 

"7  introduce  him!"  exclaimed  the  fuming  baronet, 
tearing  off  his  spectacles  in  a  rage,  4t  read  that  before 
you  condescend  to  talk  of  noticing  suchTa  varlet ! 
Faith !  I  think  he's  the  clown  from  a  theatre,  or  the 
waiter  from  a  pot-house !" 

The  marquis  read  : — 

44  DEAR  NUNCLE  :  It's  hard  on  to  six  o'clock,  and 
I'm  engaged  at  seven  to  a  junketing  at  the  4  Hen  and 
chickens,'  with  Stuggins  and  the  maids.  If  you  in 
tend  to  make  me  acquainted  with  your  great  lord,  now 
is  the  time.  If  you  don't,  I  shall  walk  in  presently, 
and  introduce  myself;  for  I  know  how  to  make  my 
own  way,  nuncle — ask  Miss  Bel's  maid,  and  the  other 
girls  you  introduced  me  to  at  Tally-ho  hall!  Be  in, 
a  hurry,  I'm  just  outside.  Yours,  "  JO.VES. 

"  Sir  Humphrey  Fencher." 

The  excitement  of  Sir  Humphrey,  and  the  amused 
face  of  the  marquis  as  he  read,  had  drawn  Lady  Imogen 
from  her  seat,  and  as  he  read  aloud,  at  her  request,  die 
urgent  epistle  of  Mr.  Jones,  she  clapped  her  hands 
with  delight,  and  insisted  on  having  him  in.  Sir 
Humphrey  declared  he  should  take  it  as  an  affront  if 
the  thing  was  insisted  on,  and  Miss  Fencher,  who  had 
followed  to  her  father's  chair,  and  heard  the  reading 
of  the  note,  looked  the  picture  of  surprised  indignation. 
"Insolent!  vulgar!  abominable!"  was  all  the  com 
pliment  she  ventured  upon,  however. 

"  Will  you  let  me  look  at  Mr.  Jones's  note  ?"  said 
Lady  Imogen. 

"  Good  Heavens!"  she  exclaimed,  after  glancing  at 
it  an  instant,  "  I  was  sure  it  must  be  he !" 

And  out  ran  the  beautiful  queen  of  the  festivities, 
and  the  next  moment,  to  Sir  Humphrey's  amazement, 
and  Miss  Fencher's  utter  dismay,  she  returned,  drag 
ging  in,  with  her  own  scarf  around  his  body,  and  her 
own  wreath  of  roses  around  his  head,  the  friend  of 
Stuggins — the  abominable  Jones !  Up  jumped  the 
marquis,  and  called  him  by  name  (not  Jones),  and 
seized  him  by  both  hands,  and  up  jumped  with  de 
lighted  acclamation  half  a  dozen  other  of  the  more 
distinguished  guests  at  table,  and  the  merriment  was 
now  on  the  other  side  of  the  thicket. 

It  was  five  or  ten  minutes  before  they  were  again 

seated  at  table,  S on  Lady  Imogen's  right  hand, 

but  there  were  two  vacant  chairs,  for  Sir  Humphrey 
and  his  daughter  had  taken  advantage  of  the  confusion 
to  disappear,  and  the  field  was  open,  therefore,  for  a 
full  account  of  Mr.  Jones's  adventures  above  and  below 
stairs  at  Tally-ho  hall.  A  better  subject  never  fell 
into  the  hand  of  that  inimitable  humorist,  and  glorious 
ly  he  made  use  of  it. 

As  he  concluded,  amid  convulsions  of  laughter,  the 

butler  brought  in  a  note  addressed  to  James  S , 

Esq.,  which  had  been  given  him  by  Stuggins  early 
in  the  day — his  own  autograph  invitation  to  the  hospi 
talities  of  Tally-ho  hall ! 


54 


LADY  RACHEL. 


LADY    RACHEL 


Beauty,  alone,  is  lost,  too  warily  kept.' 


I  ONCE  had  a  long  conversation  with  a  fellow-trav 
eller  in  the  coupe  of  a  French  diligence.  It  was  a 
bright  moonlight  night,  early  in  June — not  at  all  the 
scene  or  season  for  talking  long  on  very  dry  topics — 
and  with  a  mutual  abandon  which  must  be  explained 
by  some  theory  of  the  silent  sympathies,  we  fell  to 
chatting  rather  confidentially  on  the  subject  of  love. 
He  gave  me  some  hints  as  to  a  passage  in  his  life 
which  seemed  to  me,  when  he  told  it,  a  definite  and 
interesting  story  ;  but  in  recalling  it  to  mind  after 
ward,  I  was  surprised  to  find  how  little  he  really  said, 
and  how  much,  from  seeing  the  man  and  hearing  his 
voice,  I  was  enabled  without  effort  to  supply.  To 
save  roundabout,  I'll  tell  the  story  in  the  first  person, 
as  it  was  told  to  me,  begging  the  reader  to  take  my 
place  in  the  coupe  and  listen  to  a  very  gentlemanly 
man,  of  very  loveable  voice  and  manners;  supplying, 
also,  as  I  did,  by  the  imagination,  much  more  than  is 
told  in  the  narration. 

"  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  we  are  sometimes  best 
loved  by  those  whom  we  least  suspect  of  being  inter 
ested  in  us ;  and  while  a  sudden  laying  open  of  hearts 
would  give  the  lie  to  many  a  love  professed,  it  would, 
here  and  there,  disclose  a  passion  which,  in  the  or 
dinary  course  of  things,  would  never  have  been  be 
trayed.  I  was  once  a"  litlle  surprised  with  a  circum 
stance  of  the  kind  I  allude  to. 

"  I  had  become  completely  domesticated  in  a  fam 
ily  living  in  the  neighborhood  of  London — I  can 
scarce  tell  you  how,  even  if  it  were  worth  while.  A 
chance  introduction,  as  a  stranger  in  the  country, 
first  made  me  acquainted  with  them,  and  we  had  gone 
on,  from  one  degree  of  friendship  to  another,  till  I 
was  as  much  at  home  at  Lilybank  as  any  one  of  the 
children.  It  was  one  of  those  little  English  paradises, 
rural  and  luxurious,  where  love,  confidence,  simplicity, 
and  refineiiient,  seem  natural  to  the  atmosphere,  and  I 
thought,  when  I  was  there,  that  I  was  probably  as 
near  to  perfect  happiness  as  I  was  likely  to  be  in  the 
course  of  my  life.  But  I  had  my  annoyance  even 
there. 

"Mr.  Fleming  (the  name  is  fictitious,  of  course) 
was  a  man  of  sufficient  fortune,  living,  without  a  pro 
fession,  on  his  means.  He  was  avowedly  of  the  mid 
dle  class,  but  his  wife,  a  very  beautiful  specimen  of 
the  young  English  mother,  was  very  highly  connect 
ed,  and  might  have  moved  in  what  society  she  pleased.  ', 
She  chose  to  find  her  happiness  at  home,  and  leave 
society  to  come  to  her  by  its  own  natural  impulse  and 
affinity — a  sensible  choice,  which  shows  you  at  once 
the  simple  and  rational  character  of  the  woman. 
Fleming  and  his  wife  were  very  fond  of  each  other, 
but,  at  the  same  time,  very  fond  of  the  companion 
ship  of  those  who  were  under  their  roof;  and  between 
them  and  their  three  or  four  lovely  children,  I  could 
have  been  almost  contented  to  have  been  a  prisoner 
at  Lilybank,  and  to  have  seen  nobody  but  its  charm 
ing  inmates  for  years  together. 

"I  had  become  acquainted  with  the  Flemings,  how 
ever,  during  the  absence  of  one  of  the  members  of 
the  family.  Without  being  at  all  aware  of  any  new 
arrival  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  I  went  late  to  j 
dinner  after  a  long  and  solitary  ride  on  horseback,  and 
was  presented  to  Lady  Rachel ,  a  tall  and  re 
served-looking  person,  sitting  on  Fleming's  right 
hand.  Seeing  no  reason  to  abate  any  of  my  outward  \\ 


show  of  happiness,  or  to  put  any  restraint  on  the  nat 
ural  impulse  of  my  attentions,  I  took  my  accustomed 
seat  by  the  sweet  mistress  of  the  house,  wrapped  up 
my  entire  heart,  as  usual,  in  every  word  and  look 
that  I  sent  toward  her,  and  played  the  schoolboy  that 
I  felt  myself,  uncloudedly  frank  and  happy.  Fleming 
laughed  and  mingled  in  our  chat  occasionally,  as  he 
was  wont  to  do,  but  a  glance  now  and  then  at  his 
stately  right-hand  neighbor,  made  me  aware  that  I 
was  looked  upon  with  some  coolness,  if  not  with  a 
marked  disapproval.  I  tried  the  usual  peace-offer 
ings  of  deference  and  marked  courtesy,  and  lessened 
somewhat  the  outward  show  of  my  happiness,  but 
Lady  Rachel  was  apparently  not  propitiated.  You 
know  what  it  is  to  have  one  link  cold  in  the  chain  of 
sympathy  around  a  table. 

"  The  next  morning  I  announced  my  intention  of 
returning  to  town.  I  had  hitherto  come  and  gone  at 
my  pleasure.  This  time  the  Flemings  showed  a  de 
termined  opposition  to  my  departure.  They  seemed 
aware  that  my  enjoyment  under  their  roof  had  been, 
for  the  first  time,  clouded  over,  and  they  were  not 
willing  I  should  leave  till  the  accustomed  sunshine 
was  restored.  I  felt  that  I  owed  them  too  much  to 
resist  any  persuasion  of  theirs  against  my  own  feelings 
merely,  and  I  remained. 

"But  I  determined  to  overcome  Lady  Rachel's 
aversion — a  little  from  pique,  I  may  as  well  confess, 
but  mostly  for  the  gratification  I  knew  it  would  give 
to  my  sweet  friends  and  entertainers.  The  saddle  is 
my  favorite  thinking-place.  I  mounted  a  beautiful 
hunter  which  Fleming  always  put  at  my  disposal 
while  I  stayed  with  them,  and  went  off  for  a  long  gal 
op.  I  dismounted  at  an  inn,  some  miles  off,  called 
or  black  wax,  and  writing  myself  a  letter,  despatched 
t  to  Lilybank.  To  play  my  part  well,  you  will  easily 
conceive,  it  was  necessary  that  my  kind  friends  should 
not  be  in  the  secret. 

"  The  short  road  to  the  heart  of  a  proud  woman,  I 
well  knew,  was  pity.  I  came  to  dinner  that  day  a 
changed  man.  It  was  known  through  the  family,  of 
course,  that  a  letter  sealed  with  black  had  arrived  for 
me,  during  my  ride,  and  it  gave  me  the  apology  I 
needed  for  a  sudden  alteration  of  manner.  Delicacy 
would  prevent  any  one,  except  Mrs.  Fleming,  from 
alluding  to  it,  and  she  would  reserve  the  inquiry  till 
we  were  alone.  I  had  the  evening  before  me,  of 
course. 

"  Lady  Rachel,  I  had  remarked,  showed  her  supe 
riority  by  habitually  pitching  her  voice  a  note  or  two 
below  that  of  the  persons  around  her — as  if  the  re 
pose  of  her  calm  mind  was  beyond  the  plummet  of 
their  superficial  gayety.  I  had  also  observed,  how 
ever,  that  if  she  succeeded  in  rebuking  now  and  then 
the  high  spirits  of  her  friends,  and  lowered  the  gen 
eral  diapason  till  it  harmonized  with  her  own  voice, 
she  was  more  gratified  than  by  any  direct  compliment 
or  attention.  I  ate  my  soup  in  silence,  and  while  the 
children,  and  a  chance  guest  or  two,  were  carrying  on 
some  agreeable  banter  in  a  merry  key,  I  waited  for 
the  first  opening  of  Lady  Rachel's  lips,  and,  when 
she  spoke,  took  her  tone  like  an  echo.  Without  look 
ing  at  her,  I  commenced  a  subdued  and  pensive  de 
scription  of  my  morning's  ride,  like  a  man  uncon 
sciously  awakened  from  his  revery  by  a  sympathetic 
voice,  and  betraying,  by  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke, 


LADY  RACHEL. 


the  chord  to  which  he  responded.  A  newer  guest 
had  taken  my  place,  next  to  Mrs.  Fleming,  and  I  w«is 
opposite  Lady  Rachel.  I  could  feel  her  eyes  sud 
denly  fixed  on  me  as  1  spoke.  For  the  first  time,  she 
addressed  a  remark  to  me,  in  a  pause  of  my  descrip 
tion.  I  raised  my  eyes  to  her  with  as  much  earnest 
ness  and  deference  as  I  could  summon  into  them, 
and,  when  I  had  listened  to  her  and  answered  her  ob 
servation,  kept  them  fastened  on  her  lips,  as  if  I  hoped 
she  would  speak  to  me  again— yet  without  a  smile, 
and  with  an  expression  that  I  meant  should  be  that 
of  sadness,  forgetful  of  usages,  and  intent  only  on  an 
eager  longing  for  sympathy.  Lady  Rachel  showed 
her  woman's  heart,  by  an  almost  immediate  change 
of  countenance  and  manner.  She  leaned  slightly 
over  the  table  toward  me,  with  her  brows  lifted  from 
her  large  dark  eyes,  and  the  conversation  between  us 
became  continuous  and  exclusive.  After  a  little  while, 
my  kind  host,  finding  that  he  was  cut  off  from  his 
other  guests  by  the  fear  of  interrupting  us,  proposed 
to  give  me  the  head  of  the  table,  and  I  took  his  place 
at  the  left  hand  of  Lady  Rachel.  Her  dinner  was 
forgotten.  She  introduced  topics  of  conversation 
such  as  she  thought  harmonized  with  my  feelings, 
and  while  I  listened,  with  my  eyes  alternately  cast 
down  or  raised  timidly  to  hers,  she  opened  her  heart 
to  me  on  the  subject  of  death,  the  loss  of  friends,  the 
vanity  of  the  world,  and  the  charm,  to  herself,  of  sad 
ness  and  melancholy.  She  seemed  unconscious  of  the 
presence  of  others  as  she  talked.  The  tears  suffused 
her  fine  eyes,  and  her  lips  quivered,  and  I  found,  to 
my  surprise,  that  she  was  a  woman,  under  that  mask 
of  haughtiness,  of  the  keenest  sensibility  and  feeling. 
When  Mrs.  Fleming  left  the  table,  Lady  Rachel 
pressed  my  hand,  and,  instead  of  following  into  the 
drawing-room,  went  out  by  the  low  window  upon  the 
lawn.  I  had  laid  up  some  little  food  for  reflection  as 
you  may  conceive,  and  I  sat  the  next  hour  looking 
into  my  wineglass,  wondering  at  the  success  of  my 
manoeuvre,  but  a  little  out  of  humor  with  my  own  hy 
pocrisy,  notwithstanding. 

"Mrs.  Fleming's  tender  kindness  to  me  when  I 
joined  her  at  the  tea-table,  made  me  again  regret 
the  sacred  feelings  upon  which  I  had  drawn  for 
my  experiment.  But  there  was  no  retreat.  I  ex 
cused  myself  hastily,  anrl  went  out  in  search  of  Lady 
Rachel,  meeting  her  ladyship,  as  I  expected,  slowly 
pacing  the  dark  avenues  of  the  garden.  The  dimness 
of  the  starlight  relieved  me  from  the  effort  of  keeping 
sadness  in  my  countenance,  and  I  easily  played  out 
my  part  till  midnight,  listening  to  an  outpouring  of 
mingled  kindness  and  melancholy,  for  the  waste  of 
which  I  felt  some  need  to  be  forgiven. 

"Another  day  of  this,  however,  was  all  that  I  could 
bring  my  mind  to  support.  Fleming  and  his  wife  had 
entirely  lost  sight — in  sympathy  with  my  presumed 
affliction — of  the  object  of  detaining  me  at  Ltlybank, 
and  I  took  my  leave,  hating  myself  for  the  tender 
pressure  of  the  hand,  and  the  sad  and  sympathizing 
farewells  which  I  was  obliged  to  receive  from  them. 
I  did  not  dare  to  tell  them  of  my  unworthy  ruse. 
Lady  Rachel  parted  from  me  as  kindly  as  the  rest, 
and  I  had  gained  my  point  with  the  loss  of  my  self- 
esteem.  With  a  prayer  that,  notwithstanding  this  de 
ceit  and  misuse,  I  might  find  pity  when  I  should  in 
deed  stand  in  need  of  it,  I  drove  from  the  door. 

"A  month  passed  away,  and  I  wrote,  once  more,  to 
my  friends  at  Lilybank,  that  I  would  pass  a  week 
with  them.  An  occurrence,  in  the  course  of  that 
month,  however,  had  thrown  another  mask  over  my 
face,  and  I  went  there  again  with  a  part  to  play — and, 
as  if  by  a  retributive  Providence,  it  was  now  my  need 
of  sympathy  that  I  was  most  forced  to  conceal.  An 
affair  which  I  saw  no  possibility  of  compromising,  had 
compelled  me  to  call  out  a  man  who  was  well  known 
as  a  practical  duelist.  The  particulars  would  not  in 


terest  you.  In  accepting  the  challenge,  my  antago 
nist  asked  a  week's  delay,  to  complete  some  import 
ant  business  from  which  he  could  not  withdraw  his  at 
tention.  And  that  week  1  passed  with  the  Flemings. 
"  The  gayety  of  Lilybank  was  resumed  with  the 
smile  I  brought  back,  and  chat  and  occupation  took 
their  natural  course.  Lady  Rachel,  though  kind  and 
courteous,  seemed  to  have  relapsed  into  her  reserve, 
and,  finding  society  an  effort,  I  rode  out  daily  alone, 
seeing  my  friends  only  at  dinner  and  in  the  evening. 
They  took  it  to  be  an  indulgence  of  some  remainder 
of  my  former  grief,  and  left  me  consequently  to  the 
I  disposition  of  my  own  time. 

"  The  last  evening  before  the  duel  arrived,  and  I 
i  bade  my  friends  good-night  as  usual,  though  with 
I  some  suppressed  emotion.  My  second,  who  was  to 
!  come  from  town  and  take  me  up  at  Lilybank  on  his 
i  way  to  the  ground,  had  written  to  me  that,  from  what 
!  he  could  gather,  my  best  way  was  to  be  prepared  for 
j  the  worst,  and,  looking  upon  it  as  very  probably  the 
last  night  of  my  life,  I  determined  to  pass  it  waking, 
i  and  writing  to  my  friends  at  a  distance.  I  sat  down 
1 1  to  it,  accordingly,  without  undressing. 

"  It  was  toward  three  in  the  morning  that  I  sealed 
!  up  my  last  letter.  My  bedroom  was  on  the  ground- 
|  floor,  with  a  long  window  opening  into  the  garden; 
j  and,  as  I  lifted  my  head  up  from  leaning  over  the  seal, 
i  I  saw  a  white  object  standing  just  before  the  casement, 
I  but  at  some  little  distance,  and  half  buried  in  the  dark- 
!  ness.  My  mind  was  in  a  fit  mood  for  a  superstitious 
i  feeling,  and  my  blood  crept  cold  for  a  moment;  I 
j  passed  my  hand  across  my  eyes — looked  again.  The 
figure  moved  slowly  away. 

"  To   direct  my  thoughts,  I  took   up  a  book   and 

read.     But,  on  looking  up,  the  figure  was  there  again, 

and,  with  an  irresistible  impulse,  I  rushed  out  to  the 

|  garden.     The  figure  came  toward  me,  but,  with  its 

i  first  movement,  I  recognised  the  stately  step  of  Lady 

j  Rachel. 

"  Confused  at  having  intruded  on  her  privacy,  for  I 
i  presumed  that  she  was  abroad  for  solitude,  and  with 
i  no  thought  of  being  disturbed,  I  turned  to  retire. 
j  She  called  to  me,  however,  and,  sinking  upon  a  gar- 
j  den-seat,  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  I  stood 
(  before  her,  for  a  moment,  in  embarrassed  silence. 

"  '  You  keep  late  hours,'  she  said,  at  last,  with  a 
tremulous  voice,  but  rising  at  the  same  time  and,  with 
her  arm  put  through  mine,  leading  me  to  the  thickly- 
shaded  walk. 

"'To-night  I  do,' I  replied;  'letters  I  could  not 

I  well  defer ' 

"'Listen  to  me!'  interrupted  Lady  Rachel.     'I 

know  your  business  for  the  morning ' 

"  I  involuntarily  released  my  arm  and  started  back. 
The  chance  of  an  interruption  that  would  seem  dis 
honorable  flashed  across  my  mind. 

"  '  Stay !'  she  continued  ;  '  I  am  the  only  one  in  the 
family  who  knows  of  it,  and  my  errand  with  you  is 
not  to  hinder  this  dreadful  meeting.  The  circum 
stances  are  such,  that,  with  society  as  it  is,  you  could 
not  avoid  it  with  honor.' 

"  J  pressed  her  arm  with  a  feeling  of  gratified  jus 
tification  which  quite  overcame,  for  the  moment,  my 
curiosity  as  to  the  source  of  her  knowledge  of  the 
affair. 

"  'You  must  forgive  me,'  she  said,  '  that  I  come  to 
you  like  a  bird  of  ill  omen.  I  can  not  spare  the  pre 
cious  moments  to  tell  you  how  I  came  by  my  infor 
mation  as  to  your  design.  I  have  walked  the  night 
away,  before  your  window,  not  daring  to  interrupt  you 
in  what  was  probably  the  performance  of  sacred  du 
ties.  But  I  know  your  antagonist — I  know  his  de 
moniac  nature,  and — pardon  me! — I  dread  the  worst.1' 
"  I  still  walked  by  her  side  in  silence.  She  re 
sumed,  though  strongly  agitated. 

" '  I  have  said  that  I  justify  you  ia  an  intention 


THE  PHANTOM-HEAD  UPON  THE  TABLE. 


which  will  probably  cost  you  your  life.  Yet,  but  for 
a  feeling  which  I  am  about  to  disclose  to  you,  I  should 
lose  no  time  and  spare  no  pains  in  preventing  this 
meeting.  Under  such  circumstances,  your  honor 
would  be  less  dear  to  me  than  now,  and  I  should  be 
acting  as  one  of  my  sex  who  had  but  a  share  of  in 
terest  in  resisting  and  striving  to  correct  this  murder 
ous  exaction  of  public  opinion.  I  would  condemn 
duelling  in  argument — avoid  the  duellist  in  society — 
make  any  sacrifice  with  others  to  suppress  it  in  the 
abstract — but,  till  the  feeling  changes  in  reference  to 
it,  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  sacrifice,  in  the  honor 
of  the  man  I  loved,  my  world  of  happiness  for  my 
share  only.' 

'"And  mean  you  to  say '  I  began,  but,  as  the 

light  broke  upon  my  mind,  amazement  stopped  my 
utterance. 

" '  Yes — that  I  love  you  ! — that  I  love  you  !'  mur 
mured  Lady  Rachel,  throwing  herself  into  my  arms, 
and  fastening  her  lips  to  mine  in  a  long  and  passion 
ate  kiss — 'that  I  love  you,  and,  in  this  last  hour  of 
your  life,  must  breathe  to  you  what  I  never  before 
breathed  to  mortal !' 

"  She  sank  to  the  ground,  and,  with  handfuls  of 
dew,  swept  up  from  the  grass  of  the  lawn,  I  bathed 
her  temples,  as  she  leaned  senseless  against  my  knee. 
The  moon  had  risen  above  the  trees,  and  poured  its 
full  radiance  on  her  pale  face  and  closed  eyes.  Her 
hair  loosened  and  fell  in  heavy  masses  over  her  shoul 
ders  and  bosom,  and,  for  the  first  time,  I  realized 
Lady  Rachel's  extraordinary  beauty.  Her  features 
were  without  a  fault,  her  skin  was  of  marble  fairness 
and  paleness,  and  her  abandonment  to  passionate  feel 
ing  had  removed,  for  the  instant,  a  hateful  cloud  of 


pride  and  superciliousness  that,  at  all  other  times,  had 
obscured  her  loveliness.  With  a  newborn  emotion 
in  my  heart,  I  seized  the  first  instant  of  returning 
consciousness,  and  pressed  her,  with  a  convulsive  ea 
gerness,  to  my  bosom. 

"  The  sound  of  wheels  aroused  me  from  this  de 
lirious  dream,  and,  looking  up,  I  saw  the  gray  of 
the  dawn  struggling  with  the  moonlight.  I  tore  my 
self  from  her  arms,  and  the  moment  after  was  whirl 
ing  away  to  the  appointed  place  of  meeting. 


"I  was  in  my  room,  at  Lilybank,  dressing,  at  eleven 
of  that  same  day.  My  honor  was  safe,  and  the  affair 
was  over,  and  now  my  whole  soul  was  bent  on  this 
new  and  unexpected  vision  of  love.  True — I  was 
but  twenty-five,  and  Lady  Rachel  probably  twenty 
years  older — but  she  loved  me — she  was  highborn  and 
beautiful — and  love  is  not  so  often  brought  to  the  lip 
in  this  world,  that  we  can  cavil  at  the  cup  which  holds 
it.  With  these  thoughts  and  feelings  wrangling  tu- 
multuously  in  my  heated  blood,  I  took  the  following 
note  from  a  servant  at  my  door. 

"  '  Lady  Rachel buries  in  entire  oblivion  the 

last  night  past.  Feelings  over  which  she  has  full  con 
trol  in  ordinary  circumstances,  have  found  utterance 
under  the  conviction  that  they  were  words  to  the  dy 
ing.  They  would  never  have  been  betrayed  without 
impending  death,  and  they  will  never,  till  death  be 
near  to  one  of  us,  find  voice,  or  give  token  of  exist 
ence  again.  Delicacy  and  honor  will  prompt  you  to 
visit  Lilybank  no  more.' 

"  Lady  Rachel  kept  her  room  till  I  left,  and  I  have 
never  visited  Lilybank,  nor  seen  her  since." 


THE  PHANTOM-HEAD  UPON  THE  TABLE, 


CHAPTER  I. 

SHOWING    THE    HUMILIATIONS    OF     THE    BARRIERS    OF 
HIGH-LIFE. 

THERE  is  no  aristocracy  in  the  time  o'  night.  It 
was  punctually  ten  o'clock,  in  Berkeley  square.  It 
rained  on  the  nobleman's  roof.  It  rained  on  the  beg 
gar's  head.  The  lamps,  for  all  that  was  visible  except 
themselves,  might  as  well  have  been  half  way  to  the 
moon,  but  even  that  was  not  particular  to  Berkeley 
square. 

A  hack  cabriolet  groped  in  from  Bruton  street. 

"  Shall  I  ring  any  bell  for  you,  sir  ?"  said  the  cab 
man,  pulling  aside  the  wet  leather  curtain. 

"  No !  I'll  get  out  anywhere  !  Pull  up  to  the  side 
walk  !" 

But  the  passenger's  mind  changed  while  paying  his 
shilling. 

"On  second  thoughts,  my  good  fellow,  you  may 
knock  at  the  large  door  on  the  right." 

The  driver  scrambled  up  the  high  steps  and  gave  a 
single  knock — such  a  knock  as  the  drivers  of  only  the 
poor  and  unfashionable  are  expected  to  give,  in  well- 
regulated  England. 

The  door  was  opened  only  to  a  crack,  and  a  glitter 
ing  livery  peered  through.  But  the  passenger  was 
close  behind,  and  setting  his  foot  against  the  door,  he 
drove  back  the  suspicious  menial  and  walked  in. 
Three  men,  powdered  and  emblazoned  in  blue  and 
gold,  started  to  their  feet,  and  came  toward  the  appa 
rent  intruder.  He  took  the  wet  cap  from  his  head, 
deliberately  flung  his  well-worn  cloak  into  the  arms 


of  the  nearest  man,  and  beckoning  to  another,  pointed 
to  his  overshoes.  With  a  suppressed  titter,  two  of 
the  footmen  disappeared  through  a  side-door,  and  the 
third,  mumbling  something  about  sending  up  one  of 
the  stable-boys,  turned  to  follow  them. 

The  new-comer's  hand  passed  suddenly  into  the 
footman's  white  cravat,  and,  by  a  powerful  and  sud 
den  throw,  the  man  was  brought  to  his  knee. 

"  Oblige  me  by  unbuckling  that  shoe  '"  said  the 
stranger  in  a  tone  of  imperturbable  coolness,  setting 
his  foot  upon  the  upright  knee  of  the  astonished  me 
nial. 

The  shoe  was  taken  off.  and  the  other  set  in  its 
place  upon  the  plush-covered  leg,  and  unbuckled,  as 
obediently. 

"  Keep  them  until  I  call  you  to  put  them  on  again  !" 
said  the  wearer,  taking  his  gloves  from  his  pockets,  as 
the  man  arose,  and  slowly  walking  up  and  down  the 
hall  while  he  drew  them  leisurely  on. 

From  the  wet  and  muddy  overshoes  had  been  de 
livered  two  slight  and  well-appointed  feet,  however, 
shining  in  pliable  and  unexceptionable  jet.  With  a 
second  look,  and  the  foul-weather  toggery  laid  aside, 
the  humbled  footman  saw  that  he  had  been  in  error, 
and  that,  hack-cab  and  dirty  overshoes  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding,  the  economising  guest  of  "my  lord" 
would  appear,  on  the  other  side  of  the  drawing-room 
door,  only  at  home  on  "  velvet  of  three  pile" — an  ele 
gant  of  undepreciable  water! 

"  Shall  I  announce  you,  sir  ?"  respectfully  inquired 
the  servant. 

"  If  Lord  Aymarhas  come  up  from  the  dinner  ta 
ble—yes!  If  the  ladies  ar«  aloo« — no  !" 


THE  PHANTOM-HEAD  UPON  THE  TABLE. 


57 


«'  Coffee  has  just  gone  in  to  the  ladies,  sir !" 

"  Then  I'll  find  my  own  way !" 

Lady  Ayraar  was  jamming  the  projecting  diamond 
of  a  bracelet  through  and  through  the  thick  white 
leaf  of  an  Egyptian  kala,  lost  apparently  in  an  eclipse 
of  revery — possibly  in  a  swoon  of  slumberous  diges 
tion.  By  the  drawing-room  light,  in  her  negligent 
posture,  she  looked  of  a  ripeness  of  beauty  not  yet 
sapped  by  one  autumnal  minute — plump,  drowsy,  and 
voluptuous.  She  looked  up  as  the  door  opened. 

"  Spiridion  !" 

"  Sappho !" 

"Don't  be  silly! — how  are  you,  Count  Pallardos? 
And  how  like  a  ghost  you  come  in,  unannounced! 
Suppose  I  had  been  tying  my  shoe,  or  anything  ?" 

"  Is  your  ladyship  quite  well  ?" 

"  I  will  take  coffee  and  wake  up  to  tell  you  !  Was 
I  asleep  when  you  opened  the  door?  They  were  all 
so  dull  at  dinner.  Ah  me  !  stupid  or  agreeable,  we 
grow  old  all  the  same!  How  am  I  looking,  Spiri 
dion?" 

"  Ravishingly  !     Where  is  Lady  Angelica?" 

*'  Give  me  another  lump  of  sugar  !  La  !  don't  you 
take  coffee  ?" 

"  There  are  but  two  cups,  and  this  was  meant  for 
a  lip  of  more  celestial  earth — has  she  been  gone 
long  ?" 

The  door  opened,  and  the  rustling  dress  of  Lady 
Angelica  Aymar  made  music  in  the  room.  Oh,  how 
gloriously  beautiful  she  was,  and  how  changed  was 
Count  Spiridion  Pallardos  by  her  coming  in  !  A 
minute  before  so  inconsequent,  so  careless  and  com 
plimentary — now  so  timid,  so  deferential,  so  almost 
awkward  in  every  motion! 

The  name  of  "  Greek  count"  has  been  for  a  long 
time,  in  Europe,  the  synonym  for  "  adventurer" — a 
worse  pendant  to  a  man's  name,  in  high  life  at  least, 
than  "  pirate"  or  "  robber."  Not  that  a  man  is  pecu 
liar  who  is  trying  to  make  the  most  out  of  society  and 
would  prefer  an  heiress  to  a  governess,  but  that  it  is  a 
disgrace  to  be  so  labelled  !  An  adventurer  is  the  same 
as  any  other  gentleman  who  is  not  rich,  only  without 
a  mask. 

Count  Pallardos  was  lately  arrived  from  Constanti 
nople,  and  was  recognised  and  received  by  Lord  Aymar 
as  the  son  of  a  reduced  Greek  noble  who  had  been 
the  dragoman  to  the  English  embassy  when  his  lord 
ship  was  ambassador  to  the  Porte.  With  a  prompt 
ness  a  little  singular  in  one  whose  patronage  was  so 
difficult  to  secure,  Lord  Aymar  had  immediately  pro 
cured,  for  the  son  of  his  old  dependant,  a  small  em 
ployment  as  translator  in  the  Foreign  office,  and  with 
its  most  limited  stipend  for  his  means,  the  young 
count  had  commenced  his  experience  of  English  life. 
His  acquaintance  with  the  ladies  of  Lord  Aymar's 
family  was  two  stages  in  advance  of  this,  however. 
Lady  Aymar  remembered  him  well  as  the  beatitiful 
child  of  the  lovely  Countess  Pallardos,  the  playfellow 
of  her  daughter  Angelica  on  the  shore  of  the  Bos- 
phorus;  and  on  his  first  arrival  in  England,  hearing 
that  the  family  of  his  patron  was  on  the  coast  for  sea 
bathing,  Spiridion  had  prepared  to  report  himself  first 
to  the  female  portion  of  it.  Away  from  society  in  a 
retired  cottage  ornee  upon  the  seashore,  they  had  re 
ceived  him  with  no  hinderance  to  their  appreciation  or 
hospitality  ;  and  he  had  thus  been  subjected,  by  acci 
dent,  to  a  month's  unshared  intoxication  with  the 
beauty  of  the  Lady  Angelica.  The  arrival  of  the 
young  Greek  had  been  made  known  to  Lord  Aymar 
by  his  lady's  letters,  and  the  situation  had  been  pro 
cured  for  him  ;  but  Pallardos  had  seen  his  lordship 
but  once,  and  this  was  his  first  visit  to  the  town  estab 
lishment  of  the  family. 

The  butler  came  in  with  a  petit  verre  of  Curagoa 
for  Miladi,  and  was  not  surprised,  as  the  footmen 
would  have  been,  to  see  Lady  Angelica  on  her  knee, 


and  Count  Pallardos  imprisoning  a  japonica  in  the 
knot  a  la  Grecque  of  that  head  of  Heaven's  most 
heavenly  moulding.  Brother  and  sister,  Cupid  and 
Psyche,  could  not  have  been  grouped  with  a  more 
playful  familiarity. 

"  Spiridion  I" — said  Lady  Aymar — "  I  shall  call  you 
Spiridion  till  the  men  come  up — how  are  you  lodged, 
my  dear  !  Have  you  a  bath  in  your  dressing-room  ?" 

"  Pitcher  and  bowl  of  the  purest  crockery,  my  dear 
lady  !  May  I  venture  to  draw  this  braid  a  little  closer, 
Angelica — to  correct  the  line  of  this  raven  mass  on 
your  cheek  ?  It  robs  us  now  of  a  rose-leaf's  breadth 
at  least — flat  burglary,  my  sweet  friend  !" 

But  the  Lady  Angelica  sprang  to  her  feet,  for  a 
voice  was  heard  of  some  one  ascending  from  the 
dining-room.  She  flung  herself  into  a  dormeuse, 
Spiridion  twirled  his  two  fingers  at  the  fire,  as  if  bodi 
ly  warmth  was  the  uppermost  necessity  of  the  moment, 
and  enter  Lord  Aymar,  followed  by  a  great  statesman, 
1  a  famous  poet,  one  sprig  of  unsurpassed  nobility,  and 
one  wealthy  dandy  commoner. 

Lord  Aymar  nodded  to  his  protege,  but  the  gentle 
men  grouped  themselves,  for  a  moment,  around  a  silver 
'  easel,  upon  which  stood  a  Correggio,  a  late  purchase 
of  which  his  lordship  had  been  discoursing,  and  iu 
that  minute  or  two  the  name  and  quality  of  the  stran 
ger  were  communicated  to  the  party — probably,  for 
they  took  their  coffee  without  further  consciousness 
of  his  presence. 

The  statesman  paired  off  to  a  corner  with  his  host 
to  talk  politics,  the  poet  took  the  punctured  flower 
from  the  lap  of  Lady  Aymar,  and  commenced  mend 
ing,  with  patent  wax  wafers,  from  the  ormolu  desk 
near  by,  the  holes  in  the  white  leaves  ;  and  the  two  in- 
effables  lingered  a  moment  longer  over  their  Curacoa. 

Pallardos  drew  a  chair  within  conversation-reacnof 
Lady  Angelica,  and  commenced  an  unskilful  discus 
sion  of  the  opera  of  the  night  before.  He  felt  angry, 
insulted,  unseated  from  his  self-possession,  yet  he 
could  not  have  told  why.  The  two  young  men  lounged 
leisurely  across  the  room,  and  the  careless  Lord  Fred 
erick  drew  his  chair  partly  between  Pallardos  and 
Lady  Angelica,  while  Mr.  Townley  Manners  reclined 
upon  an  ottoman  behind  her  and  brought  his  lips 
within  whisper-shot  of  her  ear,  and,  with  ease  and  un 
forced  nonsense,  not  audible  nor  intended  to  be  audible 
to  the  "  Greek  adventurer,"  they  inevitably  engrossed 
the  noble  beauty. 

The  blood  of  Count  Spiridion  ran  round  his  heart 
like  a  snake  coiled  to  strike.  He  turned  to  a  portfolio 
of  drawings  for  a  cover  to  self-control  and  self-com 
muning,  for  he  felt  that  he  had  need  of  summoning 
his  keenest  and  coldest  judgment,  his  boldest  and 
wariest  courage  of  conduct  and  endurance,  to  submit 
to,  and  outnerve  and  overmaster,  his  humiliating  po 
sition.  He  was  under  a  roof  of  which  he  well  knew 
that  the  pride  and  joy  of  it,  the  fair  Lady  Angelica, 
the  daughter  of  the  proud  earl,  had  given  him  her 
heart.  He  well  knew  that  he  had  needed  reserve  and 
management  to  avoid  becoming  too  much  the  favorite 
of  the  lady  mistress  of  that  mansion ;  yet,  in  it,  he  had 
been  twice  insulted  grossly,  cuttingly,  but  in  both 
cases  unresentably — once  by  unpunishable  menials, 
of  whom  he  could  not  even  complain  without  expo 
sing  and  degrading  himself,  and  once  by  the  supercil 
ious  competitors  for  the  heart  he  knew  was  his  own— 
and  they  too,  unpunishable! 

At  this  moment,  at  a  sign  from  Lady  Aymar,  her 
lord  swung  open  the  door  of  a  conservatory  to  give 
the  room  "air,  and  the  long  mirror,  set  in  the  panel, 
showed  to  Spiridion  his  own  pale  and  lowering  fea 
tures.  He  thanked  Heaven  for  the  chance !  To  see 
himself  once  more  was  what  he  bitterly  needed ! — to 
see  whether  his  head  had  shrunk  between  his  shoul 
ders — whether  his  back  was  crouched — whether  his 
eyes  and  lips  had  lost  their  fearlessness  and  pride !  He 


58 


THE  PHANTOM-HEAD  UPON  THE  TABLE. 


had  feared  so — felt  so  !  He  almost  wondered  that  he 
did  not  look  like  a  dependant  and  a  slave  !  But  oh, 
no  !  The  large  mirror  showed  the  grouped  figures 
of  the  drawing-room,  his  own  the  noblest  among  them 
by  nature's  undeniable  confession  !  His  clear,  statua 
ry  outline  of  features — the  finely-cut  arches  of  his 
lips — the  bold,  calm  darkness  of  his  passionate  eyes — 
his  graceful  and  high-born  mien, — all  apparent  enough 
to  his  own  eye  when  seen  in  the  contrast  of  that  mir 
rored  picture — he  was  not  changed  ! — not  a  slave — not 
metamorphosed  by  that  hour's  humiliation !  He 
clenched  his  right  hand,  once,  till  the  nails  were  dri 
ven  through  his  glove  into  the  clammy  palm,  and  then 
rose  with  a  soft  smile  on  his  features,  like  the  remain 
der  of  a  look  of  pleasure. 

"  I  have  found,"  said  he,  in  a  composed  and  musical 
tone,  "I  have  found  what  we  were  looking  for,  Lady 
Angelica  !" 

He  raised  the  large  portfolio  from  the  print-stand, 
and  setting  it  open  on  his  knee,  directly  between  Lord 
Frederick  and  Lady  Angelica,  cut  off  that  nobleman's 
communication  with  her  ladyship  very  effectually, 
while  he  pointed  out  a  view  of  the  Acropolis  at  Athens. 
Her  ladyship  was  still  expressing  her  admiration  of  the 
drawing,  when  Spiridion  turned  to  the  astonished  gen 
tleman  at  her  ear. 

"Perhaps,  sir,"  said  he,  "  in  a  lady's  service,  I  may 
venture  to  dispossess  you  of  that  ottoman!  Will  you 
be  kind  enough  to  rise?" 

With  a  stare  of  astonishment,  the  elegant  Mr. 
Townley  Manners  reluctantly  complied  ;  and  Spiri 
dion,  drawing  the  ottoman  in  front  of  Lady  Angelica, 
set  the  broad  portfolio  upon  it,  and  seating  himself  at 
her  feet  upon  the  outer  edge,  commenced  a  detailed 
account  of  the  antiquities  of  the  grand  capitol.  The 
lady  listened  with  an  amused  look  of  mischief  in  her 
eye,  Lord  Frederick  walked  once  around  her  chair 
humming  an  air  very  rudely,  Mr.  Manners  attempted 
in  vain  to  call  Lady  Angelica  to  look  at  something 
wonderful  in  the  conservatory,  and  Spiridion's  triumph 
was  complete.  He  laid  aside  the  portfolio  after  a  mo 
ment  or  two,  drew  the  ottoman  back  to  its  advantageous 
position,  and,  self-assured  and  at  his  ease,  engrossed 
fully  and  agreeably  the  attention  of  his  heart's  mistress. 

Half  an  hour  elapsed.  Lord  Aymar  took  a  kind 
of  dismission  attitude  before  the  fire,  and  the  guests 
one  and  all  took  their  leave.  They  were  all  cloaking 
together  in  the  entry,  when  his  lordship  leaned  over 
the  bannister. 

"Have  you  your  chariot,  Lord  Frederick?"  he 
asked. 

"  Yes — it's  at  the  door  now  !" 

"  Lady  Aymar  suggests  that  perhaps  you'll  set  down 
Count  Pallardos,  on  your  way  !" 

"  Why — ah,  certainly,  certainly  !"  replied  Lord 
Frederick,  with  some  hesitation. 

"My  thanks  to  Lady  Aymar,"  said  Spiridion  very 
quietly,  "  but  say  to  her  ladyship  that  I  am  provided 
with  overshoes  and  umbrella  !  Shall  I  offer  your  lord 
ship  half  of  the  latter  ?"  added  he  in  another  key, 
leaning  with  cool  mock-earnestness  toward  Lord 
Frederick,  who  only  stared  a  reply  as  he  passed  out  to 
his  chariot. 

And  marvelling  who  would  undergo  such  humilia 
tions  and  such  antagonism  as  had  been  his  lot  that 
evening,  for  anything  else  than  the  love  of  a  Lady 
Angelica,  Count  Spiridion  stepped  forth  into  the  rain 
to  grope  his  way  to  his  obscure  lodgings  in  Parlia 
ment  street. 


CHAPTER  II. 
SHOWING  A  GENTLEMAN'S  NEED  OF  A  HORSE. 

IT  was  the  hour  when  the  sun   in  heaven  is  sup 
posed  to  be  least  promiscuous— the  hour  when  the 


five  hundred  fashionables  of  London  West-End  re 
ceive  his  visit  in  the  open  air,  to  the  entire  exclusion 
(it  is  presumed)  of  the  remaining  population  of  the 
globe.  The  cabs  and  jarveys,  the  vehicles  of  the  de 
spised  public,  rolled  past  the  forbidden  gate  of  Hyde 
park,  and  the  echo  stationed  in  the  arched  portal  an 
nounced  the  coroneted  carriage*  as  they  nicely  nibbled 
the  pleased  gravel  in  passing  under.  A  plebeian  or 
two  stood  outside  to  get  a  look  at  the  superior  beings 
whose  daily  list  of  company  to  dine  is  the  news  most 
carefully  furnished  to  the"  instructed  public.  The 
birds  (having  "  fine  feathers'')  flew  over  the  iron  rail 
ing  unchallenged  by  the  gate-keeper.  Four  o'clock 
went  up  to  Heaven's  gate  with  the  souls  of  those  who 
had  died  since  three,  and  with  the  hour's  report  of  the 
world's  sins  and  good  deeds ;  and  at  the  same  moment 
a  chariot  rolled  into  the  park,  holding  between  its 
claret  panels  the  embellished  flesh  and  olood  of  Lady 
Ayrnar  and  her  incomparable  daughter. 

A  group  of  gay  men  on  horseback  stood  at  the  bend 
of  "Rotten  Row,"  watching  the  comers-in;  and  within 
the  inner  railing  of  the  park,  among  the  promenaders 
on  foot,  was  distinguishable  the  slight  figure  of  Count 
Pallardos,  pacing  to  and  fro  with  step  somewhat  irreg 
ular.  As  Lady  Aymar's  chariot  went  by,  he  bowed 
with  a  frank  and  ready  smile,  but  the  smile  was  quickly 
banished  by  a  flushed  cheek  and  lowering  brow,  for, 
from  the  group  of  mounted  dandies,  dashed  out  Lord 
Frederick  Beauchief,  upon  a  horse  of  unparalleled 
beauty,  and  with  a  short  gallop  took  and  kept  his  place 
close  at  the  chariot  window. 

Pallardos  watched  them  till  the  turn  of  the  ring  took 
them  from  his  sight.  The  fitness  of  the  group — the 
evident  suitableness  of  Lord  Frederick's  position  at 
that  chariot  window,  filled  him  with  a  jealousy  he  could 
no  longer  stifle.  The  contest  was  all  unequal,  it  was 
too  palpable  to  deny.  He,  himself,  whatever  his  per 
son  or  qualities,  was,  when  on  foot,  in  the  place  allot 
ted  to  him  by  his  fortunes — not  only  unnoticed  by  the 
contagious  admiration  of  the  crowd,  but  unable  even 
to  obey  his  mistress,  though  beckoned  by  her  smile  to 
follow  her !  That  superb  animal,  the  very  type  of 
pride  and  beauty,  arching  his  glossy  neck  and  tossing 
his  spirited  head  before  the  eyes  of  Lady  Angelica, 
was  one  of  those  unanalyzed,  undisputed  vouchers  for 
the  owner's  superiority,  which  make  wealth  the  devil's 
gift — irresistible  but  by  the  penetrating  and  cold  judg 
ment  of  superior  beings.  How  should  a  woman,  born 
with  the  susceptible  weaknesses  of  her  sex,  most  im 
pressible  by  that  which  is  most  showy  and  beautiful — 
how  should  she  be  expected  to  reason  coldly  and  with 
philosophic  discrimination  on  this  subject  ? — how  sep 
arate  from  Lord  Frederick,  the  mere  man,  his  subser 
vient  accompaniments  of  wealth,  attendance,  homage 
from  others,  and  infatuated  presumption  in  himself? 
Nay — what  presumption  in  Spiridion  Pallardos  (so 
he  felt,  with  his  teeth  set  together  in  despair,  as  he 
walked  rapidly  along) — to  suppose  that  he  could  con 
tend  successfully  against  this  and  a  thousand  such  ad 
vantages  and  opportunities,  with  only  his  unpriced, 
unproved  love  to  offer  her,  with  a  hand  of  poverty  ! 
His  heart  ran  drowningly  over  with  the  bitterness  of 
conviction  ! 

After  a  few  steps,  Pallardos  turned  back  with  an  in 
stinctive  though  inexplicable  desire  to  hasten  the  pang 
of  once  more  meeting  them  as  they  came  round  the 
ring  of  the  park.  Coming  toward  him,  was  one  of  the 
honorable  officials  of  Downing  street,  with  whom  he 
had  been  thrown  in  contact,  a  conceited  and  well 
born  diner-out,  mounted  on  a  handsome  cob,  but 
with  his  servant  behind  him  on  a  blood  hunter. 
Mr.  Dallinger  was  walking  his  horse  slowly  along  the 
fence,  and,  as  he  came  opposite  Pallardos,  he  drew 
rein. 

"  Count !"  said  he,  in  that  patronising  tone  which  is 
tossed  over  the  head  of  the  patronised  like  a  swan'a 


THE  PHANTOM-HEAD  UPON  THE  TABLE. 


59 


neck  over  the  worm  about  to  be  gobbled,  "a — a — a — 

do  you  know  Spanish  ?" 

"  Yes.     Why  ?" 

"A — a — I've  a  job  for  you  !     You  know  Moreno, 

the  Spanish  secretary — well,  his  wife — sheivill  persist 

in  disguising  her  billet-doux  in  that  stilted  language, 

and — you  know  what  I  want — suppose  you  come  and 

breakfast  with  me  to-morrow  morning  ?" 

Pallardos  was  mentally  crowding  his  contemptuous 
refusal  into  the  smallest  phrase  that  could  convey  re 
pulse  to  insolence,  when  the  high-stepping  and  foam- 
spattered  forelegs  of  Lady  Aymar's  bays  appeared  un 
der  the  drooping  branch  of  the  tree  beyond  him.  The 
next  instant,  Lord  Frederick's  easily-carried  head 
danced  into  sight — a  smile  of  perfect  self-satisfaction 
on  his  face,  and  his  magnificent  horse,  excited  by  the 
constant  check,  prancing  at  his  proudest.  At  the  mo 
ment  they  passed,  Dallinger's  groom,  attempting  to 
restrain  the  impatience  of  the  spirited  hunter  he  was 
upon,  drew  the  curb  a  little  too  violently,  and  the  man 
was  thrown.  The  sight  of  the  empty  saddle  sent  a 
thought  through  the  brain  of  Pallardos  like  a  shaft. 

"  May  I  take  a  little  of  the  nonsense  out  of  that 
horse  for  you  ?"  said  he  quickly,  springing  over  the 
railing,  and  seizing  the  rein,  to  which  the  man  still 
held,  while  the  frighted  horse  backed  and  reared 
toward  his  master. 

"  A — a — yes,  if  you  like  !" 

Pallardos  sprang  into  the  saddle,  loosened  the  rein 
and  leaned  forward,  and  with  three  or  four  powerful 
bounds,  the  horse  was  at  the  other  window  of  the 
chariot.  Away,  with  the  bursted  trammels  of  heart 
and  brain,  went  all  thoughts  of  the  horse's  owner,  and 
all  design,  if  any  had  flashed  on  his  mind,  of  time  or 
place  for  restoring  him.  Bred  in  a  half-civilized  coun 
try,  where  the  bold  hand  was  often  paramount  to  law, 
the  Greek  had  no  habit  of  mind  likely  to  recognise  in 
a  moment  of  passion  even  stronger  barriers  of  propri 
ety  than  he  was  now  violating  ;  and,  to  control  his 
countenance  and  his  tongue,  and  summon  his  resour 
ces  for  an  apparently  careless  and  smiling  contest  of 
attraction  with  his  untroubled  rival,  was  work  enough 
for  the  whole  mind  and  memory,  as  well  as  for  all  the 
nerve  and  spirit  of  the  excited  Greek.  He  laid  his 
hand  on  the  chariot  window,  and  thinking  no  more  of 
the  horse  he  was  subduing  than  the  air  he  breathed, 
broke  up  his  powerful  gallop  to  a  pace  that  suited  him, 
and  played  the  lover  to  the  best  of  his  coolness  and 
ability. 

"  We  saw  you  walking  just  now,  and  were  lament 
ing  that  you  were  not  on  horseback,"  said  Lady  Ay- 
mar,  "for  it  is  a  sweet  evening,  and  we  thought  of 
driving  out  for  a  stroll  in  old  Sir  John  Chasteney's 
grounds  at  Bayswater.  Will  you  come,  Spiridion  ? 
Tell  White  to  drive  there!" 

Lord  Frederick  kept  his  place,  and  with  its  double 
escort,  the  equipage  of  the  Aymars  sped  on  its  vtoy  to 
Bayswater.  Spiridion  was  the  handsomer  man,  and 
the  more  graceful  rider,  and,  without  forcing  the  dim- 
cult  part  of  keeping  up  a  conversation  with  those 
within  the  chariot,  he  soon  found  his  uneasiness  dis- 
,  placed  by  a  glow  of  hope  and  happiness;  for  Lady 
Angelica,  leaning  far  back  in  her  seat,  and  completely 
hidden  from  Lord  Frederick,  kept  her  eyes  watchfully 
and  steadily  upon  the  opposite  side  where  rode  her  less 
confident  lover.  The  evening  was  of  summer's  softest 
and  richest  glory,  breezy,  and  fragrant;  and  as  the  sun 
grew  golden,  the  party  alighted  at  the  gates  of  Chas- 
teney  park — in  tune  for  love,  it  must  needs  be,  if  ever 
conspiring  smiles  in  nature  could  compel  accord  in 
human  affections. 

Ah,  happy  Sp,iridion  Pallardos !  The  Lady  Ange 
lica  called  him  to  disengage  her  dress  from  the  step 
of  the  carriage,  and  her  arm  was  in  his  when  he  arose, 
placed  there  as  confidingly  as  a  bride's,  and  with  a 
gentle  pressure  that  was  half  love  and  half  mischief— 


for  she  quite  comprehended  that  Lord  Frederick's 
ride  to  Bayswater  was  not  for  the  pleasure  of  a  twilight 
stroll  through  Chasteney  park  with  her  mother !  That 
mother,  fortunately,  was  no  duenna.  She  had  pre 
tensions  of  her  own  to  admiration,  and  she  was  only 
particular  as  to  the  quantity.  Her  daughter's  division 
with  her  of  the  homage  of  their  male  acquaintances, 
was  an  evil  she  indolently  submitted  to,  but  she  was 
pleased  in  proportion  as  it  was  not  obtruded  upon  her 
notice.  As  Pallardos  and  the  Lady  Angelica  turned 
into  one  of  the  winding  alleys  of  the  grounds,  Lady 
Aymar  bent  her  large  eyes  very  fixedly  upon  another, 
and  where  such  beautiful  eyes  went  before,  her  small 
feet  were  very  sure  to  follow.  The  twilight  threw  its 
first  blur  over  the  embowering  foliage  as  the  parties 
lost  sight  of  each  other,  and,  of  the  pair  who  are  the 
hero  and  heroine  of  this  story,  it  can  only  be  disclosed 
that  they  found  a  heaven  (embalmed,  for  their  partic 
ular  use,  in  the  golden  dusk  of  that  evening's  twi 
light),  and  returned  to  the  park  gate  in  the  latest  min 
ute  before  dark,  sworn  lovers,  let  come  what  would  ! 
But  meantime,  the  happy  man's  horse  had  disap 
peared,  as  well  he  might  have  been  expected  to  do,  his 
bridle  having  been  thrown  over  a  bush  by  the  en 
grossed  Pallardos,  when  called  upon  to  assist  Lady 
Angelica  from  her  carriage,  and  milord's  groom  and 
miladi's  footman  having  no  sovereign  reasons  for  se 
curing  him.  Lord  Frederick  laughed  till  the  count 
accepted  the  offer  of  Lady  Aymar  to  take  him  home, 
bodkin-wise,  between  herself  and  her  daughter;  and  for 
the  happiness  of  being  close  pressed  to  the  loving  side 
of  the  Lady  Angelica  for  one  hour  more,  Pallardos 
would  willingly  have  lost  a  thousand  horses — his  own 
or  the  honorable  Mr.  Dallinger's.  And,  by  the  way, 
of  Mr.  Dallinger  and  his  wrath,  and  his  horseless 
groom,  Spiridion  began  now  to  have  a  thought  or  two 
of  an  uncomfortable  pertinacity  of  intrusion. 


CHAPTER  III. 

SHOWING    WHAT  MAKES    A    HORSE-STEALER   A  GEiNTLE- 
MAIf. 

IT  was  the  first  day  of  September,  and  most  of  the 
gold  threads  were  drawn  from  the  tangled  and  vari 
colored  woof  of  London  society.  "  The  season"  was 
over.  Two  gentlemen  stood  in  the  window  of  Crock- 
ford's,  one  a  Jew  barrister  (kersey  enough  for  more 
russet  company  by  birth  and  character,  but  admitted 
to  the  society  of  "costly  stuff"  for  the  equivalent  he 
gave  as  a  purveyor  of  scandal),  and  the  other  a  com 
moner,  whose  wealth  and  fashion  gave  him  the  privi 
lege  of  out-staying  the  season  in  town,  without  pub 
lishing  in  the  Morning  Post  a  better  reason  than  incli 
nation  for  so  unnatural  a  procedure. 

Count  Spiridion  Pallardos  was  seen  to  stroll  slowly 
up  St.  James  street,  on  the  opposite  side. 

"Look  there,  Abrams!"  said  Mr.  Townley  Man 
ners,  "  there's  the  Greek  who  was  taken  up  at  one 
time  by  the  Aymars.  I  thought  he  was  transported." 

"No!  he  still  goes  to  the  Aymars,  though  he  is 
'in  Coventry'  everywhere  else.  Dallinger  had  him 
arrested — for  horse-stealing,  wasn't  it  ?  The  officer 
nabbed  him  as  he  was  handing  Lady  Angelica  out  of 
her  carriage  in  Berkeley  square.  1  remember  hearing 
of  it  two  months  ago.  What  a  chop-fallen  blackguard 
it  looks  !" 

"  Blackguard  i  Come,  come,  man  ! — give  the  devil 
his  due !"  deprecated  the  more  liberal  commoner ; 
"  may  be  it's  from  not  having  seen  a  gentleman  for  the 
last  week,  but,  hang  me  if  I  don't  think  that  same 
horse-stcaler  turning  the  corner  is  as  crack-looking  a 
man  as  I  ever  saw  from  this  window.  What's  o'clock  ?" 

"  Half-past  four,"  replied  the  scandal-monger,  swal- 


60 


THE  PHANTOM-HEAD  UPON  THE  TABLE. 


lowing,  with  a 'bland  smile,  what  there  was  to  swallmv 
in  Manners's  two-edged  remark,  and  turning  suddenly 
on  his  heel. 

Pallardos  slowly  took  his  way  along  Picadilly,  and 
was  presently  in  Berkeley  square,  at  the  door  of  the 
Aymars.  The  porter  admitted  him  without  question, 
and  he  mounted,  unannounced,  to  the  drawing-room. 
The  ladies  sat  by  the  window,  looking  out  upon  the 
garden. 

"Is  it  you,  Spiridion?"  said  Lady  Aymar,  "I  had 
hoped  you  would  not  come  to-day!" 

"  Oh,  mamma!"  appealed  Lady  Angelica. 

"Welcome  all  other  days  of  the  year,  my  dear 
Pallardos — warmly  welcome,  of  course" — continued 
Lady  Aymar,  "  but — to-day — oh  God  !  you  have  no 
idea  what  the  first  of  September  is — to  us — to  my 
husband  !" 

Lady  Aymar  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and 
the  tears  streamed  through  her  fingers. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Pallardos — "  pardon  me,  my 
dear  lady,  but  I  am  here  by  the  earl's  invitation,  to 
dine  at  six."  • 

Lady  Aymar  sprang  from  her  seat  in  astonishment. 

"  By  the  earl's  invitation,  did  you  say  ?  Angelica, 
what  can  that  mean  ?  Was  it  bv  note,  Count  Pal 
lardos?" 

"  By  note,"  he  replied. 

"  I  am  amazed  !"  she  said,  "  truly  amazed!  Does 
he  mean  to  have  a  confidant  for  his  family  secret  ?  Is 
his  insanity  on  one  point  affecting  his  reason  on  all  ? 
What  shall  we  do,  Angelica  ?" 

"We  may  surely  confide  in  Spiridion,  whatever  the 
meaning  of  it,  or  the  result" — gently  murmured  Lady 
Angelica. 

"  We  may — we  may  !"  said  Lady  Aymar.  "Prepare 
him  for  it  as  you  will.  I  pray  Heaven  to  help  me 
through  with  this  day  without  upsetting  my  own 
reason.  I  shall  meet  you  at  dinner,  Spiridion." 

With  her  hands  twisted  together  in  a  convulsive 
knot,  Lady  Aymar  slowly  and  musingly  passed  into 
the  conservatory  on  her  way  to  her  own  room,  leaving 
to  themselves  two  lovers  who  had  much  to  talk  of 
beside  dwelling  upon  a  mystery  which,  even  to  Lady 
Angelica,  who  knew  most  of  it,  was  wholly  inexpli 
cable.  Yet  it  was  partially  explained  by  the  trembling 
girl — explained  as  a  case  of  monomania,  and  with  the 
brevity  of  a  disagreeable  subject,  but  listened  to  by 
her  lover  with  a  different  feeling — a  conviction  as  of  a 
verified  dream,  and  a  vague,  inexplicable  terror  which 
he  could  neither  reason  down  nor  account  for..  But 
the  lovers  must  be  left  to  themselves,  by  the  reader  as 
well  as  by  Lady  Aymar;  and  meantime,  till  the  dinner 
hour,  when  our  story  begins  again,  we  may  glance  at 
a  note  which  was  received,  and  replied  to,  by  Lord 
Aymar  in  the  library  below. 

"  MY  DEAR  LORD  :  In  the  belief  that  a  frank  com 
munication  would  be  best  under  the  circumstances,  I 
wish  to  make  an  inquiry,  prefacing  it  with  the  assu 
rance  that  my  only  hope  of  happiness  has  been  for 
some  time  staked  upon  the  successful  issue  of  my 
suit  for  your  daughter's  hand.  It  is  commonly  under 
stood,  I  believe,  that  the  bulk  of  your  lordship's  for 
tune  is  separate  from  the  entail,  and  may  be  disposed 
of  at  your  pleasure.  May  I  inquire  its  amount,  or 
rather,  may  I  ask  what  fortune  goes  with  the  hand  of 
Lady  Angelica.  The  Beauchief  estates  are  unfortu 
nately  much  embarrassed,  and  my  own  debts  (I  may 
frankly  confess)  are  very  considerable.  You  will  at 
once  see,  my  lord,  that,  in  justice  to  your  daughter,  as 
well  as  to  myself,  I  could  not  do  otherwise  than  make 
this  frank  inquiry  before  pushing  my  suit  to  extremity. 
Begging  your  indulgence  and  an  immediate  answer,  I 
remain,  my  dear  lord,  Yours  very  faithfully, 

"  FREDERICK  BEAUCHIEF. 
"The  EARL  OF  AYMAR." 


(REPLY.) 

"  DEAR  LORD  FREDERICK  :  I  trust  you  will  not 
accuse  me  of  a  want  of  candor  in  declining  a  direct 
answer  to  your  question.  Though  I  freely  own  to  a 
friendly  wish  for  your  success  in  your  efforts  to  engage 
the  affections  of  Lady  Angelica,  with  a  view  to  mar 
riage,  it  can  only  be  in  the  irrevocable  process  of  a 
marriage  settlement  that  her  situation,  as  to  the  prob 
able  disposal  of  my  fortune,  can  be  disclosed.  I  may 
admit  to  you,  however,  that,  upon  the  events  of  this 
day  on  which  you  have  written  (it  so  chances),  may 
depend  the  question  whether  I  should  encourage  you 
to  pursue  further  your  addresses  to  Lady  Angelica. 
"  Yours  very  faithfully,  "  AYMAR. 

"  Lord  FREDERICK  BEAUCHIEF." 

It  seemed  like  the  first  day  after  a  death,  in  the 
house  of  Lord  Aymar.  An  unaccountable  hush  pre 
vailed  through  the  servants'  offices  ;  the  gray-headed 
old  butler  crept  noiselessly  about,  making  his  prepa 
rations  for  dinner,  and  the  doors,  that  were  opened 
and  shut,  betrayed  the  careful  touch  of  apprehension. 
With  penetrating  and  glassy  clearness,  the  kitchen 
clock,  seldom  heard  above  stairs,  resounded  through 
the  house,  striking  six. 

In  the  same  neglected  attire  which  she  had  worn  in 
the  morning,  Lady  Aymar  re-entered  the  drawing- 
room.  The  lids  were  drawn  up  around  her  large  eyes 
with  a  look  of  unresisting  distress,  and  she  walked 
with  relaxed  steps,  and  had,  altogether,  an  air  absent 
and  full  of  dread.  The  interrupted  lovers  ceased 
talking  as  she  approached,  but  she  did  not  remark  the 
silence,  and  walked,  errandless,  from  corner  to  corner. 

The  butler  announced  dinner. 

"  May  I  give  your  ladyship  an  arm  ?"  asked  Pal 
lardos. 

"  Oh  God  !  is  it  dinner-time  already !"  she  exclaimed 
with  a  voice  of  terror.  "  Williams  !  is  Lord  Aymar 
below?" 

"In  the  dining-room,  miladi." 

She  took  Spiridion's  arm,  and  they  descended  the 
stairs.  As  they  approached  the  dining-room,  her  arm 
trembled  so  violently  in  his  that  he  turned  to  her  with 
the  fear  that  she  was  about  to  fall.  He  did  not  speak. 
A  vague  dread,  which  was  more  than  he  had  caught 
from  her  looks — a  something  unaccountably  heavy  at 
his  own  heart — made  his  voice  cling  to  his  throat. 
He  bowed  to  Lord  Aymar. 

His  noble  host  stood  leaning  upon  the  mantel-piece, 
pale,  but  seeming  less  stern  and  cold  than  suffering 
and  nerved  to  bear  pain. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  my  dear  count !"  he  said, 
giving  him  his  hand  with  an  affectionateness  that  he 
had  never  before  manifested.  "  Are  you  quite  well  ?" 
he  added,  scrutinizing  his  features  closely  with  the 
question — "  for,  like  myself,  you  seem  to  have  grown 
pale  upon  this September  dulness." 

'  I  am  commonly  less  well  in  this  month  than  in 
any  other,"  said  Pallardos,  "  and — now  I  think  of  it — 
I  had  forgotten  that  I  arose  this  morning  with  a 
depression  of  spirits  as  singular  as  it  was  unendurable. 
I  forgot  it,  when  I  received  your  lordship's  note,  in 
the  happiness  the  day  was  to  bring  me." 

The  lovers  exchanged  looks,  unremarked,  appa 
rently,  by  either  Lord  or  Lady  Aymar,  and  the  con 
versation  relapsed  into  the  commonplaces  of  dinner- 
table  civility.  Spiridion  observed  that  the  footmen 
were  excluded,  the  old  butler  alone  serving  them  at 
table  ;  and  that  the  shutters,  of  which  he  got  a  chance 
glimpse  between  the  curtains,  were  carefully  closed. 
Once  or  twice  Pallardos  roused  himself  with  the 
thought  that  he  was  ill  playing  the  part  of  an  agree 
able  guest,  and  proposed  some  question  that  might 
lead  to  discussion ;  but  the  spirits  of  Lady  Angelica 
seemed  frighted  to  silence,  and  Lord  and  Lady  Aymar 


THE  PHANTOM-HEAD  UPON  THE  TABLE. 


were  wholly  absorbed,  or  were  at  "least  unconscious  of 
their  singular  incommunicativeness. 

Dinner  dragged  on  slowly — Lady  Aymar  retarding 
every  remove  with  terrified  and  flurried  eagerness. 
Pallardos  remarked  that  she  did  not  eat,  but  she  asked 
to  be  helped  agaiu  from  every  dish  before  its  removal. 
Her  fork  rattled  on  the  plate  with  the  trembling  of  her 
hand,  and,  once  or  twice,  an  outbreak  of  hysterical 
tears  was  evidently  prevented  by  a  stern  word  and  look 
from  Lord  Aymar. 

The  butler  leaned  over  to  his  mistress's  ear. 

"  No — no — no  !  Not  yet — not  yet !"  she  exclaimed, 
in  a  hurried  voice,  "  oue  minute  more  !"  But  the 
clock  at  that  instant  struck  seven,  counted  by  that 
table  company  in  breathless  silence.  Pallardos  felt 
his  heart  sink,  he  knew  not  why. 

Lord  Aymar  spoke  quickly  and  hoarsely. 

"  Turn  the  key,  Williams." 

Lady  Aymar  screamed  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands. 

"  Remove  the  cloth !"  he  again  ordered  precipi 
tately. 

The  butler's  hand  trembled.  He  fumbled  with  the 
corner  of  the  cloth  a  moment,  and  seemed  to  want 
strength  or  courage  to  fulfil  his  office.  With  a  sudden 
effort  Lord  Aymar  seized  and  threw  the  cloth  to  the 
other  end  of  the  apartment. 

"  There  !"  cried  he,  starting  to  his  feet,  and  point 
ing  to  the  bare  table,  "there!  there!"  he  repeated, 
seizing  the  hand  of  Lady  Angelica,  as  she  arose  terrifi 
ed  upon  her  feet.  "  See  you  nothing  ?  Do  you  see 
nothing?1' 

With  a  look,  at  her  father,  of  blank  inquiry — a  look 
of  pity  at  her  mother,  sunk  helpless  upon  the  arm  of 
her  chair — a  look  at  Pallardos,  who  with  open  mouth, 
and  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets,  stood  gazing  upon 
the  table,  heedless  of  all  present — she  answered — 
"  Nothing — my  dear  father  ! — nothing  !" 

He  flung  her  arm  suddenly  from  his  hand. 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  he,  with  angry  emphasis.  "  Take 
her,  shameless  woman  !  Take  your  child,  and  be 
gone  !" 

But  Pallardos  laid  his  hand  upon  the  earl's  arm. 

"  My  lord  !  my  lord  !"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  fearful 
suppression  of  outcry,  "  can  we  not  remove  this 
hideous  object  !  How  it  glares  at  you  ! — at  me ! 
Why  does  it  look  at  me  !  What  is  it,  Lord  Aymar? 
What  brings  that  ghastly  head  here  1  Oh  God ! 
oh  God !  I  have  seen  it  so  often  !" 

"  You  1 — you  have  seen  it  ?"  suddenly  asked  Lady 
Aymar  in  a  whisper.  "  Is  there  anything  to  see  ?  Do 
you  see  the  same  dreadful  si^ht,  Spiridion  ?"  Her 
voice  rose  with  the  last  question  to  a  scream. 

Pallardos  did  not  answer.  He  had  forgotten  the 
presence  of  them  all.  He  struggled  a  moment,  gasp 
ing  and  choking  for  self-control,  and  then,  with  a^ud- 
deu  movement,  clutched  at  the  bare  table.  His  empty 
hand  slowly  opened,  and  his  strength  sufficed  to  pass 
his  finger  across  the  palm.  He  staggered  backward 
with  an  idiotic  laugh,  and  was  received  in  his  fall  by 
the  trembling  arms  of  Lady  Angelica.  A  motion  '. 
from  Lord  Aymar  conveyed  to  his  faithful  servant  | 
that  the  phantom  was  vanishing !  The  door  was  flung 
open  and  the  household  summoned. 

"  Count  Pallardos  has  fainted  from  the  heat  of  the  ' 
room,"   s;iid   Lord   Aymar.     "  Place  him   upon  my  ! 
bed!     And — Lady  Aymar! — will  you  step  into  the 
library — I  would  speak  with  you  a  moment !" 

There  was  humility  and  beseechingness  in  the  last 
few  words  of  Lord  Aymar,  which  fell  strangely  on  the 
ear  of  the  affrighted  and  guilty  woman.  Her  mind 
had  been  too  fearfully  tasked  to  comprehend  the 
meaning  of  that  changed  tone,  but,  with  a  vague 
feeling  of  relief,  she  staggered  through  the  hall,  and 
the  door  of  the  library  closed  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  letter  from  Lord  Aymar  to  Lady  Angelica  will 
put  the  story  forward  a  little  : — 

"  MY  DKAR  ANGELICA  :  I  am  happy  to  know  thr.t 
there  are  circumstances  which  will  turn  aside  much 
of  the  poignancy  of  the  communication  I  am  about  to 
make  to  you.  If  I  am  not  mistaken  at  least,  in  be 
lieving  a  mutual  attachment  to  exist  between  your 
self  and  Count  Pallardos,  you  will  at  once  compre 
hend  the  ground  of  my  mental  relief,  and  perhaps,  in 
a  measure,  anticipate  what  I  am  about  to  say. 

"  I  have  never  spoken  to  you  of  the  fearful  in 
heritance  in  the  blood  of  the  Aymars.  This  would 
appear  a  singular  omission  between  two  members  of 
one  family,  but  I  had  strong  reasons  for  my  silence, 
one  of  which  was  your  possible  sympathy  with  your 
mother's  obstinate  incredulity.  Now — since  yester 
day's  appalling  proof — you  can  no  longer  doubt  the 
inheritance  of  me  phantom  head — the  fearful  record  of 
some  nameless  deed  of  guilt,  which  is  doomed  to 
haunt  out  festal  table  as  often  as  the  murderous  day 
shall  come  around  to  a  descendant  of  our  blood. 
Fortunately — mercifully,  I  shall  perhaps  say,  we  are 
not  visited  by  this  dread  avenger  till  the  maturity  of 
manhood  gives  us  the  courage  to  combat  with  its 
horror.  The  Septembers,  since  my  twentieth  year, 
have  brought  it  with  fatal  certainty  to  me.  God  alone 
knows  how  long  I  shall  be  able  to  withstand  the  taint 
it  gives  to  my  thoughts  when  waking,  and  to  the  dreams 
upon  my  haunted  pillow. 

"  You  will  readily  see,  in  what  I  have  said,  another 
reason  for  my  silence  toward  you  on  this  subject.  In 
the  strong  sympathy  and  sensitive  imagination  of  a 
woman,  might  easily  be  bred,  by  too  vivid  picturing, 
a  fancy  which  would  be  as  palpable  almost  as  the 
reality  ;  and  I  Wished  you  to  arrive  at  woman's  years 
with  a  belief  that  it  was  but  a  monomaniac  affection  of 
my  own  brain — a  disease  to  pity  but  not  to  share  ! 
You  are  now  twenty.  The  females  of  my  family  have 
invariably  seen  the  phantom  at  seventeen !  Do  you 
anticipate  the  painful  inference  1  draw  from  the  fact 
that  this  spectre  is  invisible  to  you  ! 

"  No,  Angelica!  you  are  not  my  daughter!  The 
Aymar  blood  does  not  run  in  your  veins,  and  I  know 
not  how  much  it  will  soften  the  knowledge  of  your 
mother's  frailty  to  know,  that  you  are  spared  the  dread 
inheritance  that  would  have  been  yours  with  a  legiti 
macy  of  honor.  I  had  grounds  for  this  belief  at  your 
birth,  but  I  thought  it  due  to  the  hallowed  character 
of  woman  and  wife  to  summon  courage  to  wait  for 
confirmation.  Had  I  acted  out  the  impulse,  then 
almost  uncontrollable  within  me,  I.should  have  profit 
ed  by  the  lawless  land  in  which  I  resided  to  add  more 
weight  to  the  errand  of  this  phantom  avenger.  But 
time  and  reason  have  done  their  work  upon  me.  Your 
mother  is  safe  from  open  retribution.  May  God 
pardon  her ! 

"You  will  have  said,  here,  that  since  Count  Pallar 
dos  has-  been  revealed  by  the  same  pursuing  Provi 
dence  to  be  my  son,  I  may  well  refrain  from  appear 
ing  as  my  wile's  accuser.  I  have  no  wish  to  profit  by 
the  difference  the  world  makes  between  infidelity  in 
man,  and  infidelity  in  woman;  nor  to  look,  for  an 
apology,  into  the  law  of  nature  upon  which  so  general 
and  undisputed  a  distinction  must  needs  be  founded. 
I  confess  the  justice  of  Heaven's  vengeance  upon  the 

crime visited  upon  me,  I  fearfully  believe,  in  the 

unconscious  retaliation  which  gave  you  birth.  Yet 
I  can  not,  for  this,  treat  you  as  the  daughter  of  my 
blood. 

"  And  this  brings  me  to  the  object  of  my  letter. 
With  the  care  of  years,  I  have  separated,  from  the 


GETTING  TO  WINDWARD. 


entail  of  Aymar,  the  bulk  of  my  fortune.  God  has 
denied  me  a  legitimate  male  heir,  and  I  have  Ion""  ago 
determined,  to  leave,  to  its  natural  conflict  with  cir 
cumstances,  the  character  of  a  child  I  knew  to  be 
mine,  and  to  adopt  its  destiny,  if  it  proved  worthy, 
should  my  fears  as  to  your  own  parentage  be  confirm 
ed  by  the  undeniable  testimony  of  our  spectral  curse. 
Count  Pallardos  is  that  child.  Fate  drew  him  here, 
without  my  interference,  as  the  crisis  of  your  destiny 
turned  against  you.  The  innocent  was  not  to  be 
punished  for  the  guilty,  and  the  inheritance  he  takes 
from  you  goes  back  to  you — with  his  love  in  wedlock  ! 
So,  at  least,  appearances  have  led  me  to  believe,  and 
so  would  seem  to  be  made  apparent  the  kind  provisions 
of  Heaven  against  our  resentful  injustices.  I  must 
confess  that  I  shall  weep  tears  of  joy  if  it  be  so,  for,  j 
dear  Angelica,  you  have  wound  yourself  around  my 
heart,  nearer  to  its  core  than  the  coil  of  this  serpent 
of  revenge.  1  shall  find  it  to  be  so,  I  am  sadly  sure, 
if  I  prove  incorrect  in  my  suppositions  as  to  your  at 
tachment. 

"I  have  now  to  submit  to  you,  I%ust  only  as  a 
matter  of  form,  two  offers  for  your  hand — one  from 
Mr.  Townley  Manners,  and  the  other  (conditional, 
however,  with  your  fortune)  from  Lord  Frederick 
Beauchief.  An  annuity  of  five  hundred  a  year  would 
be  all  you  would  receive  for  a  fortune,  and  your 
choice,  of  course,  is  free.  As  the  countess  Pallardos, 


|  you  would  share  a  very  large  fortune  (my  gifts  to  my 
•  son,  by  a  transfer  to  be  executed  this  day),  and  to  that 
destiny,  if  need  be,  I  tearfully  urge  you. 

"  Affectionately  yours,  my  dear  Angelica, 

"  AYMAR." 

With  one  more  letter,  perhaps,  the  story  will  be 
sufficiently  told. 

"DEAR  COUNT:  You  will  wonder  at  receiving  a 
friendly  note  from  me  after  my  refusal,  two  months 
since,  to  meet  you  over  '  pistols  and  coffee  ;'  but  rep 
aration  rnay  not  be  too  late,  and  this  is  to  say,  that 
you  have  your  choice  between  two  modes  of  settle 
ment,  viz  : — to  accept  for  your  stable  the  hunter  you 
stole  from  me  (vide  police  report)  and  allow  me  to  take 
a  glass  of  wine  with  you  at  my  own  table  and  bury  the 
hatchet,  or,  to  shoot  at  me  if  you  like,  according  to 
your  original  design.  Manners  and  Beauchief  hope 
you  will  select  the  latter,  as  they  owe  you  a  grudge 
for  the  possession  of  your  incomparable  bride  and  her 
fortune  ;  but  I  trust  you  will  prefer  the  horse,  which 
(if  I  am  rightly  informed)  bore  you  to  the  declaration 
of  love  at  Chasteney.  Reply  to  Crockford's. 
"  Yours  ever  (if  you  like), 

"  POMFEET  DALLJNGER. 
"Count  PALLARDOS." 

Is  the  story  told  ?     I  think  so  ! 


GETTING    TO    WINDWARD, 


CHAPTER  I. 

LONDON  is  an  abominable  place  to  dine.  I  mean, 
of  course,  unless  you  are  free  of  a  club,  invited  out,  or 
pay  a  ridiculous  price  for  a  French  dinner.  The  un 
known  stranger,  adrift  on  the  streets,  with  a  traveller's 
notions  of  the  worth  of  things  to  eat,  is  much  worse 
off,  as  to  his  venture  for  a  meal,  than  he  would  be  in 
the  worst  town  of  the  worst  province  of  France — much 
worse  off  than  he  would  be  in  New  York  or  New  Or 
leans.  There  is  a  "  Very's,"  it  is  true,  and  there  are 
one  or  two  restaurants,  so  called,  in  the  Haymarket; 
but  it  is  true,  notwithstanding,  that  short  of  a  two- 
guinea  dinner  at  the  Clarendon",  or  some  hotel  of  this 
class,  the  next,  best  thing  is  a  simple  pointed  steak  with 
potatoes,  at  a  chop-house.  The  admirable  club-sys 
tem  (admirable  for  club-members)  has  absorbed  all  the 
intermediate  degrees  of  eating-houses,  and  the  travel 
ler's  chance  and  solitary  meal  must  be  either  absurdly 
expensive,  or  dismally  furnished  and  attended. 

The  only  real  liberty  one  ever  enjoys  in  a  metropo 
lis  is  the  interval  (longer  or  shorter,  as  one  is  more  or 
less  a  philosopher)  between  his  arrival  and  the  deliv 
ery  of  his  letters  of  introduction.  While  perfectly 
unknown,  dreading  no  rencontre  of  acquaintances,  sub 
ject  to  no  care  of  dress,  equipage,  or  demeanor,  the 
stranger  feels,  what  he  never  feels  afterward,  a  com 
plete  abandon  to  what,  immediately  surrounds  him,  a 
complete  willingness  to  be  amused  in  any  shape  which 
chance  pleases  to  offer,  and,  his  desponding  loneliness 
serving  him  like  the  dark  depths  of  a  well,  he  sees  lights 
invisible  from  the  higher  level  of  amusement. 

lired  of  my  solitary  meals  in  the  parlor  of  a  hotel 
during  my  first  week  in  London,  I  made  the  round  of 
such  dming-places  as  I  could  inquire  out  at  the  West 
.knd— of  course,  from  the  reserved  habits  of  the  coun 
try  toward  strangers,  making  no  acquaintances,  and 


scarce  once  exchanging  a  glance  with  the  scores  who 
sat  at  the  tables  around  me.  Observation  was  my  only 
amusement,  and  J  felt  afterward  indebted  to  those  si 
lent  studies  of  character  for  more  acquaintance  with 
the  under-crust  of  John  Bull,  than  can  be  gathered 
from  books  or  closer  intercourse.  It  is  foreign  to  my 
present  purpose,  however,  to  tell  why  his  pride  should 
seem  want  of  curiosity,  and  why  his  caution  and  deli 
cacy  should  show  like  insensibility  and  coldness.  I 
am  straying  from  my  story. 

The  covered  promenade  of  the  Burlington  Arcade 
is,  on  rainy  days,  a  great  allure  for  a  small  chop-house 
hard  by,  called  "  The  Blue  Posts."     This  is  a  snug 
little  tavern,  with  the  rear  of  its  two  stories  cut  into  a 
I  single  dining-room,  where  chops,  steaks,  ale,  and  punch, 
may  be  had  in  unusual  perfection.     It  is  frequented 
ordinarily  by  a  class  of  men  peculiar,  I  should  think, 
to  England — taciturn,   methodical  in  their  habits,  and 
highly  respectable  in  their  appearance — men  who  seem 
to  have  no  amusements  and  no  circle  of  friends,  but 
who  come  in  at  six  and  sit  over  their  punch  and  the 
newspapers  till  bed  time,  without  speaking  a  syllable, 
except  to  the  waiter,  and  apparently  turning  a  cold 
shoulder  of  discouragement  to  any  one  in  the  room 
who  may  be  disposed  to  offer  a  passing  remark.    They 
hang  their  hats  daily  on  the  same  peg,  daily  sit  at  the 
same  table  (where  the  chair  is  turned  down  for  them 
by  Villiam,  the  short  waiter),  daily  drink  a  small  pitcher 
of  punch  after  their  half-pint  of  sherry,  and  daily  read, 
from  beginning  to  end,  the  Herald,  Post,  and  Times, 
with  the  variation  of  the  Athenamm  and  Spectator,  on 
Saturdays  and  Sundays.     I  at  first  hazarded  various 
conjectures  as  to  their  condition  in  life.     They  were 
evidently  unmarried,  and  men  of  easy  though  limited 
means — men  of  no  great  care,  and  no  high  hopes,  and 
in  a  fixed  station  ;  yet  of  that  degree  of  intelligence 
and  firm  self-respect  which,  in  other  countries  (the 


GETTING  TO  WINDWARD. 


United  States,  certainly,  at  least),  would  have  made 
them  sought  for  in  some  more  social  and  higher  sphere 
than  that  with  which  they  seemed  content.  I  after 
ward  obtained  something  of  a  clue  to  the  mystery  of 
the  "Blue  Posts"  society,  by  discovering  two  of  the 
most  respectable  looking  of  its  customers  in  the  exer 
cise  of  their  daily  vocations.  One,  a  man  of  fine  phre 
nological  development,  rather  bald,  and  altogether  very 
intellectual  in  his  "os  sublime,'"  I  met  at  the  rooms  of 
a  fashionable  friend,  taking  his  measure  for  pantaloons. 
He  was  the  foreman  of  a  celebrated  Bond-street  tailor. 
The  other  was  the  head-shopman  of  a  famous  haber 
dasher  in  Regent  street ;  and  either  might  have  passed 
for  Godwin  the  novelist,  or  Babbidge  the  calculator — 
with  those  who  had  seen  those  great  intellects  only  in 
their  imaginations.  It  is  only  in  England,  that  men 
who,  like  these,  have  read  or  educated  themselves  far 
above  their  situations  in  life,  would  quietly  submit  to 
the  arbitrary  disqualifications  of  their  pursuits,  and 
agree  unresistingly  to  the  sentence  of  exile  from  the 
society  suited  to  their  mental  grade.  But  here  again 
I  am  getting  away  from  my  story. 

It  was  the  close  of  a  London  rainy  day.  Weary  of 
pacing  my  solitary  room,  I  sallied  out  as  usual,  to  the 
Burlington  Arcade  ([  say  as  usual,  for  in  a  metropolis 
where  it  rains  nine  days  out  of  ten,  rainy-weather  re 
sorts  become  habitual).  The  little  shops  on  either 
side  were  brightly  lit,  the  rain  pattered  on  the  glass 
roof  overhead,  and  to  one  who  had  not  a  single  ac 
quaintance  in  so  vast  a  city,  even  the  passing  of  the 
crowd  and  the  glittering  of  lights  seemed  a  kind  of 
society.  I  began  to  speculate  on  the  characters  of 
those  who  passed  and  repassed  me  in  the  turns  of  the 
short  gallery;  and  the  dinner-hours  coining  round,  and 
the  men  gradually  thinning  off  from  the  crowd,  I  ad 
journed  to  the  Blue  Posts  with  very  much  the  feeling 
of  a  reader  interrupted  in  the  progress  of  a  novel.  One 
of  the  faces  that  had  most  interested  me  was  that  of  a 
foreigner,  who,  with  a  very  dejected  air,  leaned  on  the 
arm  of  an  older  man,  and  seemed  promenading  to  kill 
time,  without  any  hope  of  killing  his  ennui.  On  seat 
ing  myself  at  one  of  the  small  tables,  I  was  agreeably 
surprised  to  find  the  two  foreigners  my  close  neigh 
bors,  and  in  the  national  silence  of  the  company  pres 
ent,  broken  only  by  the  clatter  of  knives  and  forks,  it 
was  impossible  to  avoid  overhearing  every  word  spoken 
by  either.  After  a  look  at  me,  as  if  to  satisfy  them 
selves  that  I,  too,  was  a  John  Bull,  they  went  on  with 
their  conversation  in  French,  which,  so  long  as  it  was 
confined  to  topics  of  drink  and  platter,  weather  and 
news,  I  did  not  care  to  interrupt.  But  with  their 
progress  through  a  second  pint  of  sherry,  personal  top 
ics  came  up,  and  as  they  seemed  to  be  conversing  with 
an  impression  that  their  language  was  not  understood, 
I  felt  obliged  to  remind  them  that  I  was  overhearing 
unwillingly  what  they  probably  meant  for  a  private 
conversation.  With  a  frankness  which  I  scarcely  ex 
pected,  they  at  once  requested  me  to  transfer  my  glass 
to  their  table,  and  culling  for  a  pitcher  of  punch,  they 
extended  their  confidence  by  explaining  to  me  the 
grounds  of  the  remarks  I  had  heard,  and  continuing  to 
converse  freely  on  the  subject.  Through  this  means, 
and  a  subsequent  most  agreeable  acquaintance,  I  pos 
sessed  myself  of  the  circumstances  of  the  following 
story,  and  having  thus  shown  the  reader  (rather  di- 
gressively,  I  must  own)  how  I  came  by  it,  I  proceed 
in  the  third  person,  trusting  that  my  narration  will  not 
now  seem  like  the  "coinage  of  the  brain." 

The  two  gentlemen  dining  at  the  Blue  Posts  on  the 
rainy  day  just  mentioned,  were  Frenchmen,  and  polit 
ical  exiles.  With  the  fortunes  of  the  younger,  this 
story  has  chiefly  to  do.  He  was  a  man  past  the  senti 
mental  age,  perhaps  nearer  thirty-seven  than  thirty- 
five,  less  handsome  than  distinguished  in  his  appear 
ance,  yet  with  one  of  those  variable  faces  which 
are  handsome  for  single  instants  once  in  a  half 


hour,  more  or  less.  His  companion  called  him  Be- 
laccueil. 

"  I  could  come  down  to  my  circumstances,"  he  said 
to  Monsieur  St.  Leger,  his  friend,  "if  I  knew  how.  It 
is  not  courage  that  is  wanting.  I  would  do  anything 
for  a  livelihood.  But  what  is  the  first  step  ?  What 
is  the  next  step  from  this  ?  This  last  dinner — this  last 
night's  lodging — I  am  at  the  end  of  my  means  ;  and 
unless  [  accept  of  charity  from  you,  which  I  will  not, 
to-morrow  must  begin  my  descent.  Where  to  put  my 
foot  ?" 

He  stopped  and  looked  down  into  his  glass,  with  the 
air  of  a  man  who  only  expects  an  answer  to  refute  its 
reasoning. 

"  My  dear  Belaccueil,"  said  the  other,  after  a  mo 
ment's  hesitation,  "you  were  famous  in  your  better 
days  for  almost  universal  accomplishment.  Mimic, 
dancer,  musician,  cook — what  was  there  in  our  merry 
carnival-time,  to  which  you  did  not  descend  with  suc 
cess,  for  mere  amusement  ?  Why  not  now  for  that 
independence  of  livelihood  to  which  you  adhere  so 
pertinaciously^" 

"You  will  be  amused  to  find,"  he  answered,  "how 
well  I  have  sounded  the  depths  of  every  one  of  these 
resources.  The  French  theatre  of  London  has  re 
fused  me,  point-blank,  all  engagement,  spite  of  the 
most  humiliating  exhibitions  of  my  powers  of  mimicry 
before  the  stage-manager  and  a  fifth-rate  actress.  I 
am  not  musician  enough  for  a  professor,  though  very 
well  for  an  amateur,  and  have  advertised  in  vain  for 
employment  as  a  teacher  of  music,  and — what  was 
your  other  vocation  ! — cook  !  Oh  no  !  I  have  just 
science  enough  to  mend  a  bad  dinner  and  spoil  a  good 
one,  though  I  declare  to  you,  I  would  willingly  don 
the  white  cap  and  apron  and  dive  for  life  to  the  base 
ment.  No,  my  friend,  I  have  even  offered  myself  as 
assistant  dancing-master,  and  failed  !  Is  not  that 
enough  ?  If  it  is  not,  let  me  tell  you,  that  I  would 
sweep  the  crossings,  if  my  appearance  would  not  ex 
cite  curiosity,  or  turn  dustman,  if  I  were  strong  enough 
for  the  labor.  Come  down  !  Show  me  how  to  come 
down,  and  see  whether  I  am  not  prepared  to  do  it. 
But  you  do  not  know  the  difficulty  of  earning  a  penny 
in  London.  Do  you  suppose,  with  all  the  influence 
and  accomplishments  I  possess,  I  could  get  the  place 
of  this  scrubby  waiter  who  brings  us  our  cigars  ?  No, 
indeed  !  His  situation  is  a  perfect  castle — impregna 
ble  to  those  below  him.  There  are  hundreds  of  poor 
wretches  within  a  mile  of  us  who  would  think  them 
selves  in  paradise  to  get  his  situation.  How  easy  it  is 
for  the  rich  to  say,  '  go  and  work !'  and  how  difficult 
to  know  how  and  where  !" 

Belaccueil  looked  at  his  friend  as  if  he  felt  that  he 
had  justified  his  own  despair,  and  expected  no  com 
fort. 

"Why  not  try  matrimony?"  said  St.  Leger.  "I 
can  provide  you  the  means  for  a  six  months'  siege, 
and  you  have  better  qualification  for  success  than  nine 
tenths  of  the  adventurers  who  have  succeeded." 

»Why — I  could  do  even  that — for  with  all  hope  of 
prosperity,  I  have  of  course  given  up  all  idea  of  a  ro 
mantic  -love.  But  I  could  not  practise  deceit,  and 
without  pretending  to  some  little  fortune  of  my  own, 
'  the  chances  are  small.  Besides,  you  remember  my 
ill  luck  at  Naples." 

"Ah,  that  was  a  love  affair,  and  you  were  too  hon- 

63  "  Not  for  the  girl,  God  bless  her !  She  would  have 
married  me,  penniless  as  I  was,  but  through  the  inter 
ference  of  that  officious  and  purse-proud  Englishman, 
her  friends  put  me  liors  dc  combat." 

"What  was  his  name  ?     Was  he  a  relative  ?" 
"A  mere  chance  acquaintance  of  their  own,  but  he 
1  entered  at  once  upon  the  office  of  family  adviser.     He 
was  rich,  and  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  call  me  an  ad 
venturer.     1  did  not  discover  his  interference  till  some 


G4 


GETTING  TO  WINDWARD. 


time  after,  or  he  would  perhaps  have  paid  dearly  for 
his  nomenclature." 

"  Who  did  you  say  it  was  ?" 

"  Hitchings  !  Mr.  Plantagenet  Hitchings,  of  Hitch 
ing  Park,  Devonshire — and  the  one  point,  to  which  I 
cling,  of  a  gentleman's  privileges,  is  that  of  calling  him 
to  account,  should  I  ever  meet  him." 

St.  Leger  smiled  and  sat  thoughtfully  silent  for  a 
while.  Belaccueil  pulled  apart  the  stems  of  a  bunch 
of  grapes  on  his  plate,  and  was  silent  with  a  very  dif 
ferent  expression. 

"  You  are  willing,"  said  the  former,  at  last,  "  to  teach 
music  and  dancing,  for  a  proper  compensation." 

"  Parbleu  !     Yes  !" 

"And  if  you  could  unite  this  mode  of  support  with 
a  very  pretty  revenge  upon  Mr.  Plantagenet  Hitch 
ings  (with  whom,  by  the  way,  I  am  very  well  acquaint 
ed),  you  would  not  object  to  the  two-fold  thread  in 
your  destiny  ?" 

"They  would  be  threads  of  gold,  man  ami!"  said 
the  surprised  Belaccueil. 

St.  Leger  called  for  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  wrote 
H  letter  at  the  Blue  Posts,  which  the  reader  will  follow 
to  its  destination,  as  the  next  step  in  this  story. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  GREEN  angel  (I  mean  an  angel  ignorant  of  the 
world)  would  probably  suppose  that  the  feeding  of 
these  animal  bodies  of  ours,  if  not  done  in  secret,  must 
at  least  be  the  one  act  of  human  life  separated  entirely 
from  the  more  heavenly  emotions.  Yet  the  dinner  is 
a  meal  dear  to  lovers  ;  and  novelists  and  tale-tellers 
choose  the  moments  stolen  from  fork  and  plate  for  the 
birth  and  interchange  of  the  most  delicious  and  tender 
sentiments  of  our  existence.  Miss  Hitchings,  while 
unconsciously  shocking  Monsieur  Sansou  by  tilting 
her  soup-plate  for  the  last  spoonful  of  vermicelli,  was 
controlling  the  beating  of  a  heart  full  of  feminine  and 
delicate  tenderness;  and  as  the  tutor  was  careful  never 
to  direct  his  regards  to  the  other  end  of  the  table  (for 
reasons  of  his  own),  Miss  Henrietta  laid  the  unction 
to  her  soul  that  such  indifference  to  the  prettiest  girl 
who  had  ever  honored  them  as  a  guest,  proved  the 
strength  of  her  own  magnet,  and  put  her  more  at  ease 
on  the  subject  of  Monsieur  Sansou's  admiration.  He, 
indeed,  was  committing  the  common  fault  of  men 
whose  manners  are  naturally  agreeable — playing  that 
passive  and  grateful  game  of  courtesy  and  attention  so 
easy  to  the  object  of  regard,  and  so  delightful  to  wo 
man,  who  is  never  so  blest  as  in  bestowing.  Besides, 
he  had  an  object  in  suppressing  his  voice  to  the  lowest 
audible  pitch,  and  the  rich  and  deep  tone,  sunk  only  to 
escape  the  ear  of  another,  sounded,  to  the  watchful 
and  desiring  sense  of  her  to  whom  it  was  addressed, 
like  the  very  key-note  and  harmony  of  affection. 

At  a  table  so  surrounded  with  secrets,  conversation 
flagged,  of  course.  Mr.  Hitchings  thought  it  very 
up-hill  work  to  entertain  Miss  Hervey,  whose  heart 
and  senses  were  completely  absorbed  in  the  riddle  of 
Belaccueil's  disguise  and  presence;  Mr.  Hervey,  the 
uncle,  found  old  Mrs.  Plantagenet  rather  absent,  for 
the  smitten  dame  had  eyes  for  every  movement  of 
Monsieur  Sansou ;  and  the  tutor  himself,  with  his  re 
sentment  toward  his  host,  and  his  suspicions  of  the 
ove  of  his  daughter,  his  reviving  passion  for  Miss 
Hervey,  and  his  designs  on  Mrs.  Plantagenet,  had 
enough  to  render  him  as  silent  as  the  latter  could  wish, 
and  as  apparently  insensible  to  the  attraction  of  the 
fair  stranger. 

How  little  we  know  what  is  in  the  bosoms  of  those 
around  us  !  How  natural  it  is,  however,  to  feel  and 
act  as  if  we  knew — to  account  for  all  that  appears  on 
the  surface  by  the  limited  acquaintance  we  have  with 


circumstances  and  feelings — to  resent  an  indifference 
of  which  we  know  not  the  cause — to  approve  or  con 
demn,  without  allowance  for  chagrin,  or  despair,  or 
love,  or  hope,  or  distress — any  of  the  deep  undercur 
rents  for  ever  at  work  in  the  depths  of  human  bosoms. 
The  young  man  at  your  side  at  a  dinner-party  may 
have  a  duel  on  his  hands  for  the  morning,  or  a  disgrace 
imminent  in  credit  or  honor,  or  a  refused  heart  or  an 
accepted  one,  newly  crushed  or  newly  made  happy ; 
or  (more  common  still,  and  less  allowed  for)  he  may 
feel  the  first  impression  of  disease,  or  the  consequen 
ces  of  an  indigestion ;  and,  for  his  agreeableness  or 
disagreeableness,  you  try  to  account  by  something  in 
yourself,  some  feeling  toward  yourself — as  if  you  and 
you  only  could  affect  his  spirits  or  give  a  color  to  his 
mood  of  manners.  The  old  man's  thought  of  death, 
the  mother's  overwhelming  interest  in  her  child,  the 
woman's  up-spring  of  emotion  or  love,  are  visiters  to 
the  soul  that  come  unbidden  and  out  of  time,  and  you 
can  neither  feast  nor  mourn,  secure  against  their  in 
terruption.  It  would  explain  many  a  coldness,  could 
we  look  into  the  heart  concealed  from  us.  We  should 
often  pity  when  we  hate,  love  when  we  think  we  can 
not  even  forgive,  admire  where  we  curl  the  lip  with 
scorn  and  indignation.  To  judge  without  reserve  of 
any  human  action  is  a  culpable  temerity,  of  all  our 
sins  the  most  unfeeling  and  frequent. 

I  will  deal  frankly  with  you,  dear  reader.     I  have 
arrived  at  a  stage  of  my  story  which,  of  all  the  stages 
of  story-writing,  I  detest  the  most  cordially.     Poets 
have  written  about  the  difficulty  of  beginning  a  story 
(vide  Byron) — Ca  ne  me  coute  pas ;  others  of  the  end 
ing.     That  I  do  with  facility,  joy,  and  rejoicing.     But 
the  love  pathos  of  a  story — the  place  where  the  reader 
!  is  expected  to  sigh,  weep,  or  otherwise  express  his 
|  emotion — that  is  the  point,  I  confess,  the  most  diffi- 
I  cult  to  write,  and  the  most  unsatisfactory  when  written. 
I  "  Pourquoy,  Sir  Knight  ?"     Not  because  it  is  difficult 
I  to  write  love-scenes — according  to  the  received  mode — 
not  that  it  is  difficult  to  please  those  (a  large  majority) 
who  never  truly  loved,  and  whose  ideas,  therefore,  of 
love  and  its  making,  are  transcendentalized  out  of  all 
truth  and  nature — not  that  it  would  be  more  labor  to 
do  this  than  to  copy  a  circular,  or  write  a  love-letter 
for  a  modest  swain  (this  last  my  besetting  occupation) 
— but  because,  just  over  the  inkstand  there  peers  a 
face,  sometimes  of  a  man  of  forty,  past  the  nonsense 
of  life,  but  oftener  of  some  friend,  a  woman  who  has 
loved,    and    this   last   more   particularly   Tcnoivs   that 
true  love  is  never  readable  or  sensible — that  if  its  lan 
guage  be  truly  written,  it  is  never  in  polished  phrase 
i  or  musical  cadence — that  it  is  silly,  but  for  its  con- 
l  cealed  meaning,  embarrassed  and  blind,  but  for  the 
j  interpreting  and  wakeful  heart  of  one  listener — that 
love,  in  short,  is  the  god  of  unintelligibility,  mystery, 
and  adorable  nonsense,  and,  of  course,  that  which  1 
have  written  (if  readable  and  sensible)  is  out  of  taste 
j  and  out  of  sympathy,  and  none  but  fancy-lovers  and 
enamored  brains  (not  hearts)  will  approve  or  believe  it. 
D'Israeli  the  younger  is  one  of  the  few  men  of  ge- 
njus  who,  having  seen  truth  without  a  veil,  dare  to  re- 
veal  the  vision  ;  and  he  has  written  Henrietta  Temple 
— the  silliest  yet  truest  love-book  of  modern   time. 
The  critics   (not  an  amative  race)   have  given  him  a 
!  benefit  of  the  "besom"  of  ridicule,  but  D'Israeli,  far 
j  from  being  the  effeminate  intellect  they  would  make 
|  him,  is  one  of  the  most  original  and  intrepid  men  of 
|  genius  living,  and  whether  the  theme  be  "wine,  wo- 
man,  or  war,"  he  writes  with  fearless  truth,  piquancy, 
and  grace.     Books  on  love,  however,  should  be  read 
by  lovers  only,  and  pity  it  is,  that  there  is  not  an  ink 
in  chemistry,  invisible  save  to  the  eye  kindled  with  am 
atory  fire.     But  "to  our  muttons." 

It  was  not  leap-year,  but  Monsieur  Belaccueil,  on 
the  day  of  the  dinner-party  at  Hitchings  park,  was 
made  aware  (I  will  not  say  by  proposals,  for  ladies  make 


GETTING  TO  WINDWARD. 


65 


known  their  inclinations  in  ways  much  less  formidable)  i; 
• — he  was  made  aware,  I  say,  that  the  hearts  of  three 
of  the  parly  wore  within  the  flight  of  his  arrow.  Prob 
ably  his  humble  situation  reversed  the  usual  relative 
position  of  the  sexes  in  the  minds  of  the  dame  and 
damsels — and  certainly  there  is  no  power  woman  exer 
cises  so  willingly  as  a  usurpation  of  the  masculine 
privilege.  I  have  stated  my  objection  to  detail  the 
dialogue  between  Miss  Hitchings  and  her  tutor  at  the 
diuner-table.  To  be  recorded  faithfully,  the  clatter 
of  silver  forks  on  China,  the  gurgle  of  wine,  the  inter- 
nipiions  of  the  footmen  with  champagne  and  vegeta 
bles,  should  all  be  literally  interspersed — for  to  all  the 
broken  sentences  (so  pathetic  when  properly  punctu 
ated — vide  Neal's  novels)  these  were  the  sequels  and 
the  accompaniments:  "No,  thank  you  !"  and  "If  you 
please,"  and  "  May  I  fill  your  glass  ?" — have  filled  out, 
to  the  perfect  satisfaction  of  the  lady,  many  an  unfin 
ished  sentence  upon  which  depended  the  whole  des 
tiny  of  her  affections;  and,  as  I  said  before,  the  truth 
is  not  faithfully  rendered  when  these  interstices  are 
unsupplied. 

It  was  dark  when  the  ladies  left  the  dinner-table, 
followed  by  Monsieur  Sansou,  and,  at  the  distance  of 
a  few  feet  from  the  windows  opening  on  the  lawn,  the 
air  was  black  and  impenetrable.  There  were  no  stars 
visible  and  no  moon,  but  the  clouds  which  were  gath 
ering  after  a  drought,  seemed  to  hush  the  air  with 
their  long  expected  approach,  and  it  was  one  of  those 
soft,  still,  yet  murky  and  fragrant  nights  when  the 
earth  seems  to  breathe  only — without  light,  sound,  or 
motion.  What  lover  does  not  remember  such  a  night  ? 

Oppressed  with  the  glaring  lights  and  the  company 
of  people  she  cared  nothing  about,  Miss  Hervey 
stepped  out  upon  the  lawn,  and  with  her  face  lifted  as 
if  to  draw  deeper  inhalations  of  the  dew  and  freshness, 
she  strolled  leisurely  over  the  smooth  carpet  of  grass. 
At  a  slight  turn  to  avoid  a  clump  of  shrubbery,  she 
encountered  Belaccueil,  who  was  apologizing  and 
about  to  pass  her,  when  she  called  him  by  his  name, 
and  passing  her  arm  through  his,  led  him  on  to  the 
extremity  of  the  lawn.  A  wire  fence  arrested  their 
progress,  and  leaning  against  it,  Miss  Hervey  inquired 
into  the  cause  of  the  disguise  she  had  penetrated,  and 
softened  and  emboldened  by  the  fragrant  darkness, 
said  all  that  a  woman  might  say  of  tenderness  and  en 
couragement.  Belaccueil's  heart  beat  with  pride  and 
gratified  amour  propre,  but  he  confined  himself  to  the 
expression  of  this  feeling,  and  leaving  the  subject  open, 
took  advantage  of  Mis.  Plantagenet's  call  to  Miss 
Hervey  from  the  window,  to  leave  her  and  resume  his 
ramble  through  the  grounds. 

The  supper  tray  had  been  brought  in,  and  the  party 
were  just  taking  their  candles  to  separate,  when  the 
tutor  entered  at  the  glass  door  and  arrested  the  steps 
of  Mrs.  Plantagenet.  She  set  down  her  candl*  and 
courtesied  a  good-night  to  the  ladies  (Mr.Hitchings  had 
gone  to  bed,  for  wine  made  him  sleepy,  and  Mr.  Her 
vey  always  retired  early — where  he  was  bored),  and 
closing  the  windows,  mixed  a  glass  of  negus  for  Mon 
sieur  Sansou  ;  and,  herself  pulling  a  sandwich  to 
pieces,  deliberately,  and  it  must  be  confessed,  some 
what  patronisingly,  invited  the  Frenchman  to  become 
her  lord.  And  after  a  conversation,  which  (la  verite 
avant  tout)  turned  mainly  on  will  and  investments,  the 
window  dame  sailed  blissfully  to  bed,  and  Belaccueil 
wrote  the  following  letter  to  his  friend  and  adviser  : 

"  MY  DEAR  ST.  LKUKR  :  Enclosed  you  have  the 
only  surviving  lock  of  my  grizzled  wig— sign  and  sym 
bol  that  my  disguises  are  over  and  my  object  attained. 
The  wig  burns  at  this  instant  in  the  grate,  item  my 
hand-ruffles,  item  sundry  embroidered  cravats  a  la 
vielle  cour,  item  (this  last  not  without  some  trouble  at 
my  heart)  a  solitary  love-token  from  Coustantia  Her 
vey.  One  faded  rose — given  me  at  Paestum,  the  day 
before  I  was  driven  disgraced  from  her  presence  by 
5 


the  interference  of  this  insolent  fool — one  faded  rose 
has  crisped  and  faded  into  smoke  with  the  rest.  And 
so  fled  from  the  world  the  last  hope  of  a  warm  and 
passionate  heart,  which  never  gave  up  its  destiny  till 
now — never  felt  that  it  was  made  in  vain,  guarded,  re 
fined,  cherished  in  vain,  till  that  long-loved  flower  lay 
in  ashes.  I  am  accustomed  to  strip  emotion  of  its 
drapery — determined  to  feel  nothing  but  what  is  real — 
yet  this  moment,  turn  it  and  strip  it,  and  deny  its  illu 
sions  as  I  will,  is  anguish.  'Self-inflicted,'  you  smile 
and  say  ! 

"You  will  marvel  what  stars  will  not  come  into 
conjunction,  when  I  tell  you  that  Miss  Hervey  is  at 
this  moment  under  the  same  roof  with  me  and  my 
affianced  bride,  and  you  will  marvel  what  good  turn  I 
have  done  the  devil,  that  he  should,  in  one  day,  offer 
me  my  enemy's  daughter,  my  enemy's  fortune  (with 
the  drawback  of  an  incumbrance),  and  the  woman  who 
I  thought  had  spurned  me.  After  all,  it  is  a  devil's 
gift — for  in  choosing  that  to  which  I  am  most  impelled, 
I  crush  hope,  and  inflict  pain,  and  darken  my  own 
heart  for  ever.  I  could  not  have  done  this  once. 
Manhood  and  poverty  have  embittered  me. 

"  Miss  Hitchings  has  chosen  to  fall  in  love  with  her 
tutor.  She  is  seventeen,  a  sweet  blonde,  with  large, 
suffused  eyes,  tender,  innocent,  and  (without  talent) 
singularly  earnest  and  confiding.  I  could  be  very 
happy  with  such  a  woman,  and  it  would  have  been  a 
very  tolerable  revenge  (failing  the  other)  to  have  stolen 
her  from  her  father.  But  he  would  have  disinherited 
and  forgotten  us,  and  I  have  had  enough  of  poverty, 
and  can  not  afford  to  be  forgotten — by  my  enemy. 

"You  never  saw  Miss  Hervey.  It  is  not  much  to 
tell  you  she  is  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  have  met. 
If  she  were  not  beautiful,  her  manners  would  win  all 
hearts.  If  her  manners  were  less  fascinating,  her  sin 
gular  talents  would  make  her  remarkable.  She  is  not 
appreciated,  because  her  beauty  blinds  people  to  her 
talents,  and  her  manners  make  them  forget  her  beauty. 
She  is  something  in  the  style  of  the  Giorgione  we 
adored  at  Venice — a  transparently  dark  beauty,  with 
unfathomable  eyes  and  lashes  that  sweep  her  cheek ; 
her  person  tall  and  full,  and  her  neck  set  on  like  Ze- 
nobia's.  Yet  she  is  not  a  proud  woman — I  think  she 
is  not.  She  is  too  natural  and  true  to  do  anything 
which  looks  like  pride,  save  walk  like  an  empress. 
She  says  everything  rightly — penetrates  instantly  to 
the  core  of  meaning — sings,  dances,  talks,  with  the 
ease,  confidence,  grace,  faithlessness,  with  which  a 
swallow  flies.  Perfection  in  all  things  is  her  nature. 
I  am  jotting  down  her  qualities  now  as  they  are  al 
lowed  by  the  world.  I  will  not  write  of  them  like  a 
lover.  Oh,  my  friend,  with  what  plummet  can  you 
fathom  the  depth  of  my  resentments,  when,  for  them, 
I  forego  possession  of  this  woman  !  She  offered  me, 
two  hours  since,  the  unqualified  control  of  her  desti 
ny  !  She  asked  me  with  tremulous  voice  to  forgive 
her  for  the  wrong  done  me  in  Italy.  She  dropped 
that  faultless  and  superb  head  on  my  bosom,  and  told 
me  that  she  loved  me — and  I  never  answered  !  The 
serpent  in  my  heart  tied  up  my  tongue,  and  with  cold 
thanks  "and  fiend-like  resistance  to  the  bliss  of  even 
once  pressing  her  to  my  bosom,  I  left  her.  I  do  not 
know  myself  when  I  remember  that  1  have  done  this. 
I  am  possessed — driven  out — by  some  hard  and  bitter 
spirit  who  neither  acts  nor  speaks  like  me.  Yet  could 
I  not  undo  what  I  have  done. 

"To-morrow  morning  will  disappear  Monsieur  San 
sou  from  Hitchings  park,  and,  on  the  brief  condition 
of  a  brief  ceremony,  the  law,  the  omnipotent  law,  will 
deliver  into  my  hands  the  lands,  tenements,  goods, 
chattels,  and  liberty  of  my  enemy — for  even  so  deeply 
has  he  sunk  into  the  open  pocket  of  Mrs.  Plantage 
net  !  She  holds  mortgages  on  all  he  has,  for  money 
advanced,  and  all  that  is  hers  will  be  mine,  without 
reserve.  The  roof  I  have  been  living  in  degradation 


66 


THE  WIFE  BEQUEATHED  AND  RESUMED. 


under,  will  be  to-morrow  my  own.  The  man  who 
called  me  an  adventurer,  who  stood  between  me  and 
my  love,  who  thrust  me  from  my  heaven  without  cause 
or  provocation — the  meddling  fool  who  boasts  that  he 
saved  a  countrywoman  from  a  French  swindler  (he 
has  recurred  to  it  often  in  my  presence),  will  be  to 
morrow  my  dependant,  beggar  for  shelter,  suppli 
ant  for  his  liberty  and  subsistence  !  Do  you  ask  if 
that  outweighs  the  love  of  the  woman  I  have  lost  ? 
Alas  !  yes. 

"  You  are  older,  and  have  less  taste  for  sentiment 
even  than  I.  I  will  not  bore  you  with  my  crowd  of 
new  feelings  in  this  situation.  My  future  wife  is  amia 
ble  and  good.  She  is  also  vain,  unattractive,  and  old. 
I  shall  be  kind  to  her  and  endeavor  that  she  shall  not 
be  disenchanted,  and  if  I  can  make  her  happy,  it  may 
mollify  my  penance  for  the  devil  with  which  I  am  pos 
sessed.  Miss  Hitchings  will  lose  nothing  by  having 
loved  me,  for  she  shall  be  the  heiress  of  my  wealth, 

and  her  father but  I  will  not  soil  my  heart  by 

thinking  of  an  alleviation  to  his  downfall. 

"Farewell,  mon  ami.     Congratulate  and  pily  me. 
"AooLPHE  BELACCUEIL." 


In  one  of  the  most  fashionable  squares  of  London 
lives,  "in  the  season,"  Monsieur  Belaccueil,  one  of 
the  most  hospitable  foreigners  in  that  great  metropo 
lis.     He  is  a  pensive  and  rather  melancholy-looking 
man  by  day;  but  society,  which  he  seems  to  seek  like 
an   opiate   to  restless   feeling,  changes  him  to  a  gay 
man,   the  most  mirth-loving  of  Amphytrions.     His 
establishment  is  presided  over  by  his  wife,  who,  as  his 
|  society  is  mostly  French,  preserves  a  respectable  si- 
!  lence,  but  seems  contented  with  her  lot  and  proud  of 
her  husband  ;  while   in   Miss  Plantagenet  (ci-devant 
Hitchings)  his  guests  find  his  table's  chief  attraction — 
one  of  the  prettiest  heiresses  and  most  loveable  girls  in 
j  London.  How  deeply  MonsieurBelaccueil  still  rejoices 
I  at  his  success  in  "getting  to  windward,"  is  matter  of 
|  problem.     Certainly  there  is  one  chariot  which  passes 
i  him  in  his  solitary  ride  in  the  park,  to  which  he  bows 
j  with  a  pang  of  unabating  and  miserable  anguish.    And 
'  if  the  occupant  of  that  plain  chariot  share  at  all  in  his 
suffering,  she  has  not  the  consolation  to  which  he  flies 
in  society — for  a   more  secluded   and  lonely  woman 
lives  not  in  the  great  solitude  of  London,  than  Con- 
stantia  Hervey. 


THE  WIFE  BEQUEATHED  AND  RESUMED, 


THE  following  story  was  told  to  the  writer  by  a  lady 
in  France — told  during  supper  at  a  ball,  and  of  course 
only  partially.  The  interstices  have  been  supplied  in 
writing  it,  and  the  main  thread  of  the  narrative  may 
be  relied  on  as  fact.  The  names  are  fictitious : — 

A  beautiful  girl  of  seventeen,  in  the  convent-parlor 
of  Saint  Agatha.  She  is  dressed  as  a  novice,  and  the 
light  breaks  off  from  the  curve  of  the  raven  hair  put 
away  under  the  close-fitting  cap — breaks  off  almost  in 
sparkles.  For  so  it  may — as  an  artist  knows.  Her 
eyes  are  like  hounds  in  the  leash — fiery  and  eager. 
And  if,  in  those  ever-parted  and  forward-pressing  lips 
there  is  a  possibility  of  languid  repose,  the  proof  of  it 
lies  in  the  future.  They  are  sleepless  and  dreamless, 
as  yet,  with  a  thirst  unnamed  and  irrepressible,  for  the 
passions  of  life.  Her  name  is  Zelie. 

But  we  can  not  make  the  past  into  the  present. 
Change  the  tense — for  Zelie  is  dead  now,  or  we  could 
not  record  her  strange  story. 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  convent  door,  and  presently 
entered  Colonel  Count  Montalembert,  true  to  his  ap 
pointment.  He  had  written  to  the  lady-abbess  to 
request  an  interview  with  the  daughter  of  his  com 
rade,  dead  on  the  frozen  track  of  the  retreat  from 
Moscow.  Flaliault  was  to  him,  as  his  right  hand  to 
his  left,  and  as  he  covered  up  the  stiffened  body  with 
snow,  he  had  sworn  to  devote  his  life  to  that  child 
whose  name  was  last  on  the  lips  closed  for  ever.  The 
Count  Montalembert  was  past  fifty,  and  a  constant 
sufferer  from,  his  wounds;  and  his  physicians  had 
warned  him  that  death  was  not  far  off.  His  bearing 
was  still  noble  and  soldierly,  however,  and  his  frank 
and  clear  eye  had  lost  little  of  its  lustre. 

"  I  wrote  to  you  the  particulars  of  your  father's 
death,  my  child,"  said  the  colonel,  after  the  abbess 
had  left  them   alone,  at  his  request.     "I  could  not' 
dwell  on  it  again  without  more  emotion  than  is  well  j 
for  me.    I  must  be  brief  even  with  what  I  have  to  say 
to  his  daughter — for  that,  too,  will  move  me  overmuch. 
You  are  very  lovely,  Zelie." 

"  You  are  very  kind  !"  answered  the  novice,  blush 
ing,  and  dropping  her  long  lashes  upon  her  cheek. 


"Very  lovely,  I  say,  and  must  love  and  be  beloved. 
j  It  is  a  woman's  destiny,  and  your  destiny  more  than 
most  women's." 

The  count  gazed  into  the  deep  eyes  of  his  eager 
listener,  and  seemed  embarrassed  to  know  how  to  pro 
ceed. 

"  Hear  me  through,"  he  said,  "  before  you  form  an 
[  opinion  of  my  motives.  And  first  answer  me  a  bold 
question.  Have  you  any  attachment — have  you  ever 
seen  a  man  you  could  love  and  marry  ?" 

"  No  !"  murmured  the  blushing  novice,  after  a  mo 
ment's  hesitation. 

"  But  you  are  likely  to  love,  soon  and  rashly,  once 

I  free  in  the  world — and  that  is  one  evil  against  which 

I  I  will  make  myself  your  shield.    And  there  is  another 

— which  I  am  only  sorry  that  I  need  your  permission 

and  aid  in  averting." 

Zelie  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"  Poverty — the  grave  of  love — the  palsy  of  the 
heart — the  oblivion  of  beauty  and  grace  !  To  avert 
this  from  you,  I  have  a  sacrifice  to  demand  at  your 
hands." 

Again  the  count  stopped  in  embarrassment  almost 
painful,  and  Mademoiselle  Montalembtrt  with  diffi 
culty  suppressed  her  impatience. 

"My  physicians  tell  me,"  he  resumed,  in  a  tone 
lower  and  calmer,  "that  my  lease  of  life  is  wearing 
rapidly  to  a  close.  A  year  hence  lies  its  utmost  and 
inevitable  limit.  Could  you  live  in  the  world,  without 
love,  for  one  year,  Zelie?" 

"Monsieur  !"  was  her  surprised  exclamation. 

"Then  listen  to  my  proposal.  I  have  a  fortune 
while  I  live,  large  enough  for  your  most  ambitious 
desires.  But  it  is  left  to  me  with  conditions  which 
forbid  my  conveying  it  through  any  link  save  mar 
riage,  and  to  my  widow  only  for  life.  To  give  it 
•  you,  I  regret  deeply  for  your  sake  to  say,  I  must  wed 
|  you.  You  start — do  not  answer  me  now.  I  leave  you 
to  revolve  this  in  your  mind  till  to-morrow.  Remem 
ber  that  I  shall  not  trouble  you  long,  and  that  the 
name  of  Montalembert  is  as  noble  as  your  own,  and 
that  you  require  a  year,  perhaps  more  than  a  year,  to 
j  recover  from  your  first  dizzy  gaze  upon  the  world.  1 


THE  WIFE  BEQUEATHED  AND  RESUMED. 


•  17 


shall  put  no  restraint  upon  you.  I  have  no  wish  but 
to  fulfil  my  duty  to  my  dead  comrade  in  arms,  and  to 
die,  knowing  that  you  will  well  bestow  your  heart 
when  I  am  gone.  Adieu  !" 

The  count  disappeared,  and,  with  her  clasped  hands 
pressed  to  her  forehead,  the  novice  paced  the  convent- 
parlor  until  the  refectory  bell  rang  for  dinner.  *  *  * 
It  was  an  evening  of  June,  in  the  gardens  of  Ver 
sailles.  It  was  an  evening  of  June,  also,  in  the  pest- 
house  of  St.  Lazarus,  and  in  the  cell  of  the  condemned 
felon  in  St.  Pelagie.  Time,  even  in  his  holyday  dress, 
visits  indiscriminately — the  levelling  caitiff'!  Have  the 
unhappy  any  business  with  June  ? 

But  the  gardens  of  Versailles  were  beginning  to 
illuminate,  and  the  sky  faded,  with  a  glory  more  fes 
tal  than  sunlight,  with  the  radiance  of  a  myriad  of 
glittering  lamps,  embellishing  even  the  trees  and  flow 
ers  beyond  the  meaning  of  nature.  The  work  of  the 
architect  and  the  statuary  at  once  stood  idealized,  and 
draped  in  an  atmosphere  of  fairy-land,  and  the  most 
beautiful  woman  of  the  imperial  court  became  more 
beautiful  as  she  stepped  into  the  glare  of  the  alley  of 
fountains.  And  who  should  that  be — the  fairest  flower 
of  French  nobility — but  the  young  Countess  Monta- 
lembert,  just  blooming  through  the  close  of  her  first 
year  of  wedlock  ! 

The  Count  Montalembert  stepped  with  her  from  the 
shade  of  the  orange-grove,  and,  without  her  arm,  fell 
behind  scarce  perceptibly,  that  he  might  keep  his  eye 
filled  with  the  grace  of  her  motion,  without  seeming 
to  worship  her  before  the  world.  With  every  salient 
flow  of  that  cloud-like  drapery  onward — with  every 
twinkling  step  of  those  feet  of  airy  lightness — the  dark 
eyelashes  benenth  the  soldier's  brow  lifted  and  drooped 
again,  as  if  his  pulse  of  life  and  vision  were  alone 
governed  by  her  swan-like  motion.  The  count  had 
forgotten  that  he  was  to  die.  The  year  allotted  to 
him  by  his  physicians  had  passed,  and,  far  from  falling 
gradually  to  his  doom,  his  figure  had  straightened,  and 
his  step  grown  firm,  and  his  cheek  and  lip  and  eye  had 
brightened  with  returning  health.  He  hnd  drank  life 
,from  love.  The  superb  Zelie  had  proved  grateful  and 
devoted,  and  at  the  chateau  of  Montalembert,  in 
southern  France,  she  had  seemeS  content  to  live  with 
him,  and  him  only,  the  most  assiduous  of  nurses  in 
all  her  glorious  beauty.  But  though  this  was  Para 
dise  to  the  count,  his  reason,  not  his  heart,  told  him 
it  was  imprisonment  to  her,  and  he  had  now  been  a 
month  at  the  sumptuous  court  of  Napoleon,  an  at 
tendant  upon  a  wife  who  was  the  star  of  the  time — the 
beloved  of  all  the  ceurt's  gay  beholders. 

As  the  Montalemberts  strolled  toward  the  chateau, 
which  was  now  emitting  floods  of  light  from  its  many 
windows,  a  young  soldier,  with  a  slight  mustache  just 
shading  his  Grecian  lip,  joined  them  from  a  side-path, 
and  claimed  the  hand  of  the  countess  for  a  (v-.dtz. 
The  mercurial  music  at  the  same  instant  fled  through 
the  air,  and  under  an  exclamation  at  its  thrilling 
sweetness,  the  countess  concealed  from  her  husband 
an  emotion  which  the  trembling  of  her  slight  hand 
betrayed  instantly  to  her  partner.  With  a  bow  of  af 
fected  gayety  to  the  count,  she  quickened  her  pace, 
and  in  another  moment  stood  blushing  in  the  daz/Iing 
ring  of  waltzers,  the  focus  herself  of  all  eyes  open  to 
novelty  and  beauty. 

De  Mornay,  the  countess's  partner,  was  but  an  en 
sign  in  the  imperial  guard.  He  had  but  his  sword. 
Not  likely  to  be  called  handsome,  or  to  be  looked 
upon  as  attractive  or  dangerous  by  any  but  the  most 
penetrating  of  his  own  sex,  he  had  that  philtre,  that 
inexplicable  something,  which  at  once  commended 
him  to  woman.  His  air  was  all  earnest.  The  sup 
pressed  devotion  of  life  and  honor  breathed  in  his 
voice.  He  seemed  ever  hiding  his  heart  with  pain — 
shamed  with  betrayed  adoration — calm  by  the  force  of 
a  respect  that  rebuked  passion.  He  professed  no  gal 


lantries.  He  professed  nothing.  His  eyes  alone,  large, 
steadfast,  imploring,  conveyed  language  of  love.  An 
hour  of  that  absorbing  regard — an  apparently  calm, 
1  unimpassioncd  hour  of  the  intercourse  common  to 
those  newly  met — sufficed  to  awaken  in  the  bosom  of 
the  countess  an  interest  alarming  to  himself,  and  dan 
gerous  to  her  content  as  the  wife  of  another.  Strange 
she  thought  it,  that,  as  the  low  and  deferential  tones 
of  De  Mornay  fell  on  her  ear,  they  seemed  to  expel 
from  her  heart  all  she  had  hitherto  treasured — ambi 
tion  for  the  splendors  of  the  court,  passion  for  admi 
ration,  and  even  her  gratitude  for  her  husband.  A 
hut  in  the  forest,  with  De  Mornay  only,  was  the  Para 
dise  now  most  present  to  the  dreams  and  fancy  of  the 
proud  wife  of  Montalembert. 

As  his  wife  left  him,  the  count  thrust  his  hand  into 
his  breast  with  a  gesture  of  controlled  emotion,  and 
turned  aside,  as  if  to  seek  once  more  the  retired  covert 
he  had  left.  But  his  steps  were  faltering.  At  the 
entrance  of  the  alley  he  turned  again,  and  walking 
rapidly  to  the  chateau,  entered  the  saloon  trembling 
to  the  measured  motion  of  the  dancers. 

Waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  float  into  the  giddy 
ring,  De  Mornay  stood  with  his  arm  around  the  waist 
of  the  countess.  Montalembert's  face  flushed,  but  he 
stepped  to  a  column  which  supported  the  orchestra, 
and  looked  on  unobserved.  Her  transparent  cheek 
was  so  near  to  the  lips  of  her  partner,  thai  his  breath 
must  warm  it.  Her  hand  was  pressed — ay,  by  the 
bend  of  her  gloved  wrist,  pressed  hard — upon  the 
shoulder  of  De  Mornay.  Her  bosom  throbbed  per- 
:  ceptibly  in  its  jewelled  vest.  She  leaned  toward  him 
!  with  a  slight  sway  of  her  symmetrical  waist,  and 
1  away,  like  two  smoke  wreaths  uniting,  away  in  volup- 
tuous  harmony  of  movement,  gazing  into  each  other's 
|  eyes,  murmuring  inaudibly  to  the  crowd — lips,  cheeks, 
and  eyes,  in  passionate  neighborhood — away  floated 
the  wife  and  friend  of  Montalembert  in  the  authorized 
commerce  of  the  gay  world.  Their  feet  chased  each 
other,  advancing,  retreating,  amid  the  velvet  folds  of 
her  dress.  Her  waist  was  drawn  close  to  his  side  in 
the  more  exciting  passages  of  the  music.  Her  luxu 
riant  tresses  floated  from  her  temples  to  his.  She 
curved  her  swan-like  neck  backward,  and,  with  a  look 
of  pleasure,  which  was  not  a  smile,  gave  herself  up  to 
the  thrilling  wedlock  of  music  and  motion,  her  eyes 
half-drooped  and  bathed  in  the  eager  gaze  of  De 
Mornay's.  Montalembert's  face  was  pallid  and  his 
eye  on  fire.  The  cold  sweat  stood  on  his  forehead. 
He  felt  wronged,  though  the  world  saw  all.  With  his 
concealed  hand  he  clenched  his  breast  till  he  drew 
blood.  There  was  a  pause  in  the  music,  and  with  a 
sudden  agony  at  the  thought  of  receiving  his  wife 
again  from  the  hands  of  De  Mornay,  Montalembert 
fled  on  to  the  open  air. 
An  hour  elapsed. 

"I  ask  a  Heaven  for  myself,  it  is  true,  but  not  much 
for  you  to  give  !"  said  a  voice  approaching  through 
the  shadowy  alley  of  the  garden. 

The  count  lay  on  the  ground  with  his  forehead 
pressed  to  the  marble  pedestal  of  a  statue,  and  he 
lieard,  with  the  voice,  the  rustling  of  a  female  dress, 
and  the  rattling  of  a  sabre-chain  and  spurs. 

"  But  one  ringlet,  sacred  to  me"  continued  the 
voice,  in  a  tone  almost  feminine  with  its  pleading  ear 
nestness;  "not  given  to  me.  no,  no! — that  were  a 
child's  desire  ! — nut  mine,  though  still  playing  on  this 
ivory  shoulder,  and  still  lying  neatly  beneath  that  vein 
ed  temple — mine  with  your  knowledge  only,  and 
caressed  and  cared  for,  morn  and  night,  with  the 
thought  that  it  is  mine !  Oh,  Zelie !  there  is  no 
wrong  to  Montalembert  in  this !  Keep  it  from  his 
touch!  Let  him  not  breathe  upon  it!  Let  not  the 
wind  blow  that  one  ringlet  toward  him !  And  when  it 
kisses  your  cheek,  and  plays  with  the  envied  breeze 
upon  your  bosom — think — think  of  the  soul  of  De 


68 


THE  WIFE  BEQUEATHED  AND  RESUMED. 


Mornay,   bound  in  it !     Oh,  God  !    why  am  I  made 
capable  of  love  like  this  !" 

There  was  no  reply,  and  long  ere  Montalembert 
had  recovered  from  his  amazement  at  these  daring 
words,  the  sound  of  their  footsteps  had  died  away. 

Pass  two  years.  It  is  enough  to  wait  on  Time  in 
the  Present.  In  the  Past  and  Future,  the  graybeard, 
like  other  ministers  out  of  place,  must  do  without 
usher  and  secretary. 

It  was  a  summer's  noon  on  the  Quai  D'Orsay,  of 
Paris.  The  liveried  lacqueys  of  the  princely  hotels 
were  lounging  by  the  heavy  gateM'ays  of  stone,  or 
leaning  over  the  massy  parapet  of  the  river.  And, 
true  to  his  wont,  the  old  soldier  came  with  the  noon, 
creeping  from  the  "  Invalides,"  to  take  his  seat  under 
the  carved  lion  of  the  Montalemberts.  He  had  served 
under  the  late  count,  and  the  memory  of  his  house 
was  dear  to  the  old  veteran.  The  sabre-cut  which  had 
disfigured  his  face,  was  received,  he  said,  while  fight 
ing  between  Montalembert  and  Flahault,  and  to  see 
the  daughter  of  the  one,  and  the  gay  heir  of  the 
other's  wife  and  fortune,  he  made  a  dai'ly  pilgrimage 
to  the  Quai,  and  sat  in  the  sun  till  the  countess  drove 
out  in  her  chariot. 

By  the  will  of  the  first  husband  of  Zelie  de  Fla 
hault,  the  young  De  Mornay,  to  become  her  husband 
and  share  her  fortune,  was  compelled  to  take  the 
name  and  title  of  Count  Montalembert,  subject  to  the 
imperial  accord.  Napoleon  had  given  the  rank  un 
willingly,  and  as  a  mark  of  respect  to  the  last  will  of 
a  brave  man  who  had  embellished  the  title — for  the 
eagle-eye  of  the  Corsican  read  the  soul  of  De  Mor 
nay  like  an  illuminated  book,  and  knew  the  use  he 
would  make  of  fortune  and  power. 

In  the  quadrangle  of  the  hotel  Montalembert,  there 
were  two   carriage-landings,  or  two  persons,  and  the 
apartments  were  separated  into  two  entirely  distinct 
establishments.     In  one  suite  the  young  count  chose 
to  live  at  his  pleasure,  en  garcon,  and  in  the  other  the 
mixed  hospitalities  of  the  house  were  given,  and  the 
countess  was  there,  and  there  only,  at  home.     At  this 
moment  the  court  was  ringing  with  the  merry  laugh-  i 
ter  of  the  count's  convives,  for  he  had  a  bachelor  party  i 
to  breakfast,  and   the  wine  seemed,  even  at  that  early 
hour  of  the  day,  to  have  taken  the  ascendant.     The 
carriages  of  the  bacchanalians  lined  one  side  of  the  | 
court,  and   the  modest  chariot  of  the  countess  stood 
alone  at  the   door  on  the  other;  for  it  was  near  the 
hour  for  promenade  in  the  Champs  Elysees. 

It  was  an  hour  after  noon  when  the  countess  de 
scended.  She  came  slowly,  drawing  on  her  glove, 
and  the  old  soldier  at  the  gate  rose  quickly  to  his  feet, 
and  leaned  forward  to  gaze  on  her.  She  had  changed 
since  the  death  of  her  father's  friend— the  brave  Mon 
talembert,  to  whom  she  owed  her  fortune.  But  she 
was  still  eminently  beautiful.  Thought,  perhaps  sad 
ness,  had  dimmed  to  a  sweet  melancholy  the  bright 
sparkle  of  her  glance,  and  her  mouth,  no  longer 
fiercely  spirited,  was  firm  but  gentle.  Her  curtains 
of  sable  lashes  moved  languidly  over  her  drooping 
eye.  She  looked  like  one  who  was  subdued  in  her 
hopes,  not  in  her  courage,  and  like  one  who  had  shut 
the  door  of  her  heart  upon  its  unextinguishable  fires 
to  let  them  burn  on,  but  in  secret.  She  was  dressed 
more  proudly  than  gayly,  and  she  wore  upon  her 
breast  one  memorial  of  her  first  husband — his  own 
black  cross  that  he  had  worn  in  bartle,  and  in  the  few 
happy  days  of  his  wedlock,  and  which  he  had  sent  her 
from  his  death-bed. 

At  the  moment  the  countess  stepped  from  her 
threshold,  the  door  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  quad 
rangle  was  thrown  open,  and,  with  a  boisterous  laugh, 
the  count  sprang  into  his  phaeton,  calling  to  one  of 
his  party  to  follow  him.  His  companion  shrank  back 
on  seeing  the  countess,  and  in  that  moment's  delay 
the  door  of  the  carriage  was  closed  and  the  coachman 


ordered  to  drive  on.  The  count's  whip  had  waved 
over  his  spirited  horses,  however,  and  as  they  stood 
rearing  and  threatening  to  escape  from  their  excited 
master,  his  friend  sprang  to  his  side,  the  reins  were 
suddenly  loosed,  and  with  a  plunge  which  threatened 
to  tear  the  harness  from  their  backs,  they  leaped  for 
ward.  In  the  next  moment,  the  horses  of  both  vehicles 
were  drawn  upon  their  haunches,  half  locked  together 
in  the  narrow  gateway,  and  with  a  blow  from  the  crutch 
of  the  old  veteran  who  rushed  from  the  porter's  lodge, 
the  phaeton  was  driven  back  against  the  wall,  the  pole 
broken,  and  the  count  and  his  friend  precipitated  upon 
the  pavement.  The  liberated  horses  flew  wildly 
through  the  gate,  and  then  followed  a  stillness  like 
that  of  midnight  in  the  court — for  on  the  pavement, 
betrayed  by  her  profusion  of  fair  locks,  loosened  by 
the  fall,  lay  a  woman  in  man's  attire,  the  dissolute 
companion  of  the  count,  in  his  daylight  revel.  Un 
injured  himself,  the  count  stood  a  moment,  abashed 
and  motionless,  but  the  old  soldier,  with  folded  arms 
and  the  remnant  of  his  broken  crutch  in  his  hand, 
looked  sternly  on  the  scene,  and  as  the  servants  start 
ed  from  their  stupor  to  raise  the  insensible  woman, 
the  countess,  reading  her  husband's  impulse  in  his 
looks,  sprang  from  the  open  door  of  the  chariot,  and 
interposed  between  him  and  his  intended  victim. 
With  the  high-born  grace  of  noble,  the  soldierly  in 
valid  accepted  her  protection,  and  followed  her  to  her 
chariot ;  and,  ordered  to  drive  to  the  Hospital  of  the 
Invalides,  the  coachman  once  more  turned  slowly  to 
the  gateway. 

The  night  following,  at  the  opera.  Paris  was  on 
the  qui  vive  of  expectation,  for  a  new  prima  donna 
was  to  make  her  debut  before  the  emperor. 

Paris  was  also  on  the  qui  vive  for  the  upshot  of  a 
certain  matter  of  scandal.  The  eclaircissement  at  the 
hotel  Montalembert  had  been  followed,  it  is  said,  by 
open  war  between  the  count  and  countess  ;  and,  de 
termined  to  carry  out  his  defiance,  the  dissolute  hus 
band  had  declared  to  his  associates  that  he  would 
produce  at  the  opera,  in  a  box  opposite  to  his  wife, 
the  same  person  whose  appearance  she  had  resented, 
and  in  the  same  attire.  It  was  presumed,  by  the 
graver  courtiers  wher  had  heard  this,  that  the  actors  in 
this  brutal  scene,  if  it  should  be  carried  out,  would  be 
immediately  arrested  by  the  imperial  guard. 

The  overture  commenced  to  a  crowded  house,  and 
before  it  was  half  played,  the  presence  of  the  count 
and  his  companion,  in  a  conspicuous  box  on  the  left 
of  the  circle,  drew  the  attention  of  every  eye.  The 
Montalemberts  were  the  one  subject  of  conversation. 
The  sudden  disappearance  of  the  old  count,  his  death 
in  a  distant  province,  his  will  relative  to  his  widow  and 
De  Mornay — all  the  particulars  of  that  curious  inher 
itance  of  wife  and  fortune,  by  written  testament — were 
passed  from  lip  to  lip. 

There  was  a  pause  at  the  close  of  the  overture. 
The  house  was  silent,  occupied  partly  in  looking  at 
the  audacious  count  and  his  companion,  partly  in 
watching  for  the  entrance  of  the  injured  countess. 

A  sudden  light  illuminated  the  empty  box,  shed 
from  the  lobby  lamps  upon  the  curtains  at  the  open 
ing  of  the  door,  and  the  Countess  Montalembert  en 
tered,  with  every  eye  in  that  vast  assembly  bent 
anxiously  upon  her.  But  how  radiantly  beautiful, 
and  how  strangely  dressed  !  Her  toilet  was  that  of 
a  bride.  Orange-flowers  were  woven  into  her  long 
raven  tresses,  and  her  robe  of  spotless  white  was  fold 
ed  across  her  bust  with  the  simplicity  of  girlhood.  A 
white  rose-bud  breathed  on  her  bosom,  and  bracelets 
of  pearls  encircled  her  wrists  of  alabaster.  And  her 
smile,  as  she  took  her  seat  and  looked  around  upon 
her  friends — oh  !  that  was  bridal  too  ! — unlike  any 
look  known  lately  upon  her  face — joyous,  radiant, 
blissful,  as  the  first  hour  of  acknowledged  love.  Nev 
er  had  Zelie-  de  Flahault  looked  so  triumphantly 


A  REVELATION  OF  A  PREVIOUS  LIFE. 


G9 


beautiful.  The  opera-glasses  from  every  corner  of  the 
house  remained  fixed  upon  her.  A  murmur  arose 
gradually,  a  murmur  of  admiration  succeeding  the 
silent  wonder  of  her  first  entrance;  and  but  for  the 
sudden  burst  of  music  from  the  orchestra,  heralding 
the  approach  of  the  emperor,  it  would  have  risen  into 
a  shout  of  spontaneotis  homage. 

The  emperor  came  in. 

But  who  is  there  ! — at  the  right  hand  of  Napoleon 
— smiled  upon  by  the  emperor,  as  the  emperor  seldom 
smiled,  decorated  with  the  noblest  orders  of  France — 
a  star  on  his  breast? — MO.NTALEMBERT! 

"  Montalembert!  ^lontalembert !"  resounded  from 
a  thousand  voices. 

Was  he  risen  from  the  dead  ?     Was  this  an  appa 
rition — the  indignant  apparition  of  the  first  husband —  j 
risen  to  rebuke  the  unmanly  brutality  of  the  second  ? 
Would  the  countess  start  at  the  sight  of  him  ? 

Look !  she  turns  to  the  illuminated  box  of  the  em 
peror  !  She  smiles — with  a  radiant  blush  of  joy  and  | 
happiness  she  smiles — she  lifts  that  ungloved  and  ; 


unjewelled  hand,  decorated  only  with  a  plain  gold 
ring,  and  waves  it  to  the  waved"  hand  of  Montalem 
bert  ! — the  brave,  true,  romantic  Montalembert.  For, 
with  the  quickness  of  French  divination,  the  whole 
story  is  understood  by  the  audience.  And  there  is 
not  a  brain  so  dull  as  not  to  know,  that  the  audacious 
invalid  veteran  was  the  disguised  count,  watching  over 
the  happiness  of  her  whose  destiny  of  love  he  had  too 
rashly  undertaken  to  make  cloudless — make  cloudless 
at  the  expense  of  a  crushed  heart,  and  a  usurped  hearth, 
and  asecretdeath  and  burial,  if  so  much  were  necessary. 
But  he  is  a  happy  bridegroom  now.  And  Adolphe 
de  Mornay  is  once  more  an  untitled  ensign — plucked 
for  ever  from  the  chaste  heart  and  bosom  of  the  de 
voted  wife  of  Montalembert. 


And  Montalembert 


f — whose 


springs 


of  life 


were  fed  only  by  love — died  when  that  fountain  of  love 
was  broken  ;  for  his  wife  died  in  childbed  one  year 
after  his  return  to  her,  and  he  followed  her  in  one  day. 
Never  man  was  more  loved  than  he.  Surely  never 
man  more  deserved  it. 


A  REVELATION  OF   A  PREVIOUS   LIFE, 


1  Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting, 

The  soul  that  rises  in  us,  our  life's  star, 
Has  had  elsewhere  its  setting-, 

And  conieth  from  afar." — WORDSWORTH. 


THE  death  of  a  lady,  in  a  foreign  land,  leaves  me  at 
liberty  to  narrate  the  circumstances  which  follow. 

A  few  words  of  previous  explanation,  however. 

I  am  inclined  to  believe,  from  conversations  on  the 
subject  with  many  sensible  persons,  that  there  are  few 
men  who  have  not  had,  at  different  intervals  in  their 
lives,  sudden  emotions,  currents  of  thought,  affections 
of  mind  and  body,  which,  not  only  were  wholly  dis 
connected  with  the  course  of  life  thus  interrupted,  but 
seemed  to  belong  to  a  wholly  different  being. 

Perhaps  I  shall  somewhere  touch  the  reader's  expe 
rience  by  describing  rather  minutely,  and  in  the  first 
person,  some  sensations  of  this  kind  not  unusual  to 
myself. 

Walking  in  a  crowded  street,  for  example,  in  perfect 
health,  with  every  faculty  gayly  alive,  I  suddenly  lose 
the  sense  of  neighborhood.  I  see — I  hear — but  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  become  invisible  where  I  stand,  and 
was,  at  the  same  time,  present  and  visible  elsewhere. 
I  know  everything  that  passes  around  me,  but  I  seem 
disconnected  and  (magnetically  speaking)  itnlinked 
from  the  human  beings  near.  If  spoken  to  at  such  a 
moment,  I  answer  with  difficulty.  The  person  who 
speaks  seems  addressing  me  from  a  world  to  which  I 
no  longer  belong.  At  the  same  time,  I  have  an  irre- ! 
sistible  inner  consciousness  of  being  present  in  another  j 
scene  of  every-day  life — where  there  are  streets,  and 
houses,  and  people — where  I  am  looked  on  without 
surprise  as  a  familiar  object — where  I  have  cares, 
fears,  objects  to  attain — a  different  scene  altogether, 
and  a  different  life,  from  the  scene  and  life  of  which  I 
was  a  moment  before  conscious.  I  have  a  dull  ache 
at  the  back  of  my  eyes  for  the  minute  or  two  that  this 
trance  lasts,  and  then,  slowly  and  reluctantly,  my 
absent  soul  seems  creeping  back,  the  magnetic  links 
of  conscious  neighborhood,  one  by  one,  re-attach,  and 
I  resume  my  ordinary  life,  but  with  an  irrepressible 
feeling  of  sadness. 

It  is  in  vain  that  I  try  to  fix  these  shadows  as  they 
recede.  I  have  struggled  a  thousand  times  in  vain  to 
particularize  and  note  down  what  I  saw  in  the  strange 


j  city  to  which  I  was  translated.     The  memory  glides 
from  my  grasp  with  preternatural  evasiveness. 

In  a  book  called  "  The  Man  of  Two  Lives,"  similar 

i  sensations  to  these  are  made  the   basis  of  the  story. 

I  Indeed,  till  I  saw  that  book,  the  fear  of  having  my 
sanity  suspected  sealed  my  lips  on  the  subject. 

I  have  still  a  reserve  in  my  confession.  I  have 
been  conscious,  since  boyhood,  of  a  mental  peculiarity 
which  I  fear  to  name  while  I  doubt  that  it  i*  possessed 
by  others  than  myself — which  I  should  not  allude  to 
now,  but  that  it  forms  a  strange  link  of  identity 

|  between  me  and  another  being  to  be  mentioned  in  this 
story. 

I  may  say,  also,  without  attaching  any  importance 
to  it,  except  as  it  bears  upon  this  same  identity,  that, 
of  those  things  which  I  have  no  occasion  to  be  taught, 
or  which  I  did,  as  the  common  phrase  is,  by  intuition, 
drawing  was  the  easiest  and  most  passionately  followed 
of  my  boyish  pursuits. 

With  these  preliminaries,  and  probably  some  simi 
lar  experience  of  his  own,  the  reader  may  happily  form 
a  woof  on  which  to  embroider  the  following  circum 
stances. 

Travelling   through   Styria,   some    years  since,   I 

j  chanced  to  have,  for  a  fellow-occupant  of  the  coupe 
of  a  diligence,  a  very  courteous  and  well-bred  person,  a 
gentleman  of  Gratz.  As  we  rolled  slowly  along  on  the 
banks  of  the  Muer,  approaching  his  native  town,  he 
very  kindly  invited  me  to  remain  with  him  a  day  or 
two,  offering  me,  as  an  inducement,  a  presentation  at 
the  soiree  of  a  certain  lady  of  consequence,  whoVas 
to  receive,  on-the  night  of  our  arrival,  and  at  whose 
house  I  should  see  some  fair  specimens  of  the  beauty 
of  Styria. 
Accepted. 

It  was  a  lovely  summer's  night,  when  we  strolled 
through  the  principal  street  toward  our  gay  destina 
tion,  and  as  I  drew  upon  my  friend's  arm  to  stop  him 
while  the  military  band  of  the  fortress  finished  a  deli- 

1  cious  waltz  (they  were  playing  in  the  public  square), 

I  he  pointed  out  to  me  the  spacious  balconies  of  the 


A  REVELATION  OF  A  PREVIOUS  LIFE, 


countess's  palace,  whither  we  were  going,  crowded 
with  the  well-dressed  company,  listening  silently  to 
the  same  enchanting  music.  We  entered,  and  after 
an  interchange  of  compliments  with  the  hostess,  I 
availed  myself  of  my  friend's  second  introduction  to 
take  a  stand  in  one  of  the  balconies  beside  the  person  I 
was  presented  to,  and  under  cover  of  her  favor,  to  hear 
out  the  unfinished  music  of  the  band. 

As  the  evening  darkened,  the  lights  gleamed  out 
from  the  illuminated  rooms  more  brightly,  and  most 
of  the  guests  deserted  the  balconies  and  joined  the 
gayer  circles  within.  The  music  ceased  at  the  beat 
of  the  drum.  My  companion  in  the  balcony  was  a 
very  quiet  young  lady,  and,  like  myself,  she  seemed 
subdued  by  the  sweet  harmonies  we  had  listened  to, 
and  willing  to  remain  without  the  shadow  of  the  cur 
tain.  We  were  not  alone  there,  however.  A  tall 
lady,  of  very  stately  presence,  and  with  the  remains  of 
remarkable  beauty,  stood  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
balcony,  and  she,  too,  seemed  to  shrink  from  the  glare 
within,  and  cling  to  the  dewy  darkness  oTthe  summer 
night. 

After  the  cessation  of  the  music,  there  was  no 
longer  an  excuse  for  intermittent  conversation,  and, 
starting  a  subject  which  afforded  rather  freer  scope,  I 
did  my  best  to  credit  my  friend's  flattering  introduc 
tion.  I  had  discoursed  away  for  half  an  hour  very 
unreservedly,  before  I  discovered  that,  with  her  hand 
upon  her  side,  in  an  attitude  of  repressed  emotion,  the 
tall  lady  was  earnestly  listening  to  me.  A  third  person 
embarrasses  even  the  most  indifferent  dialogue.  The 
conversation  languished,  and  my  companion  rose  and 
took  my  arm  for  a  promenade  through  the  rooms. 

Later  in  the  evening,  my  friend  came  in  search  of 
me  to  the  supper-room. 

"  Mon  ami .'"  he  said,  "  a  great  honor  has  fallen  out 
of  the  sky  for  you.  I  am  sent  to  bring  you  to  the 
beau  reste  of  the  handsomest  woman  of  Styria — 

Margaret,  Baroness  R ,  whose  chateau  I  pointed 

out  to  you  in  the  gold  light  of  yesterday's  sunset. 
She  wishes  to  know  you — u'hy  I  can  not  wholly  divine — 
for  it  is  the  first  sign  of  ordinary  feeling  that  she  has 
given  in  twenty  years.  But  she  seems  agitated,  and 
sits  alone  itt  the  countess's  boudoir.  Allons-yV 

As  we  made  our  way  through  the  crowd,  he  hastily 
sketched  me  an  outline  of  the  lady's  history  :  "At 
seventeen  taken  from  a  convent  for  a"  forced  marriage 
with  the  baron  whose  name  she  bears  ;  at  eighteen  a 
widow,  and,  for  the  first  time,  in  love — the  subject  of 
her  passion  a  young  artist  of  Vienna  on  his  way  to 
Italy.  The  ariist  died  at  her  chateau — they  were  to 
have  been  married — she  has  ever  since  worn  weeds 
for  him.  And  the  remainder  you  must  imagine — for 
here  we  are !" 

The  baroness  leaned  with  her  elbow  upon  a  small 
table  of  or  molu,  and  her  position  was  so  taken  that  I 
seated  myself  necessarily  in  a  strong  light,  while  her 
features  were  in  shadow.  Still,  the  light  was  suffi 
cient  to  show  me  the  expression  of  her  countenance. 
She  was  a  woman  apparently  about  forty-five,  of  noble 
physiognomy,  and  a  peculiar  fulness  of  the  eyelid — 
something  like  to  which  I  thought.  I  remembered  to 
have  seen  in  a  portrait  of  a  young  girl,  many  years 
before.  The  resemblance  troubled  me  somewhat. 

"  You  will  pardon  me  this  freedom,"  said  the  bar 
oness  with  forced  composure,  "  when  I  tell  you 
that — a  friend — whom  1  have  mourned  twenty-five 
years — seems  present  to  me  when  you  speak." 

I  was  silent,  for  I  knew  not  what  to  say.  The  bar 
oness  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  sat  silent 
for  a  few  moments,  gazing  at  me. 

"  You  are  not  like  him  in  a  single  feature,"  she 
resumed,  "  yet  the  expression  of  your  face,  strangely, 
very  strangely,  is  the  same.  He  was  darker — 
slighter" — 

'•  Of  my  age  ?"  1  inquired,  to  break  my  own  silence. 


For  there  was  something  in  her  voice  which  gave  me 
the  sensation  of  a  voice  heard  in  a  dream. 

"  Oh  God !  that  voice  !  that  voice  !"  she  exclaimed 
wildly,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  giving  way 
to  a  passionate  burst  of  tears. 

"  Rodolph,"  she  resumed,  recovering  herself  with 
a  strong  effort,  "  Rodolph  died  with  the  promise  on 
his  lips  that  death  should  not  divide  us.  And  I  have 
seen  him  !  Not  in  dreams — not  in  revery — not  at 
times  when  my  fancy  could  delude  me.  I  have  seen 
him  suddenly  before  me  in  the  street — in  Vienna— 
here — at  home  at  noonday — for  minutes  together, 
gazing  on  me.  It  is  more  in  latter  years  that  I  have 
been  visited  by  him  ;  and  a  hope"  has  latterly  sprung 
into  being  in  my  heart — I  know  not  how — that  in 
person,  palpable  and  breathing,  I  should  again  hold 
converse  with  him — fold  him  living  to  my  bosom. 
Pardon  me !  You  will  think  me  mad  !" 

I  might  well  pardon  her ;  for,  as  she  talked,  a  vague 
sense  of  familiarity  with  her  voice,  a  memory,  pow 
erful,  though  indistinct,  of  having  before  dwelt  on 
those  majestic  features,  an  impulse  of  tearful  passion- 
ateness  to  rush  to  her  embrace,  well  nigh  overpowered 
me.  She  turned  to  me  again. 

"  You  are  an  artist  ?"  she  said,  inquiringly. 

"  No ;  though  intended  for  one,  I  believe,  by  na 
ture." 

"And  you  were  born  in  the  year ." 

"  I  was !" 

With  a  scream  she  added  the  day  of  my  birth,  and 
waiting  an  instant  for  my  assent,  dropped  to  the  floor 
and  clung  convulsively  and  weeping  to  my  knees. 

"  Rodolph  !  Rodolph  !"  she  murmured  faintly,  as 
her  long  gray  tresses  fell  over  her  shoulders,  and  her 
head  dropped  insensible  upon  her  breast. 

Her  cry  had  been  heard,  and  several  persons  entered 
the  room.  I  rushed  out  of  doors.  I  had  need  to  be 
in  darkness  and  alone. 

It  was  an  hour  after  midnight  when  I  re-entered  my 
hotel.  A  chasseur  stood  sentry  at  the  door  of  my 
apartment  with  a  letter  in  his  hand.  He  called  me  by 
name,  gave  me  his  missive,  and  disappeared.  It  was 
from  the  baroness,  and  ran  thus: — 

"  You  did  not  retire  from  me  to  sleep.  This  letter 
will  find  you  waking.  And  I  must  write,  for  my  heart 
and  brain  are  overflowing. 

"  Shall  I  write  to  you  as  a  stranger  ? — you  whom  I 
have  strained  so  often  to  my  bosom — you  whom  I  have 
loved  and  still  love  with  the  utmost  idolatry  of  mortal 
passion — you  who  have  once  given  me  the  soul  that, 
like  a  gem  long  lost,  is  found  again,  but  in  a  newer 
casket !  Mine  still — for  did  we  not  swear  to  love 
for  ever ! 

"  But  I  am  taking  counsel  of  my  own  heart  only. 
You  may  still  be  unconvinced.  You  may  think  that 
a  few  singular  coincidences  have  driven  me  mad. 
You  may  think  that,  though  born  in  the  same  hour 
that  my  Rodolph  died,  possessing  the  same  voice,  the 
same  countenance,  the  same  gifts — though  by  irresist 
ible  consciousness  I  know  you  to  be  him — my  lost 
lover  returned  in  another  body  to  life — you  may  still 
think  the  evidence  incomplete — you  may,  perhaps, 
even  now,  be  smiling  in  pity  at  my  delusion.  Indulge 
me  one  moment. 

"  The  Rodolph  Isenberg  whom  I  lost,  possessed  a 
faculty  of  mind,  which,  if  you  are  he,  answers  with  the 
voice  of  an  angel  to  my  appeal.  In  that  soul  resided, 
and  wherever  it  be,  must  now  reside,  the  singular 
power"  *  *  *  * 

*  a  ***** 

(The  reader  must  be  content  with  my  omission  of 
this  fragment  of  the  letter.  It  contained  a  secret 
never  before  clothed  in  language — a  secret  that  will  die 
with  me,  unless  betrayed  by  what  indeed  it  may  lead 
to — madness  !  As  I  saw  it  in  writing — defined  accu 
rately  and  inevitably  in  the  words  of  another — 1  felt  as 


A  REVELATION  OF  A  PREVIOUS  LIFE. 


if  the  innermost  chamber  of  my  soul  was  suddenly 
laid  open  to  the  day — I  abandoned  doubt — I  answered 
to  the  name  by  which  she  called  me— I  believed  in  the 
previous  existence  of  which  my  whole  life,  no  less  than 
these  extraordinary  circumstances,  had  furnished  me 
with  repeated  evidence.  But,  to  resume  the  letter.) 

"And  now  that  we  know  each  other  again— now 
that  I  can  call  you  by  name,  as  in  the  past,  and  be 
sure  that  your  inmost  consciousness  must  reply — 
a  new  terror  seizes  me!  Your  soul  comes  back, 
youthfully  and  newly  clad,  while  mine,  though  of 
unfading  freshness  and  youthfulness  within,  shows  to 
your  eye  the  same  outer  garment,  grown  dull  with 
mourning  and  faded  with  the  wear  of  time.  Am  I 
grown  distasteful  ?  Is  it  with  the  sight  only  of  this 
new  body  that  you  look  upon  rne  ?  Rodolph  ! — spirit 
that  was  my  devoted  and  passionate  admirer!  soul 
that  was  sworn  to  me  for  ever  ! — am  I — the  same  Mar 
garet,  refound  and  recognised,  grown  repulsive?  Oh 
God  !  What  a  bitter  answer  would  this  be  to  my 
prayers  for  your  return  to  me  ! 

"  I  will  trust  in  Him  whose  benign  goodness  smiles 
upon  fidelity  in  love.  I  will  prepare  a  fitter  meeting 
for  two  who  parted  as  lovers.  You  shall  not  see  me 
again  in  the  house  of  a  stranger  and  in  a  mourning 
attire.  When  this  letter  is  written,  I  will  depart  at 
once  for  the  scene  of  our  love.  I  hear  my  horses 
already  in  the  court-yard,  and  while  you  read  this  I 
am  speeding  swiftly  home.  The  bridal  dress  you  were 
secretly  shown  the  day  before  death  came  between  us, 
is  still  freshly  kept.  The  room  where  we  sat — the 
bowers  by  the  stream — the  walks  where  we  projected 
our  sweet  promise  of  a  future — they  shall  all  be  made 
ready.  They  shall  be  as  they  were!  And  I — oh 
Rodolph,  I  shall  be  the  same!  My  heart  is  not 
grown  old,  Rodolph  !  Believe  me,  I  am  unchanged 


in  soul  !  And  I  will  strive  to  be — I  will  strive  to 
look  —  God  help  me  to  look  and  be  —  as  of 
yore! 

"  Farewell  now  !  T  leave  horses  and  servants  to 
wait  on  you  till  I  send  to  bring  you  to  me.  Alas,  for 
any  delay  !  but  we  will  pass  this  life  and  all  other 
time  together.  We  have  seen  that  a  vow  of  eternal 
union  may  be  kept — that  death  can  not  divide  those 
who  will  to  love  for  ever !  Farewell  now ! 

"  MARGARET." 

Circumstances  compelled  me  to  read  this  letter 
with  but  one  feeling,  exquisite  pain  !  Love  lasts  till 
death,  but  it  is  mortal  !  The  affections,  however 
intense  and  faithful  (I  now  know),  are  part  of  the 
perishable  coil,  forgotten  in  the  grave.  With  the 
memory  of  this  love  of  another  life,  haunting  me 
through  my  youth,  and  keeping  its  vow  of  visitation, 
I  had  given  the  whole  heart  of  my  second  youth  to 
another!  Affianced  to  her,  waited  for  by  her,  bound 
to  her  by  vows  which  death  had  not  divided,  I  had  but 
one  course  to  pursue.  I  left  Gratz  in  an  hour,  never 
to  return. 

A  few  days  since  I  was  walking  alone  in  the 
crowded  thoroughfare  of  the  city  where  I  live.  Sud 
denly  my  sense  of  presence  there  fell  off  me.  I 
walked  on,  but  my  inward  sight  absorbed  all  my  con 
sciousness.  A  room  which  was  familiar  to  me  shut 
me  in,  and  a  bed  hung  in  mourning  became  apparent. 
In  another  instant  a  figure  laid  out  in  a  winding-sheet, 
and  partially  covered  with  a  velvet  pall,  grew  distinct 
through  the  dimness,  and  in  the  low-laid  head  I  rec 
ognised,  what  a  presentiment  had  already  betrayed  to 

me,  the  features  of  Margaret,  Baroness  R .  It 

will  be  still  months  before  I  can  see  the  announce 
ment  of  her  death.  But  she  is  dead. 


AMERICAN    LIFE. 


COUNT  POTT'S   STRATEGY. 

1  L'Espnt  est  un  faux  monnayeur,  qui  change  continuellement  les  gros  sous  en  louis  d'or,  et  qui  souvent  fait  de  ses  louis  d'or  des 


THERK  were  five  hundred  guardian  angels  (and  of 
course  as  many  evil  spirits),  in  and  about  the  merry 
premises  of  Congress  Hall.  Each  gay  guest  had  his 
pair;  but  though  each  pair  had  their  special  ministry 
(and  there  was  here  and  there  a  guest  who  would  not 
have  objected  to  transform  his,  for  the  time  being,  into 
a  pair  of  trotting  ponies),  the  attention  of  the  cherubic  ; 
troop,  it  may  fairly  be  presumed,  was  directed  mainly  j 
to  the  momentous  flirtations  of  Miss  C.  Sophy  On 
thank,  the  dread  disposer  of  the  destinies  of  eighty 
thousand  innocent  little  dollars. 

Miss  Chittaline  Sophy  (though  this  is  blabbing, 
for  that  mysterious  "  C."  was  generally  condemned 
to  travel  in  domino) — Miss  Chittaline  Sophy,  besides 
her  good  and  evil  spirit  already  referred  to,  was  under 
the  additional  watch  and  ward  of  a  pair  of  bombazine 
aunts,  Miss  Charity  Onthank  and  Miss  Sophy  the 
same,  of  whom  she  was  the  united  namesake. — 
"  Chittaline"  being  the  embellished  diminutive  of 
"Charity."  These  Hesperian  dragons  of  old  maids 
were  cut  after  the  common  pattern  of  such  utensils, 
and  of  course  would  not  dignify  a  description;  though 
this  disparaging  remark  (we  must  stop  long  enough  to 
say)  is  not  at  all  to  the  prejudice  of  that  occasional 
love-of-an-old-maid  that  one  docs  sometimes  see — 
that  four-leaved  clover  of  virginity — that  star  apart  in 
the  spilled  milk  of  the  Via  Lactea  : — 

"  For  now  and  then  you  find  one  who  could  rally 

At  forty,  and  go  back  to  twenty-three — 
A  handsome,  plump,  affectionate  '  Aunt  Sally,' 
With  no  rage  for  cuts,  flannel,  and  Bohea." 

But  the  two  elderly  Misses  Onthank  were  not  of  this 
category. 

By  the  absence  of  that  Junonic  assurance,  common 
to  those  ladies  who  are  born  and  bred  heiresses,  Miss 
C.  Sophy's  autograph  had  not  long  been  an  object  of 
interest  at  the  bank.  She  had  all  the  air  of  having 
been  "brought  up  at  the  trough,"  as  the  French 
phrase  it, 

"  Round  as  a  cipher,  simple  as  good  day," 

and  her  belle-ship  was  still  a  surprise  to  her.  Like 
the  red-haired  and  freckled  who  find,  when  they  get 
to  Italy,  that  their  flaming  peculiarities  are  considered 
as  captivating  signs  of  a  skiu  too  delicate  for  exposure, 
she  received  with  a  slight  incredulity  the  homage  to 
her  unseen  charms — homage  not  the  less  welcome  for 
exacting  from  the  giver  an  exercise  of  faith  and  im 
agination.  The  same  faith  and  imagination,  she  was 
free  to  suppose,  might  find  a  Venus  within  her  girdle, 
as  the  sculptor  sees  one  in  the  goodly  block  of  marble, 
lacking  only  the  removal  of  its  clumsy  covering  by 
chisel  and  sandpaper.  With  no  visible  waist,  she  was 
as  tall  as  a  pump,  and  riotously  rosy  like  a  flowering 
rhododendron.  Hair  brown  and  plenty  of  it.  Teeth 


white  and  all  at  home.  And  her  voice,  with  but  one 
semitone  higher,  would  have  been  an  approved  con 
tralto. 

Having  thus  compressed  into  a  couple  of  paragraphs 
what  would  have  served  a  novelist  for  his  first  ten 
chapters,  permit  us,  without  the  bother  of  intermediate 
mortar  or  moralizing  (though  this  is  rather  a  mixed 
figure),  to  lay  on  the  next  brick  in  the  shape  of  a  hint 
at  the  character  of  Miss  Onthank's  two  prominent 
admirers. 

Mr.  Greville  Seville  was  a  New  York  beau.  He 
had  all  the  refinement  that  could  possibly  be  imported. 
He  had  seen  those  who  had  seen  all  that  is  visible  in 
the  fashionable  man  of  London  and  Paris,  and  he  was 
well  versed  in  the  conduits  through  which  theit 
several  peculiarities  found  their  way  across  the  Atlantic. 
Faultlessly  booted,  pantalooned,  waistcoated,  and  shirt- 
ed,  he  could  afford  to  trust  his  coat  and  scarf  to  Provi 
dence,  and  his  hat  to  Warnock  or  Leary.  He  wore 
a  slightly  restrained  whisker,  and  a  faint  smut  of  an 
imperial,  and  his  gloves  fitted  him  inexorably.  His 
figure  was  a  matter  of  course.  He  was  brought  up  in 
New  York,  and  was  one  of  the  four  hundred  thousand 
results  (more  or  less)  of  its  drastic  waters — washy  and 
short.  And  he  had  as  good  a  heart  as  is  compatible 
with  the  above  personal  advantages. 

It  would  very  much  have  surprised  the  "  company" 
at  Congress  Hall,  to  have  seen  Mr.  Chesterfield  Potts 
put  down  as  No.  2,  in  the  emulous  contest  for  the  two 
hands  of  Miss  Onthank.  The  count  (he  was  com 
monly  called  "  Count  Potts,"  a  compliment  to  good 
manners  not  unusual  in  America),  was,  by  his  own 
label,  a  man  of  "  thirty  and  upward" — by  the  parish 
register  possibly  sixty-two.  He  was  an  upright,  well- 
preserved,  stylish  looking  man,  with  an  expensive  wig, 
fine  teeth  (commonly  supposed  not  to  be  indigenous), 
and  a  lavish  outlay  of  cotton  batting,  covering  the  re 
treat  of  such  of  his  muscular  forces  as  were  inclined 
to  retire  from  the  field.  What  his  native  qualities 
might  be  was  a  branch  of  knowledge  long  since  lost  to 
the  world.  His  politeness  had  superseded  the  neces 
sity  of  any  particular  inquiry  into  the  matter;  indeed, 
we  are  inclined  to  believe  his  politeness  had  superseded 
his  character  altogether.  He  was  as  incapable  of  the 
impolite  virtues  (of  which  there  are  several)  as  of  the 
impolite  vices.  Like  cricketing,  punning,  political 
speech  making,  and  other  mechanical  arts,  compli 
menting  may  be  brought  to  a  high  degree  of  dexteri 
ty,  and  Count  Potts,  after  a  practice  of  many  years, 
could,  over  most  kinds  of  female  platitude,  spread  a 
flattering  unction  humbugative  to  the  most  suspicious 
incredulity.  As  he  told  no  stories,  made  no  puns, 
volunteered  but  little  conversation,  and  had  the  air  of 
a  modest  man  wishing  to  avoid  notice,  the  blockheads 
and  the  very  young  girls  stoutly  denied  his  fascination. 


COUNT  POTT'S  STRATEGY. 


73 


But  in  the  memory  of  the  riper  belles,  as  they  went 
to  sleep  night  after  night,  lay  snugly  lodged  and  care-  j 
fully  treasured,  some  timely  compliment,  some  sooth-  ! 
ing  word,  and,  though  credited  to  "  old  Potts,"  the  j 
smile  wi|h  which  it  was  gracefully  re-acknowledged  ! 
the  next  morning  at  breakfast,  would  have  been  warm  ' 
enough  for  young  Ascanius.  "Nice  old  Potts!"  was  ! 
the  faint  murmur  of  many  a  bright  lip  turning  down-  | 
ward  to  the  pillow  in  the  "last  position." 

And  now.  dear  reader,  you  have  an  idea  of  the  forces 
in  the  field,  and  you  probably  know  how  "the  war  is  j 
carried  on"  at  Saratoga.     Two  aunts  and  a  guardian  j 
angel  versus  an  evil  spirit  and  two  lovers — Miss  On-  j 
thank's  hand,  the  (well-covered)  bone  of  contention,  j 
Whether  the  citadel  would  speedily  yield,  and  which  ! 
of  these  two  rival  knights  would  bear  away  the  palm  \ 
of  victory,  were  questions  upon  which  the  majority 
of  lookers-on  were  doomed  to  make  erroneous  predic 
tions.      The   reader  of  course   is  in  the   sagacious  j 
minority. 

Mr.  Potts'  income  was  a  net  answer  to  his  morning 
prayer.  It  provided  his  "daily  bread"  but  no  proven 
der  for  a  horse.  He  probably  coveted  Miss  Onthank 


as  much  for  her  accompanying  oats  as  for  her  personal  j  day,  Miss  Onthank,"  or,  "As  you  were  al 
avoirdupois,  since  the  only  complaint  with  which  he  when  T  interrupted  you."  If  he  touched 
ever  troubled  his  acquaintances,  was  one  touching  his  was  "so  small  he  didn't  see  it."  If  she 


inability  to  keep  an  equipage.     Man  is  instinctively  a 
centaur,  he  used  to  say,  and  when  you  cut  him  off 
from  his  horse  and  reduce  him  to  his  simple  trunk  | 
(and  a  trunk  was  all  the  count's  worldly  furniture),  he 
is  but  a  mutilated  remainder,  robbed  of  his   natural  j 
locomotive. 

It  was  not  authenticated  in  Wall  street  that  Mr.  | 
Greville  Seville  was  reasonably  entitled  to  horse-flesh  ! 
and  caparison  ;  but  he  had  a  trotting  wagon  and  two  : 
delicious  cropped  sorrels  ;  and  those  who  drove  in  his 
company  were  obliged  to  "  down  with  the  dust"  (a  , 
bon  mot  of  Count  Potts').     Science  explains  many  of  | 
the  enigmas  of  common  life,  however,  and  the  secret  ; 
of  Mr.  Seville's  equipment  and  other  means  of  going  j 
on  swimmingly,  lay  in  his  unusually  large  organ  of  j 
hope.     He  was  simply  anticipating  the  arrival  of  1840,  ; 
a  year  in  which  he  had  reason  to  believe  there  would 
be  paid  in  to  the  credit  of  the  present  Miss  Onthank 
a    sufficient   sum   to    cover   his   loosest  expenditure. 
The  intermediate  transfer  to  himself  of  her  rights  to 
the  same,  was  a  mere  filling  up  of  an  outline,  his  mind  \ 
being  entirely  made  up  as  to  the  conditional  incum-  j 
brance  of  the  lady's  person.     He  was  now  paying  her 
some  attentions   in   advance,  and   he  felt  justified  in 
charging  his  expenses  on  the   estate.     She  herself  ; 
would  wish  it,  doubtless,  if  she  could  look  into  the  ; 
future  with  his  eyes. 

By  all  the  common  data  of  matrimonial  skirmish-  j 
ing,  a  lover  with  horses  easily  outstrips  a  lover  with 
none.  Miss  C.  Sophy,  besides,  was  particularly  fond  of 
driving,  and  Seville  was  an  accomplished  whip.  There 
was  no  lack  of  the  "  golden  opportunity"  of  Ictc-d-te/e, 
for,  with  a  deaf  aunt  and  somebody  else  on  the  back 


for  there  was  no  making  love,  parbleu  !  Miss  Chitta- 
line  Onthank  was  of  a  stratum  of  human  nature  sus 
ceptible  of  no  sentiment  less  substantial  than  a  kiss, 
and  when  the  news,  and  the  weather,  and  the  virtues 
of  the  sorrel  ponies,  were  exhausted,  the  talk  came  to 
a  stand-still.  The  heiress  began  to  remember  with 
alarm  that  her  education  had  been  neglected,  and  that 
it  was  a  relief  to  get  back  to  old  Potts  and  the  portico. 

Fresh  from  his  nap  and  warm  bath,  the  perfumed 
count  stepped  out  from  the  group  he  had  purposely 
collected,  gave  her  his  hand  with  a  deferential  inquiry, 
spread  the  loungers  to  the  right  and  left  like  an  "  usher 
of  the  black  rod,"  and  with  some  well-studied  im 
promptu  compliment,  waited  on  her  to  her  chamber 
door.  He  received  her  again  after  her  toilet,  and  for 
the  remainder  of  the  day  devoted  his  utmost  powers 
to  her  aggrandizement.  If  talking  alone  with  her,  it 
was  to  provoke  her  to  some  passage  of  school-girl 
autobiography,  and  listen  like  a  charmed  stone  to  the 
harp  of  Orpheus.  If  others  were  near,  it  was  to  catch 
her  stupidities  half  uttered  and  twist  them  into  sense 
before  they  came  to  the  ground.  His  own  clever 
nesses  were  prefaced  with  "  As  you  remarked  yester- 
Ou  were  about  to  say 
her  foot,  it 
uttered  an 

|  irredeemable  and  immitigable  absurdity,  he  covered 
its  retreat  with  some  sudden  exclamation.  He  called 
her  pensive,  when  she  was  sleepy  and  vacant.  He 
called  her  romantic,  when  he  couldn't  understand  her. 
In  short,  her  vanity  was  embodied — turned  into  a 
magician  and  slave — and  in  the  shape  of  Count  Ches 
terfield,  Potts  ministered  to  her  indefatigably. 

But  the  summer  solstice  began  to  wane.  A  week 
more  was  all  that  was  allotted  to  Saratoga  by  that 
great  American  commander,  General  Consent. 

Count  Potts  came  to  breakfast  in  a  shawl  cravat! 

"Off,  Potts?" 

"  Are  you  flitting,  my  dear  count  ?" 

"What — going  away,  dear  Mr.  Potts?" 

"  Gracious  me  !  don't  go,  Mr.  Potts  !" 

The  last  exclamation  was  sent  across  the  table  in  a 
tone  of  alarm  by  Miss  C.  Sophy,  and  responded  to 
only  by  a  bow  of  obsequious  melancholy. 

Breakfast  was  over,  and  Potts  arose.  His  baggage 
was  at  the  door.  He  sought  no  interview  with  Miss 
Onthank.  He  did  not  even  honor  the  two  bombazini- 
ties  with  a  farewell.  He  stepped  up  to  the  group  of 
belles,  airing  their  demi-toilettes  on  the  portico,  said 
"  Ladies  !  au  revoir!"  took  the  heiress's  hand  and  put 
it  gallantly  toward  his  lips,  and  walked  oft'  with  his 
umbrella,  requesting  the  driver  to  pick  him  up  at  the 
spring. 

"  He  has  been  refused  !"  said  one. 

"  He  has  given  Seville  a  clear  field  in  despair  !"  said 
another.  And  this  was  the  general  opinion. 

The  day  crept  on.  But  there  was  an  emptiness 
without  Potts.  Seville  had  the  field  to  himself,  and 
as  there  was  no  fear  of  a  new  squatter,  he  thought  he 
might  dispense  with  tillage.  They  had  a  very  dull 
'n  the 


seat,  he  had  Miss  Onthank  to  himself  on  the  driving 

box,  and  could  talk  to  his  horses  in  the  embarrassing   !  drive  and  a  very  dull  dinner,  and 

pauses.     It  looked   a  clear  case  to  most  observers  ; 

and  as  to  Seville,  he  had  studied  out  a  livery  for  his 

future  footman  and  tiger,  and  would  not  have  taken  an 

insurance  at  a  quarter  per  cent. 

But  Potts — ah !  Potts  had  traced  back  the  wires  of 
woman's  weaknesses.  The  heiress  had  no  conversa 
tion  (why  should  she  have  it  and  money  too?),  and 
the  part  of  her  daily  drive  which  she  remembered  with 
most  pleasure,  was  the  flourish  of  starting  and  return 
ing — managed  by  Potts  with  a  pomp  and  circumstance 
that  would  have  done  honor  to  the  goings  and  comings 


enmg,  as 

j  there  was  no  ball,  Seville  went  off  to  play  billiards. 
1  Miss  Onthank  was  surrounded,  as  usual,  by  the  belles 
and  beaux,  but  she  was  down  flat — unmagnetized,  un- 
galvanized.  The  magician  was  gone.  Her  stupid 
things  "stayed  put."  She  was  like  a  glass  bead  lost 
from  a  kaleidoscope. 

That  weary  week  was  spent  in  lamentations  over 
Potts.  Everybody  praised  him.  Everybody  com 
plimented  Miss  Onthank  on  her  exclusive  power  of 
monopoly  over  such  porcelain  ware.  The  two  aunts 
were  his  main  glorifiers  ;  for,  as  Potts  knew,  they 


of  Queen  Victoria.  Once  away  from  the  portico,  it  j 
was  a  monotonous  drag  through  the  dust  for  two  or  , 
three  hours,  and  as  most  ladies  know,  it  takes  a  great  j 
deal  of  chit-chat  to  butter  so  large  a  slice  of  time  ;  ' 


were  of  that  leathery  toughness  that  only  shines  on 
you  with  rough  usage. 

We  have  said  little,  as  yet,  of  MissOnthank's  capa 
bilities  in  the  love  line.     We  doubt,  indeed,  whethei 


74 


THE  FEMALE  WARD. 


she  rightly  understood  the  difference  between  loving! I 
and  being  born  again.     As  to  giving  awny  her  heart,  j] 
she  believed  she  could  do  what  her  mother  did  before  | 
her,  but  she  would  rather  it  would  be  one  of  her  back 
teeth,  if  that  would  do  as  well.     She  liked  Mr.  Potts 
because   he   never  made   any   difficulty   about  such 
things. 

Seville  considered  himself  accepted,  though  he  had 
made  no  direct  proposition.  He  had  asked  whether  i 
she  preferred  to  live  in  country  or  town — she  said  j 
"  town."  He  had  asked  if  she  would  leave  the  choice 
and  management  of  horses  and  equipages  to  him — 
she  said  "  be  sure  !"  He  had  asked  if  she  had  any 
objection  to  his  giving  bachelor  dinners  occasionally  | 
— she  said  "  la  !  no  !"  As  he  understood  it,  the  whole  j 
thing  was  most  comfortably  arranged,  and  he  lent  | 
money  to  several  of  his  friends  on  the  strength  of  it — 
giving  his  note,  this  is  to  say. 

On  a  certain  morning,  some  ten  days  after  the  de 
parture  of  the  count  from   Saratoga,  Miss   Onthank 
and  her  two  aunts  sat  up  in  state  in  their  parlor  at  the 
City   hotel.       They   always  went   to   the   City  hotel  j 
because  Willard  remembered  their  names,  and  asked 
after  their  uncle  the  major.     Mr.  Seville's  ponies  and  jl 
wagon   were  at  the  door,   and  Mr.  Seville's  father,  | 
mother,  seven  sisters,  and  two  small  brothers,  were  in 
the  progress  of  a  betrothal  visit — calling  on  the  future 
Mrs.  Greville  Seville. 

All  of  a  sudden  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  enter 
Count  Potts  ! 

Up  jumped  the  enchanted  Chittaline  Sophy. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Potts?" 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Potts!"  said  the  aunts  in  a 
breath. 

"D'ye-do,  Potts  !"said  Seville,  giving  him  his  fore 
finger,  with  the  air  of  a  man  rising  from  winning  at 
cards. 

Potts  made  his  compliments  all  round.  He  was 
about  sailing  for  Carolina,  he  said,  and  had  come  to 
ask  permission  of  Miss  Onthank  to  leave  her  sweet 
society  for  a  few_years  of  exile.  But  as  this  was  the 
last  of  his  days  of  pleasure,  at  least  till  he  saw  Miss 
Onthank  again,  he  wished  to  be  graced  with  the  honor 
of  her  arm  for  a  promenade  in  Broadway.  The  ladies 
and  Mr.  Seville  doubtless  would  excuse  her  if  she  put 
on  her  bonnet  without  further  ceremony. 

Now  Potts's  politenesses  had  such  an  air  of  irresisti 
ble  authority  that  people  fell  into  heir  track  like  cars 
after  a  locomotive.  While  Miss  Onthank  was  bonnet 
ing  and  shawling,  the  count  entertained  the  entire 
party  most  gayly,  though  the  Sevilles  thought  it  rather 


unceremonious  in  the  affianced  miss  to  leave  them  in 
the  midst  of  a  first  visit,  and  Mr.  Greville  Seville  had 
arranged  to  send  his  mother  home  on  foot,  and  drive 
Miss  Onthank  out  to  Harlem. 

"  I'll  keep  my  horses  here  till  you  come  back  !"  he 
shouted  after  them,  as  she  tripped  gayly  down  stairs 
on  the  count's  arm. 

And  so  he  did.  Though  it  was  two  hours  before 
she  appeared  again,  the  impatient  youth  kept  the  old 
aunts  company,  and  would  have  stayed  till  night,  sorrels 
and  all — for  in  that  drive  he  meant  to  "name  the  day," 
and  put  his  creditors  at  ease. 

"I  wouldn't  even  go  up  stairs,  my  dear!"  said  the 
count,  handing  her  to  the  wagon,  and  sending  up  the 
groom  for  his  master,  "  it's  but  an  hour  to  dine,  and 
you'll  like  the  air  after  your  fatigue.  Ah.  Seville, 
I've  brought  her  back  !  Take  good  care  of  her  for 
my  sake,  my  good  fellow!" 

"  What  the  devil  has  his  sake  to  do  with  it,  I  won 
der  ?"  said  Seville,  letting  his  horses  off  like  two  rockets 
in  harness. 

And  away  they  went  toward  Harlem  ;  and  in  about 
an  hour,  very  much  to  the  surprise  of  the  old  aunts, 
who  were  looking  out  of  the  parlor  window,  the  young 
lady  dismounted  from  an  omnibus  !  Count  Potts  had 
come  to  dine  with  them,  and  he  tripped  down  to  meet 
her  with  uncommon  agility. 

"  Why,  do  you  know,  aunties,"  she  exclaimed,  as 
she  came  up  stairs,  out  of  breath,  "do  you  know  that 
Mr.  Seville,  when  I  told  him  I  was  married  already  to 
Mr.  Potts,  stopped  his  wagon,  and  p-p-put  me  into  an 
omnibus  !" 

"  Married  to  Mr.  Potts  !"  screamed  Aunt  Charity. 

"  Married  to  Mr.  Potts  !"  screamed  Aunt  Sophy. 

"  Why — yes,  aunties ;  he  said  he  must  go  south, 
if  I  didn't !"  drawled  out  the  bride,  with  only  a  very 
little  blush  indeed.  "  Tell  aunties  all  about  it,  Mr. 
Potts!" 

And  Mr.  Potts,  with  the  same  smile  of  infallible 
propriety,  which  seemed  a  warrant  for  everything  he 
said  or  did,  gave  a  very  sketchy  account  of  his  morning's 
work,  which,  like  all  he  undertook,  had  been  exceed 
ingly  well  done — properly  witnessed,  certified,  &c., 
&c.,  &c.  All  of  which  shows  the  very  sound  policy 
of  first  making  yourself  indispensable  to  people  you 
wish  to  manage.  Or,  put  it  receipt-wise  : — 

To  marry  a  flat : — First,  raise  her  up  till  she  is 
giddy.  Second,  go  away,  and  let  her  down.  Third, 
come  back,  and  offer  to  support  her,  if  she  will  give 
you  her  hand. 

"  Simple  comme  lonjour  "  as  Balsac  says. 


THE    FEMALE    WARD, 


MOST  men  have  two  or  more  souls,  and  Jem  Thal- 
imer  was  a  doublet,  with  sets  of  manners  correspond 
ing.  Indeed  one  identity  could  never  have  served  the 
pair  of  him  !  When  sad — that  is  to  say,  when  in  dis 
grace  or  out  of  money — he  had  the  air  of  a  good  man 
with  a  broken  heart.  When  gay — flush  in  pocket 
and  happy  in  his  little  ambitions — you  would  have 
thought  him  a  dangerous  companion  for  his  grand 
mother.  The  last  impression  did  him  more  injustice 
than  the  first,  for  he  was  really  very  amiably  disposed 
when  depressed,  and  not  always  wicked  when  gay — 
but  he  made  friends  in  both  characters.  People  sel 


dom  forgive  us  for  compelling  them  to  correct  their 
first  impressions  of  us,  and  as  this  was  uniformly  the 
case  with  Jem,  whether  he  had  begun  as  saint  or  sin 
ner,  he  was  commonly  reckoned  a  deep-water  fish  ; 
and,  where  there  were  young  ladies  in  the  case,  early 
warned  off  the  premises.  The  remarkable  exception 
to  this  rule,  in  the  incident  I  am  about  to  relate,  arose, 
as  may  naturally  be  supposed,  from  his  appearing,  du-' 
ring  a  certain  period,  in  one  character  only. 

To  begin  my  story  fairly,  I  must  go  back  for  a  mo 
ment  to  our  junior  Jem  in  college,  showing,  by  a  lit 
tle  passage  in  our  adventures,  how  Thalimer  and  I 


THE  FEMALE  WARD. 


7;; 


became  acquainted  with  the  confiding  gentleman  to 
be  referred  to. 

A  college  suspension,  very  agreeably  timed,  in  June, 
left  my  friend  Jem  and  myself  masters  of  our  travels 
for  an  uncertain  period  ;  and  as  our  purse  was  always 
in  common,  like  our  shirts,  love-letters,  and  disgraces, 
our  several  borrowings  were  thrust  into  a  wallet  which 
was  sometimes  in  his  pocket,  sometimes  in  mine,  as 
each  took  the  turn  to  be  paymaster.  With  the  (in 
tercepted)  letters  in  our  pockets,  informing  the  gov 
ernors  of  our  degraded  position,  we  travelled  very 
prosperously  on — bound  to  Niagara, but  very  ready  to  fall 
into  any  obliquity  by  the  way.  We  arrived  at  Albany, 
Thalimer  chancing  to  be  purser,  and  as  this  function 
tacitly  conferred;  on  the  holder,  all  other  responsibil 
ities,  I  made  myself  comfortable  at  the  hotel  for  the 
second  day  and  the  third — up  to  the  seventh — rather 
wondering  at  Jem's  depressed  spirits  and  the  sudden 
falling  off  of  his  enthusiasm  for  Niagara,  but  con 
tent  to  stay  if  he  liked,  and  amusing  myself^jn  the 
side-hill  city  passably  well.  It  was  during  my  ram 
bles  without  him  in  this  week  that  he  made  the  ac 
quaintance  of  a  bilious-looking  person  lodging  at  the 
same  hotel — a  Louisianian  on  a  tour  of  health.  This 
gentleman,  whom  he  introduced  to  me  by  the  name 
of  Dauchy,  seemed  to  have  formed  a  sudden  attach 
ment  to  my  friend,  and  as  Jem  had  a  "  secret  sorrow"  | 
unusual  to  him,  and  the  other  an  unusual  secretion 
of  bile,  there  was  of  course  between  them  that  "se-  j 
cret  sympathy"  which  is  the  basis  of  many  tender 
friendships.  I  rather  liked  Mr.  Dauchy.  He  seemed 
one  of  those  chivalric,  polysyllabic  southerners,  inca 
pable  of  a  short  word  or  a  mean  action,  and,  interested 
that  Jem  should  retain  his  friendship,  I  w\\s  not  sorry 
to  find  our  departure  follow  close  on  the  recovery  of 
his  spirits. 

We  went  on  toward  Niagara,  and  in  the  irresistible 
confidence  of  canal  travelling  I  made  out  the  secret 
of  my  fulus  achatcs.  He  had  attempted  to  alleviate 
the  hardship  of  a  deck-passage  for  a  bright-eyed  girl 
on  board  the  steamer,  and,  on  going  below  to  his 
berth,  left  her  his  greatcoat  for  a  pillow.  The  stuffed 
wallet,  which  somewhat  distended  the  breast-pocket, 
was  probably  in  the  way  of  her  downy  cheek,  and 
Jem  supposed  that  she  simply  forgot  to  return  the 
"  removed  deposite" — but  he  did  not  miss  his  money 
till  twelve  hours  after,  and  then,  between  lack  of 
means  to  pursue  her,  and  shame  at  the  sentiment  he 
had  wasted,  he  kept  the  disaster  to  himself,  and  passed 
a  melancholy  week  in  devising  means  for  replenishing. 
Through  this  penscroso  vein,  however,  lay  his  way 
out  of  the  difficulty,  for  he  thus  touched  the  soul 
and  funds  of  Mr.  Dauchy.  The  correspondence 
(commenced  by  the  repayment  of  the  loan)  was  kept 
up  stragglingly  for  several  years,  bolstered  somewhat  j 
by  barrels  of  marmalade,  boxes  of  sugar,  hommony, 
&c.,  till  finally  it  ended  in  the  unlooked-for  consign 
ment  which  forms  the  subject  of  my  story. 

Jem  and  myself  had  been  a  year  out  of  college,  and 
were  passing  through  that  "tight  place"  in  life,  com 
monly  understood  in  New  England  as  "  the  going  in 
at  the  little  end  of  the  horn."  Expected  by  our  pa 
rents  to  take  to  money-making  like  ducks  to  swim 
ming,  deprived  at  once  of  college  allowance,  called 
on  to  be  men  because  our  education  was  paid  for,  and 
frowned  upon  at  every  manifestation  of  a  lingering 
taste  for  pleasure — it  was  not  surprising  that  we  some 
times  gave  tokens  of  feeling  "crowded,"  and  obtained 
somewhat  the  reputation  of  "  bad  subjects" — (using 
this  expressive  phrase  quite  literally).  Jem's  share 
of  this  odor  of  wickedness  was  much  the  greater,  his 
unlucky  deviltry  of  countenance  doing  him  its  usual 
disservice  ;  but  like  the  gentleman  to  whom  he  was 
attributed  as  a  favorite  protege,  he  was  "  not  so  black 
as  he  was  painted." 

We  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  find  one  believer  in 


the  fbture  culmination  of  our  clouded  stars — Galla 
gher,  "mine  host'*— and  for  value  to  be  received  when  ' 
our  brains  should  fructify,  his  white  soup  and  "  fed- 
stiing  Madeira,"  his  game,  turtle,  and  all  the  forth 
comings  of  the  best  restaurant  of  our  epoch,  were 
served  lovingly  and  charged,  moderately.  Peace  be 
with  the  ashes  of  William  Gallagher  !  "  The  brains" 
have  fructified,  and  "the  value"  has  been  received — 
but  his  name  and  memory  are  not  "  filed  away"  with 
the  receipt ;  and  though  years  have  gone  over  his 
grave,  his  modest  welcome,  and  generous  dispensation 
of  entertainment  and  service,  are,  by  one  at  least  of 
those  who  enjoyed  them*,  gratefully  and  freshly  re 
membered  ! 

We  were  to  dine  as  usual  at  Gallagher's  at  six— one 
May  day  which  I  well  remember.  I  was  just  addres 
sing  myself  to  my  day's  work,  when  Jem  broke  into 
my  room  with  a  letter  in  his  hand#and  an  expression 
on  his  face  of  mingled  embarrassment  and  fear. 

"  What  the  deuce  to  do  with  her!"  said  he,  hand, 
ing  me  the  letter. 

"  A  new  scrape,  Jem?"  I  asked,  as  I  looked  for  an 
instant  at  the  Dauchy  coat-of-arms  on  a  seal  as  big  as 
a  dollar. 

"  Scrape  ? — yes,  it  is  a  scrape  ! — for  I  shall  never 
get  out  of  it  reputably.  What  a  dunce  old  Dauchy 
must  be  to  send  me  a  girl  to  educate  !  /  a  young 
lady's  guardian!  Why,  I  shall  be  the  laugh  of  the 
town  !  What  say  ?  Isn't  it  a  good  one  ?" 

I  had  been  carefully  perusing  the  letter  while  Thal 
imer  walked  soliloquizing  about  the  room.  It  was 
from  his  old  friend  of  marmalades  and  sugars,  and  in 
the  most  confiding  and  grave  terms,  as  if  Jem  and  he 
had  been  a  couple  of  contemporaneous  old  bachelors, 
it  consigned  to  his  guardianship  and  friendly  counsel, 
Miss  Adelmine  Lasacque,  the  only  daughter  of  a 
neighboring  planter !  Mr.  Lasacque  having  no  friends 
at  the  north,  had  applied  to  Mr.  Dauchy  for  his  gui 
dance  in  the  selection  of  a  proper  person  to  superin 
tend  her  education,  and  as  Thalimer  was  the  only  cor 
respondent  with  whom  Mr.  Dauchy  had  relations  of 

i  friendship,  and  was,  moreover,  "  fitted  admirably  for 

|  the  trust  by  his  impressive  and  dignified  address,"  (?) 

!  he  had  "taken  the  liberty,"  &c.,  &c. 

"  Have  you  seen  her?"  I  asked,  after  a  long  laugh, 
in  which  Jem  joined  but  partially. 

"  No,  indeed !     She  arrived  last  night  in  the  New 

j  Orleans  packet,  and  the  captain  brought  me  this  let- 

!  ter  at  daylight,  with  the  young  lady's  compliments. 

'  The  old  seadog  looked  a  little  astounded  when  1  an 
nounced  myself.     Well  he  might,  faith  !     I  don't  look 

'  like  a  young  lady's  guardian,  do  I?" 

"Well — you  are  to  go  on  board  and  fetch  her — is 
that  it  ?" 

"  Fetch  her!     Where  shall  I  fetch  her  ?     Who  is 

!  to  take  a  young  lady  of  my  fetching?     I  can't  find  a 

j  female  academy  that  I  can  approve " 

I  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  for  Jem  was  in  ear- 

j  nest  with  his  scruples,  and  looked  the  picture  of  un- 

1  happiness. 

"  I  say  I  can't  find  one  in  a  minute — don  t  Jaugli, 
you  blackguard  !— and  where  to  lodge  her  meantime  ? 
What  should  I  say  to  the  hotel-keepers  ?  They  all 
know  me  1  It  looks  devilish  odd,  let  me  tell  you,  to 
bring  a  young  girl,  without  matron  or  other  acquamt- 
ances  than  myself,  and  lodge  her  at  a  pubhc  house. 
"Your  mother  must  take  your  charge  off  your 

ia"  Of  course  that  was  the  first  thing  I  thought  of. 
You  know  my  mother  !  She  don't  half  believe  the 
story,  in  the  first  place.  If  there  is  such  a  man  as 
,  Mr  Dauchy,  she  says,  and  if  this  is  a  'Miss  L,a- 
sacque,'  all  the  way  from  Louisiana,  there  is  but  one 
thin*  to  do— send  her  back  in  the  packet  she  came 
in  !°  She'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  it*  There's 
more  in  it  than  I  am  willing  to  explain.  I  never 


THE  FEMALE  WARD. 


mentioned  this  Mr.  Dauchy  before.  Mischief  will  corne 
of  it!  Abduction's  a  dreadful  thing!  If  I  will  make 
myself  notorious,  I  need  not  think  to  involve  my 
mother  and  sisters  !  That's  the  way  she  talks  about  it." 

"But  couldn't  we  mollify  your  mother? — for,  after 
all,  her  countenance  in  the  matter  will  be  expected." 

"Not  a  chance  of  it !" 

"  The  money  part  of  it  is  all  right  ?" 

"  Turn  the  letter  over.  Credit  for  a  large  amount 
on  the  Robinsons,  payable  to  my  order  only  !" 

"Faith!  it's  a  very  hard  case  if  a  nice  girl  with 
plenty  of  money  can't  be  permitted  to  land  in  Boston! 
You  didn't  ask  the  captain  if  she  was  pretty?" 

"No,  indeed!  But  pretty  or  plain,  I  must  get  her 
ashore  and  be  civil  to  her.  I  must  ask  her  to  dine  ! 
I  must  do  something  besides  hand  her  over  to  a 
boarding-school  !  Will  you  come  down  to  the  ship 
with  me?" 

My  curiosity  was  quite  aroused,  and  I  dressed  im 
mediately.   On  our  way  down  we  stopped  at  Gallagher's,  j 
to  request  a  little  embellishment  to  our  ordinary  dinner.  ! 
It  was  quite  clear,  for  a  variety  of  reasons,  that  she  must 
dine  with  her  guardian  there,  or  nowhere.     Gallagher 
looked  surprised,  to  say  the  least,  at  our  proposition  j 
to  bring  a  young  lady  to  dine  with  us,  but  he  made  no  ! 
comment  beyond  a  respectful  remark  that    "  No.   2 
was  very  private !" 

We  had  gone  but  a  few  steps  from  Devonshire 
street  when  Jem  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  side 
walk. 

"  We  have  not  decided  yet  what  we  are  to  do  with 
Miss  Lasacque  all  day,  nor  where  we  shall  send  her 
baggage,  nor  where  she  is  to  lodge  to-night.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  suggest  something!"  added  Jem,  quite 
out  of  temper. 

"Why,  as  you  say,  it  would  be  heavy  work  to  walk 
her  about  the  streets  from  now  till  dinner-time — eight 
hours  or  more  !  Gallagher's  is  only  an  eating-house, 
unluckily,  and  you  are  so  well  known  at  all  the  ho 
tels,  that,  to  take  her  to  one  of  them  without  a  chap 
eron,  would,  to  say  the  least,  give  occasion  for  remark. 
But  here,  around  the  corner,  is  one  of  the  best  board 
ing-houses  in  town,  kept  by  the  two  old  Misses  Smith. 
You  might  offer  to  put  her  under  their  protection. 
Let's  try." 

The  Misses  Smith  were  a  couple  of  reduced  gen 
tlewomen,  who  charged  a  very  good  price  for  board 
and  lodging,  and  piqued  themselves  on  entertaining 
only  very  good  company.  Begging  Jem  to  assume 
the  confident  tone  which  the  virtuous  character  of  his 
errand  required,  I  rang  at  the  door,  and  in  answer  to 
our  inquiry  for  the  ladies  of  the  house,  we  were  shown 
into  the  basement  parlor,  where  the  eldest  Miss  Smith 
sat  with  her  spectacles  on,  adding  new  vinegar  to  some 
pots  of  pickles.  Our  business  was  very  briefly  stated. 
Miss  Smith  had  plenty  of  spare  room.  Would  we 
wait  a  moment  till  she  tied  on  the  covers  to  her  pickle- 
jars  ? 

The  cordiality  of  the  venerable  demoiselle  evidently 
put  Thalimer  in  spirits.  He  gave  me  a  glance  which 
said  very  plainly,  "  You  see  we  needn't  have  troubled 
our  heads  about  this  ."' — but  the  sequel  was  to  come. 

Miss  Smith  led  the  way  to  the  second  story,  where 
were  two  very  comfortable  unoccupied  bedrooms. 

"A  single  lady?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jem,  "  a  Miss  Lasacque  of  Louisiana." 

"Young,  did  you  say  ?" 

"  Seventeen,  or  thereabout,  I  fancy."  (This  was  a 
guess,  but  Jem  chose  to  appear  to  know  all  about 
her.) 

"And — ehem  ! — and — quite  alone?" 

"  Quite  alone — she  is  come  here  to  go  to  school." 

"  Oh,  to  go  to  school  !  Pray — will  she  pass  her 
vacationswith  your  mother?" 

"No!  said  Jem,  coughing,  and  looking  rather  em 
barrassed. 


'  Indeed  !  She  is  with  Mrs.  Thalimer  at  present, 
I  presume." 

'  No — she  is  still  on  shipboard  !  Why,  my  dear 
madam,  she  only  arrived  from  New  Orleans  this 
morning." 

'And  your  mother  has  not  had  time  to  see  her? 
I  understand.  Mrs.  Thalimer  will  accompany  her 
here,  of  course." 

Jem  began  to  see  the  end  of  the  old  maid's  cate 
chism,  and  thought  it  best  to  volunteer  the  remainder 
of  the  information. 

"My  mother  is  not  acquainted  with  this  young  la 
dy's  friends,"  he  said,;  "  and,  in  fact,  she  comes  intro 
duced  only  to  myself." 

'She  has  a  guardian,  surely ?"  said  Miss  Smith, 
drawing  back  into  her  Elizabethan  ruff  with  more 
dignity  than  she  had  hitherto  worn. 

"  I  am  her  guardian!"  replied  Jem,  looking  as  red 
and  guilty  as  if  he  had  really  abducted  the  young  la 
dy,  and  was  ashamed  of  his  errand. 

The  spinster  bit  her  lips  and  looked  out  of  the 
window. 

"  Will  you  walk  down  stairs  for  a  moment,  gentle 
men,"  she  resumed,  "and  let  me  speak  to  my  sister. 
I  should  have  told  you  that  the  rooms  might  possibly  be 
engaged.  I  am  not  quite  sure — indeed — ehem — pray 
walk  down  and  be  seated  a  moment!" 

Very  much  to  the  vexation  of  my  discomfited 
friend,  I  burst  into  a  laugh  as  we  closed  the  door  of 
the  basement  parlor  behind  us. 

"  You  don't  realize  my  confoundedly  awkward  po 
sition,"  said  he.  "  I  am  responsible  for  every  step  I 
take,  to  the  girl's  father  in  the  first  place,  and  then  to 
my  friend  Dauchy,  one  of  the  most  chivalric  old 
cocks  in  the  world,  who,  at  the  same  time,  could  nev 
er  understand  why  there  was  any  difficulty  in  the 
matter !  And  it  does  seem  strange,  that  in  a  city  with 
eighty  thousand  inhabitants,  it  should  be  n°xtto  impos 
sible  to  find  lodging  for  a  virtuous  lady,  a  stranger!" 

I  was  contriving  how  to  tell  Thalimer  that  "  there 
was  no  objection  to  the  camel  but  for  the  dead  cat 
hung  upon  its  neck,"  when  a  maidservant  opened  the 
door  with  a  message — "  Miss  Smith's  compliments, 
and  she  was  very  sorry  she  had  no  room  to  spare  !" 

"  Pleasant !"  said  Jem,  "  very  pleasant !  I  suppose 
every  other  keeper  of  a  respectable  house  will  be 
equally  sorry.  Meantime,  it's  getting  on  toward  noon, 
and  that  poor  girl  is  moping  on  shipboard,  wondering 
whether  she  is  ever  to  be  taken  ashore !  Do  you 
think  she  might  sleep  at  Gallagher's  ?" 

"  Certainly  not!  He  has,  probably,  no  accommo 
dations  for  a  lady,  and,  to  lodge  in  a  restaurant,  after 
dining  with  you  there,  would  be  an  indiscreet  first 
step,  in  a  strange  city,  to  say  the  least.  But  let  us 
make  our  visit  to  your  fair  ward,  my  dear  Jem!  Per 
haps  she  has  a  face  innocent  enough  to  tell  its  own 
story — like  the  lady  who  walked  through  Erin  'with 
the  snow-white  wand.' " 

The  vessel  had  lain  in  the  stream  all  night,  and  was 
just  hauling  up  to  the  wharf  with  the  moving  tide. 
A  crowd  of  spectators  stood  at  the  end  of  her  moor 
ing  cable,  and,  as  she  warped  in,  universal  attention 
seemed  to  be  given  to  a  single  object.  Upon  a  heap 
of  cotton-bales,  the  highest  point  of  the  confused 
lumber  of  the  deck,  sat  a  lady  under  a  sky-blue  par 
asol.  Her  gown  was  of  pink  silk  ;  and  by  the  volume 
of  this  showy  material  which  was  presented  to  the 
eye,  the  wearer,  when  standing,  promised  to  turn  out 
of  rather  conspicuous  stature.  White  gloves,  a  pair 
of  superb  amethyst  bracelets,  a  string  of  gold  beads 
on  her  neck,  and  shoulders  quite  naked  enough  for  a 
ball,  were  all  the  disclosures  made  for  a  while  by  the 
envious  parasol,  if  we  except  a  little  object  in  blue, 
which  seemed  the  extremity  of  something  she  was 
sitting  on,  held  in  her  left  hand — and  which  turned 
out  to  be  her  right  foot  in  a  blue  satin  slipper ! 


THE  FEMALE  WARD. 


77 


I  turned  to  Thalimer.  He  was  literally  pale  with 
consternation. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  send  for  a  carriage  to  take  your 
ward  away  ?"  I  suggested. 

"  You  don't  believe  that  to  be  Miss  Lasacque,  sure 
ly  !"  exclaimed  Jem,  turning  upon  me  with  an  implo 
ring  look. 

"Such  is  my  foreboding,"  I  replied;  "but  wait  a 
moment.  Her  face  may  be  pretty,  and  you,  of  course, 
in  your  guardian  capacity,  may  suggest  a  simplifica 
tion  of  her  toilet.  Consider! — the  poor  girl  was 
never  before  off  the  plantation — at  least,  so  says  old 
Daucliy's  letter." 

The  sailors  now  began  to  pull  upon  the  sternline, 
and,  as  the  ship  came  round,  the  face  of  the  unconscious 
object  of  curiosity  stole  inio  view.  Most  of  the  spec 
tators,  after  a  single  glance,  turned  their  attention 
elsewhere  with  a  smile,  and  Jem,  putting  his  hands 
into  his  two  coat-pocUets  behind  him,  walked  off  tow 
ard  the  end  of  the  pier,  whistling  to  himself  very  en 
ergetically.  She  was  an  exaggeration  of  the  peculiar 
physiognomy  of  the  south — lean  rather  than  slight, 
sallow  rather  than  pale.  Yet  I  thought  her  eyes  fine. 

Thalimer  joined  me  as  the  ship  touched  the  dock, 
and  we  stepped  on  board  together.  The  cabinboy 
confirmed  our  expectations  as  to  the  lady's  identity, 
and  putting  on  the  very  insinuating  manner  which 
was  part  of  his  objectionable  exterior,  Jem  advanced 
and  begged  to  know  if  he  had  the  honor  of  addressing 
Miss  Lasacque. 

Without  loosing  her  hold  upon  her  right  foot,  the 
lady  nodded. 

"Then,  madam!"  said  Jem,  "permit  me  to  intro 
duce  to  you  your  guardian,  Mr.  Thalimer  !" 

"What,  that  old  gentleman  coming  this  way?" 
asked  Miss  Lasacque,  fixing  her  eyes  on  a  custom 
house  officer  who  was  walking  the  deck. 

Jem  handed  the  lady  his  card. 

"  That  is  my  name,"  said  he,  "  and  I  should  be 
happy  to  know  how  I  can  begin  the  duties  of  my  of 
fice  !" 

"Dear  me!"  said  the  astonished  damsel,  dropping 
her  foot  to  take  his  hand,  "  isn't  there  an  older  Mr. 
James  Thalimer?  Mr.  Dauchy  said  it  was  a  gentle 
man  near  his  own  age!" 

"I  grow  older,  as  you  know  me  longer!"  Jem  re 
plied  apologetically  ;  but  his  ward  was  too  well  satis 
fied  with  his  appearance,  to  need  even  this  remarka 
ble  fact  to  console  her.  She  came  down  with  a  slide 
from  her  cotton-bag  elevation,  called  to  the  cook  to 
bring  the  bandbox  with  the  bonnet  in  it,  and  mean 
time  gave  us  a  brief  history  of  the  inconveniences  she 
had  suffered  in  consequence  of  the  loss  of  her  slave, 
Dinah,  who  had  died  of  sea-sickness  three  days  out. 
This,  to  me,  was  bad  news,  for  I  had  trusted  to  a  "  la 
dy's  maid"  for  the  preservation  of  appearance*,  and 
the  scandal  threatening  Jem's  guardianship  looked, 
in  consequence,  very  imminent. 

"  I  am  dying  to  get  my  feet  on  land  again  !"  said 
Miss  Lasacque,  putting  her  arm  in  her  guardian's, 
and  turning  toward  the  gangway — her  bonnet  not 
tied,  nor  her  neck  covered,  and  thin  blue  satin  slip 
pers,  though  her  feet  were  small,  showing  forth  in 
contrast  with  her  pink  silk  gown,  with  frightful  con- 
spicuousness  !  Jem  resisted  the  shoreward  pull,  and 
stood  motionless  and  aghast. 

"  Your  baggage,"  he  stammered  at  last. 

"  Here,  cook  !"  cried  the  lady,  "  tell  the  captain, 
when  he  comes  aboard,  to  send  my  trunks  to  Mr. 
Thalimer's  !  They  are  down  in  the  hold,  and  he  told 
me  he  couldn't  get  at  'em  till  to-morrow,"  she  added, 
by  way  of  explanation  to  Thalimcr. 

I  felt  constrained  to  come  to  the  rescue. 

"  Pardon  me,  madam  !"  said  I,  "  there  is  a  little 
peculiarity  in  our  climate,  of  which  you  probably  are 
not  advised.  An  east  wind  commonly  sets  in  about 


noon,  which  makes  a  shawl  very  necessary.  In  con- 
;  sequence,  too,  of  the  bronchitis  which  this  sudden 
change  is  apt  to  give  people  of  tender  constitutions, 
;i  the  ladies  of  Boston  are  obliged  to  sacrifice  what  is 
i  |  becoming,  and  wear  their  dresses  very  high  in  the 
;  throat." 

"  La !"  said  the  astonished  damsel,  putting  her 
hand  upon  her  bare  neck,  "  is  it  sore  throat  that  you 
mean  ?  I'm  very  subject  to  it,  indeed  !  Cook  !  bring 
me  that  fur-tippet  out  of  the  cabin  !  I'm  so  sorry  my 
dresses  are  all  made  so  low,  and  I  haven't  a  shawl  un 
packed  either! — dear!  dear!" 

Jem  and  I  exchanged  a  look  of  hopeless  resigna 
tion,  as  the  cook  appeared  with  the  chinchilli  tippet. 
A  bold  man  might  have  hesitated  to  share  the  con- 
spicuousness  of  such  a  figure  in  a  noon  promenade, 
but  we  each  gave  her  an  arm  when  she  had  tied  the 
soiled  riband  around  her  throat,  and  silently  set  for 
ward. 

It  was  a  bright  and  very  warm  day,  and  there  seem 
ed  a  conspiracy  among   our  acquaintances,  to  cross 
our  path.     Once  in  the  street,  it  was  not  remarkable 
that  they  looked   at  us,   for  the  towering   height  at 
|   which   the   lady  carried   her  very  showy  bonnet,  the 
!  I  flashy  material  of  her  dress,  the  jewels  and  the  chin- 
chilli  tippet,  formed  an  ensemble  which  caught  the  eye 
like  a  rainbow;  and   truly  people  did  gaze,   and  the 
||  boys,  spite  of  the  unconscious  look  which  we  attempt- 
|j  ed,   did   give  rather   disagreeable   evidence   of  being 
amused.     1  had  various  misgivings,  myself,  as  to  the 
necessity  for  my  own  share  in  the   performance,  and, 
at  every  corner,  felt  soiely  tempted  to   bid   guardian 
and  ward  good  morning  ;  but  friendship  and  pity  pre 
vailed.     By  streets  and   lanes  not  calculated  to  give 
Miss   Lasacque  a  very  favorable   first  impression  of 
Boston,  we  reached  Washington  street,  and  made  an 
intrepid  dash  across  it,  to  the  Marlborough  hotel. 

Of  this  public  house,  Thalimer  had  asked  my  opin 
ion  during  our  walk,  by  way  of  introducing  an  apolo 
gy  to  Miss  Lasacque  for  not  taking  her  to  his  own 
home.  She  had  made  it  quite  clear  that  she  expected 
this,  and  Jem  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  draw  such  a 
picture  of  the  decrepitude  of  Mr.  Thalimer,  senior, 
and  the  bedridden  condition  of  his  mother  (as  stout 
a  couple  as  ever  plodded  to  church  !)  as  would  satisfy 
the  lady  for  his  short- comings  in  hospitality.  This 
had  passed  off  very  smoothly,  and  Miss  Lasacque  en 
tered  the  Marlboro',  quite  prepared  to  lodge  there, 
but  very  little  aware  (poor  girl !)  of  the  objections  to 
receiving  her  as  a  lodger. 

Mr. ,  the  proprietor,  had  stood  in  the  arch- 

:j  way  as  we  entered.  Seeing  no  baggage  in  the  lady's 
•|  train,  however,  he  had  not  followed  us  in,  supposing, 
|  probably,  that  we  were  callers  on  some  of  his  guests. 
j  Jem  left  us  in  the  drawing-room,  and  went  upon  his 
errand  to  the  proprietor,  but  after  half  an  hour's  ab- 
I  sence,  came  back,  looking  very  angry,  and  informed 
1 1  us  that  no  rooms  were  to  be  had  !  Instead  of  taking 
H  the  rooms  without  explanation,  he  had  been  unwise 

:!  enough  to  "  make  a  clean   breast"  to  Mr. ,  and 

i!  the  story  of  the  lady's  being  his  "ward,"  and  come 
:i  from  Louisiana  to  go  to  school,  rather  staggered  that 
i;  discreet  person's  credulity. 

Jem  beckoned  me  out,  and  we  held  a  little  council 
•  of  war  in  the  entry.  Alas!  I  had  nothing  to  suggest. 
|  I  knew  the  puritan  metropolis  very  well — I  knew  its 
!  phobia  was  "  the  appearance  of  evil."  In  Jem's  care- 
II  for-nothing  face  lay  the  leprosy  which  closed  all  doors 
:'  against  us^  Kven  if  we  had  succeeded,  by  a  coup-de- 
;'  main,  in  lodging  Miss  Lasacque  at  the  Marlboro',  her 
I'  guardian's  daily  visits  would  have  procured  for  her,  in 
i hr  first  week,  some  intimation  that  she  could  no 
I  j  longer  be  accommodated. 

"  We  had  best  go  and  dine  upon  it,"  said  I ;  "  worst 
',  come  to  the  worst^  we  can  find  some  sort  of  dormitory 
|j  for  her  at  Gallagher's,  and  to-morrow  she  must  be  put 


78 


THE  FEMALE  WARD. 


to   school,   out  of  the  reach  of  your  'pleasant,  but 
wrong  society.'  " 

"I  hope  to  Heaven  she'll  'stay  put,'"  said  Jem, 
with  a  long  sigh. 

We  got  Miss  Lasacque  again  under  way,  and  avoid 
ing  the  now  crowded  pave  of  Washington  street,  made 
a  short  cut  by  Theatre  Alley  to  Devonshire  street  and 
Gallagher's.     Safely  landed  in   "No.  2,"  we  drew  a 
long  breath  of  relief.     Jem  rang  the  bell. 
"Dinner,  waiter,  as  soon  as  possible." 
"The  same  that  was  ordered  at  six,  sir?" 
"Yes,  only  more  champagne,  and   bring  it  imme 
diately.     Excuse  me,   Miss  Lasacque,"  added  Jem, 
with  a  grave  bow,   "  but  the  non-appearance  of  that 
east  wind  my  friend  spoke  of,  has  given  me  an  unnat 
ural   thirst.     Will  you  join  me  in  some  champagne 
after  your  hot  walk  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  the  lady,  untying  her  tip 
pet,  "  but,  if  you  please,  I  will  go  to  my  room  before 
dinner!" 

Here  was  trouble,  again  !  It  had  never  occurred  to 
either  of  us,  that  ladies  must  go  to  their  rooms  before 
bedtime. 

"  Stop  !"  cried  Jem,  as  she  laid  her  hand  on  the 
bell  to  ring  for  the  chamber-maid,  "excuse  me — I 
must  first  speak  to  the  landlord — the  room — the  room 
is  not  ready,  probably  !" 

He  seized  his  hat,  and  made  his  exit,  probably  wish 
ing  all  confiding  friends,  with  their  neighbor's  daugh 
ters,  in  a  better  world !  He  had  to  do  with  a  man  of 
sense,  however.  Gallagher  had  but  one  bedroom  in 
the  house,  which  was  not  a  servant's  room,  and  that 
was  his  own.  In  ten  minutes  it  was  ready,  and  at  the 
lady's  service.  A  black  scullion  was  promoted  for  the 
nonce,  to  the  post  of  chamber-maid,  and,  fortunately, 
the  plantation-bred  girl  had  not  been  long  enough  I 
from  home  to  be  particular.  She  came  to  dinner  as  I 
radiant  as  a  summer-squash. 

With  the  door  shut,  and  the  soup  before  us,  Tha-  I 
limer's  spirits  and  mino  flung  off  their  burthens  to-  j 
gether.  Jem  was  the  pleasantest  table-companion  in 
the  world,  and  he  chatted  and  made  the  amiable  to  his 
ward,  as  if  he  owed  her  some  amends  for  the  awkward 
position  of  which  she  was  so  blessedly  unconscious.  I 
Your  "dangerous  man"  (such  as  he  was  voted),  in 
spires,  of  course,  no  distrust  in  those  to  whom  he 
chooses  to  be  agreeable.  Miss  Lasacque  grew,  every 
minute,  more  delighted  with  him.  She,  too,  improved 
on  acquaintance.  Come  to  look  at  her  closely,  Nature 
meant  her  for  a  fine  showy  creature,  and  she  was 
"  out  of  condition,"  as  the  jockeys  say — that  was  all! 
Her  features  were  good,  though  gambosed  by  a 
southern  climate,  and  the  fever-and-ague  had  flatten 
ed  what  should  be  round  and  ripe  lips,  and  reduced 
to  the  mere  frame,  what  should  be  the  bust  and  neck 
of  a  Die  Vernon.  I  am  not  sure  I  saw  all  this  at  the 
time.  Her  subsequent  chrysalis  and  emergence  into 
a  beautiful  woman,  naturally  color  my  description 
now.  But  I  did  see,  then,  that  her  eyes  were  large 
and  lustrous,  and  that  naturally  she  had  high  spirit, 
good  abilities,  and  was  a  thorough  woman  in  senti 
ment,  though  deplorably  neglected — for,  at  the  age 
of  twenty,  she  could  hardly  read  and  write  !  It  was 
not  surprising  that  she  was  pleased  with  us  !  She  was 
the  only  lady  present,  and  we  were  the  first  coxcombs 
she  had  ever  seen,  and  the  day  was  summery,  and  the 
dinner  in  Gallagher's  best  style.  We  treated  her  like 
a  princess  ;  and  the  more  agreeable  man  of  the  two 
being  her  guardian,  and  responsible  for  the  propriety 
of  the  whole  affair,  there  was  no  chance  for  a  failure. 
We  lingered  over  our  coffee  ;  and  we  lingered  over 
our  chassecafc;  and  we  lingered  over  our  tea;  and, 
when  the  old  South  struck  twelve,  we  were  still  at  the 
table  in  "  No.  2,"  quite  too  much  delighted  with  each 
other  to  have  thought  of  separating.  It  was  the  ven 
erated  guardian  who  made  the  first  move,  and,  after 


jj  ringing  up  the  waiter  to  discover  that  the  scullion  had, 
six  hours  before,  made  her  nightly  disappearance,  the 
lady  was  respectfully  dismissed  with  only  a  candle  for 
her  chamber-maid,  and  Mr.  Gallagher's  room  for  her 
destination — wherever  that  might  be  ! 

We  dined  together  every  successive  day  for  a  week, 
and  during  this  time  the  plot  rapidly  thickened.  Tha- 
limer,  of  course,  vexed  soul  and  body,  to  obtain  for 
Miss  Lasacque  a  less  objectionable  lodging — urged 
scarcely  more  by  his  sense  of  propriety  than  by  a 
feeling  for  her  good-natured  host,  who,  meantime, 
slept  on  a  sofa.  But  the  unlucky  first  step  of  dining 
and  lodging  a  young  lady  at  a  restaurant,  inevitable 
as  it  was,  gave  a  fatal  assurance  to  the  predisposed 
scandal  of  the  affair,  and  every  day's  events  heighten 
ed  its  glaring  complexion.  Miss  Lasacque  had  ideas 
of  her  own,  and  very  independent  ones,  as  to  the 
amusement  of  her  leisure  hours.  She  had  never  been 
before  where  there  were  shops,  and  she  spent  her  first 
two  or  three  mornings  in  perambulating  Washington 
street,  dressed  in  a  style  perfectly  amazing  to  behold 
ers,  and  purchasing  every  description  of  gay  trumpe 
ry — the  parcels,  of  course,  sent  to  Gallagher's,  and 
the  bills  to  James  Thalimer,  Esq.  !  To  keep  her  out 
of  the  street,  Jem  took  her,  on  the  third  day,  to  the 
riding-school,  leaving  her  (safely  enough,  he  thought), 
in  charge  of  the  authoritative  Mr.  Roulstone,  while 
he  besieged  some  school-mistress  or  other  to  under 
take  her  ciphering  and  geography.  She  was  all  but 
born  on  horseback,  however,  and  soon  tired  of  riding 
round  the  ring.  The  street-door  was  set  open  for  a 
moment,  leaving  exposed  a  tempting  tangent  to  the 
circle,  and  out  flew  Miss  Lasacque,  saving  her  "  Leg 
horn  flat"  by  a  bend  to  the  saddle-bow,  that  would 
have  done  credit  to  a  dragoon,  and  no  more  was  seen, 
(or  hours,  of  the  "  bonnie  black  mare"  and  her  rider. 

The  deepening  of  Miss  Lasacque's  passion  for  Jem, 
would  not  interest  the  reader.  She  loved  like  other 

omen,  timidly  and  pensively.  Young  as  the  passion 
was,  however,  it  came  too  late  to  affect  her  manners 
before  public  opinion  had  pronounced  on  them.  There 
was  neither  boarding-house  nor  '•  private  female  acad 
emy"  within  ten  miles,  into  which  "Mr.  Thalimer's 
young  lady"  would  have  been  permitted  to  set  her 
foot — small  as  was  the  foot,  and  innocent  as  was  the 
pulse  to  which  it  stepped. 

Uncomfortable  as  was  this  state  of  suspense,  and 
anxious  as  we  were  to  fall  into  the  track  marked 
'virtuous,"  if  virtue  would  only  permit;  public  opin- 
on  seemed  to  think  we  were  enjoying  ourselves  quite 
oo  prosperously.  On  the  morning  of  the  seventh  day 
of  our  guardianship,  I  had  two  calls  after  breakfast, 
ne  from  poor  Gallagher,  who  reported  that  he  had 
jeen  threatened  with  a  prosecution  of  his  establish 
ment  as  a  nuisance,  and  another  from  poorer  Jem, 
ivhose  father  had  threatened  to  take  the  lady  out  of 
:iis  hands,  and  lodge  her  in  the  insane  asylum  ! 

"  Not  that  I  don't  wish  she  was  there,"  added  Jem, 
'  for  it  is  a  very  fine  place,  with  a  nice  garden,  and 
tixurious  enough  for  those  who  can  pay  for  them,  and 
aith,  I  believe  it's  the  only  lodging-house  I've  not  ap- 
)lied  to  !" 

I  must  shorten  my  story.  Jem  anticipated  his 
ather,  by  riding  over,  and  showing  his  papers  con- 
itituting  him  the  guardian  of  Miss  Lasacque,  in  which 
rapacity,  lie  was,  of  course,  authorized  to  put  his 
vard  under  the  charge  of  keepers.  Everybody  who 
tnows  Massachusetts,  knows  that  its  insane  asylums 
re  sometimes  brought  to  bear  on  irregular  morals,  as 

ell  as  on  diseased  intellects,  and  as  the  presiding  of 
ficer  of  the  institution  was  quite  well  assured  that 

iss  Lasacque  was  well  qualified  to  become  a  patient, 

"em   had  no   course  left  but  to  profit  by  the  error. 

The  poor  girl    was   invited,  that  afternoon,  to  take  a 

Irive  in  the  country,  and  we  came   back   and  dined 

ithout  her.  in  abominable  spirits,  I  must  say ' 


TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A  WELL. 


7'J 


Provided  with  the  best  instruction,  the  best  of  care 
taken  of  her  health,  and  the  most  exemplary  of  ma 
trons  interesting  herself  in  lier  patient's  improvements, 
Miss  Lasacque  rapidly  improved — more  rapidly,  no 
doubt,  than  she  ever  could  have  done  by  control  less 
rigid  and  inevitable.  Her  father,  by  the  advice  of  the 
matron,  was  not  informed  of  her  location  for  a  year, 


I  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  came  on,  accompanied 
by  his  friend,  Mi.  Dauchy.  He  found  his  daughter 
sufficiently  improved  in  health,  manners,  and  beauty, 
I  to  be  quite  satisfied  with  Jem's  discharge  of  his  trust, 
j  and  we  all  dined  very  pleasantly  in  "  No.  2  ;"  Miss 
I  Lasacque  declining,  with  a  blush,  my  invitation  to  her 
!  to  make  one  of  the  party. 


TWO   BUCKETS    IN   A   WELL, 


"  FIVE  hundred  dollars  a  year!"  echoed  Fanny  | 
Bellairs,  as  the  first  silver  gray  of  the  twilight  spread  ! 
over  her  picture. 

"And  my  art,"  modestly  added  the  painter,  prying  \ 
into  his  bright  copy  of  the  lips  pronouncing  upon  j 
his  destiny. 

"  And  how  much  may  that  be  at  the  present  rate  | 
of  patronage — one  picture  a  year  painted  for  love!" 

"  Fanny,  how  can  you  be  so  calculating  !" 

"By  the  bumps  over  my  eyebrows,  I  suppose. 
Why,  my  dear  coz,  we  have  another  state  of  existence 
to  look  forward  to — old  man-age  and  old  woman-age  ! 
What  am  I  to  do  with  five  hundred  dollars  a  year, 
when  my  old  frame  wants  gilding — (to  use  one  of 
your  own  similes) — I  shan't  always  be  pretty  Fanny 
Bellairs!" 

"  But,  good  Heavens  !  we  shall  grow  old  together!"  ! 
exclaimed  the  painter,  sitting  down  at  her  feet,  "  and  ! 
what  will  you  care  for  other  admiration,  if  your  husband  j 
see  you  still  beautiful,  with  the  eyes  of  memory  and 
habit." 

"Even  if  I  were  sure  he  would  so  look  upon  me  !" 
answered  Miss  Bellairs  more  seriously,  "  I  can  not 
but  dread  an  old  age  without  great  means  of  embellish 
ment.  Old  people,  except  in  poetry  and  in  very 
primitive  society,  are  dishonored  by  wants  and  cares. 
And,  indeed,  before  we  are  old — when  neither  young 
nor  old — we  want  horses  and  ottomans,  kalydor  and 
conservatories,  books,  pictures,  and  silk  curtains — all 
quite  out  of  the  range  of  your  little  allowance,  don't  j 
you  see !" 

"You  do  not  love  me,  Fanny  !" 

"  I  do — and  will  marry  you,  Philip — as  I,  long  ago, 
with  my  whole  heart   promised.     But  I  wish  to  be 
happy  with  you — as  happy,  quite  as  happy,  as  is  at  all 
possible,  with  our  best  efforts  and  coolest,  discreetest 
management.     I  laugh  the   matter  over  sometimes, 
but  I  may  tell  yon,  since  you  are  determined  to  be  in 
earnest,  that  1  have  treated  it,  in  my  solitary  thought, 
as  the  one  important  event  of  tny  life — (so  indeed  it 
is  !) — and,  as  such,  worthy  of  all  fore-thought,  patience, 
self-denial,  and  calculation.     To  inevitable  ills  I  can 
make  up  my  mind  like  other  people.     If  your  art  were 
your  only  hope  of  subsistence — why — [  don't  know —  i 
(should  1  look  well  as  a  page?) — I  don't  know  that  I  > 
couldn't  run  your  errands  and  grind  your  paints  in  ; 
hose  and  doublet.     But  there  is  another  door  open  j 
for  you — a  counting-house  door,  to  be  sure — leading  ' 
to  opulence  and  all  the  appliances  of  dignity  and  happi 
ness,  and  through  this  door,  my  dear  Philip,  the  art 
you  would  live  by  comes  to  pay  tribute  and  beg  for 
patronage.     Now,  out  of  your  hundred   and  twenty 
reasons,  give  me  the  two  stoutest  and  best,  why  you 
should  refuse  your  brother's  golden  offer  of  partner 
ship — my  share,  in  your  alternative  of  poverty,  left  for 
the  moment  out  of  the  question." 

Rnther  overborne  bv  the  confident  decision  of  his 


beautiful  cousin,  and  having  probably  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  must  ultimately  yield  to  her,  Philip  re 
plied  in  a  lower  and  more  dejected  tone  : — 

"  If  you  were  not  to  be  a  sharer  in  my  renown, 
should  I  be  so  fortunate  as  to  acquire  it,  I  should  feel 
as  if  it  were  selfish  to  dwell  so  much  on  my  passion 
for  distinction  and  my  devotion  to  my  pencil  as  the 
means  of  winning  it.  My  heart  is  full  of  you — but  it 
is  full  of  ambition  too,  paradox  though  it  be.  I  can 
not  live  ignoble.  I  should  not  have  felt  worthy  to 
press  my  love  upon  you — worthy  to  possess  you — 
except  with  the  prospect  of  celebrity  in  my  art.  You 
make  the  world  dark  to  me,  Fanny  !  You  closedown 
the  sky,  when  you  shut  out  this  hope  !  Yet  it  shall 
be  so." 

Philip  paused  a  moment  and  the  silence  was  unin 
terrupted. 

"  There  was  another  feeling  I  had,  upon  which  I 
have  not  insisted,"  he  continued.  "By  my  brother's 
project,  I  am  to  reside  almost  wholly  abroad.  Even 
the  little  stipend  I  have  to  offer  you  now,  is  absorbed 
of  course  by  the  investment  of  my  property  in  his 
trading  capital,  and  marriage,  till  I  have  partly  enrich 
ed  myself,  would  be  even  more  hopeless  than  at  present. 
Say  the  interval  were  five  years — and  five  years  of 
separation  !" 

"  With  happiness  in  prospect,  it  would  soon  pass, 
my  dear  Philip !" 

"But  is  there  nothing  wasted  in  this  time  ?  My 
life  is  yours — the  gift  of  love.  Are  not  these  coin 
ing  five  years  the  very  flower  of  it  ? — a  mutual  loss, 
too.  for  are  they  not,  even  more  emphatically,  the  very 
flower  of  yours  1  Eighteen  and  twenty-five  are  ages  at 
which  to  marry,  not  ages  to  defer.  During  this  time  the 
entire  flow  of  my  existence  is  at  its  crowning  fulness 
— passion,  thought,  joy,  tenderness,  susceptibility  to 
beauty  and  sweetness — all  I  have  that  can  be  diminish 
ed  or  tarnished  or  made  dull  by  advancing  age  and 
contact  with  the  world,  is  thrown  away  for  its  spring 
and  summer.  Will  the  autumn  of  life  repay  us  for 
this?  Will  it — even  if  we  are  rich  and  blest  with 
health,  and  as  capable  of  an  unblemished  union  as 
now  ?  •  Think  of  this  a  moment,  dear  Fanny  !" 

"  I  do — it  is  full  of  force  and  meaning,  and  could 
we  marry  now,  with  a  tolerable  prospect  of  competen 
cy,  it  would  be  irresistible.  But  poverty  in  wedlock, 
Philip—" 

"  What  do  you  call  poverty  !  If  we  can  suffice  for 
each  other,  and  have  the  necessaiies  of  life,  we  are  not 
poor  !  My  art  will  bring  us  consideration  enough — 
which  is  the  main  end  of  wealth,  after  all — and  of 
society,  speaking  for  myself  only,  I  want  nothing. 
Luxuries  for  yourself,  Fanny,  means  for  your  dear 
comfort  and  pleasure,  you  should  not  want  if  the 
world  held  them,  and  surely  the  unbounded  devotion 
of  one  man  to  the  support  of  the  one  woman  he  loves, 
ought  to  suffice  for  the  task  !  I  am  strong — I  am 


so 


TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A  WELL. 


capable  of  labor — I  have  limbs  to  toil,  if  my  genius 
and  my  present  means  fail  me,  and,  oh,  Heaven,  you 
could  not  want !" 

"  No,  no,  no  !  I  thought  not  of  want !"  murmured 
Miss  Bellairs,  "I  thought  only — ' 

But  she  was  not  permitted  to  finish  the  sentence. 

"  Then  my  bright  picture  for  the  future  may  be 
realized  !"  exclaimed  Philip,  knitting  his  hands  to 
gether  in  a  transport  of  hope.  "  I  rnay  build  up  a 
reputation,  with  you  for  the  constant  partner  of  its 
triumphs  and  excitements!  I  may  go  through  the 
world  and  have  some  care  in  life  besides  subsistence, 
how  I  shall  sleep,  and  eat,  and  accumulate  gold  ;  some 
companion,  who,  from  the  threshold  of  manhood, 
shared  every  thought — and  knew  every  feeling — some 
pure  and  present  angel  who  walked  with  me  and  puri 
fied  my  motives  and  ennobled  my  ambitions,  and  re 
ceived  from  my  lips  and  eyes,  and  from  the  beating 
of  my  heart,  against  her  own,  all  the  love  I  had  to  give 
in  a  lifetime.  Tell  me,  Fanny!  tell  me,  my  sweet 
cousin  !  is  not  this  a  picture  of  bliss,  which,  combined 
with  success  in  my  noble  art,  might  make  a  Paradise 
on  earth  for  you  and  me  ?" 

The  hand  of  Fanny  Bellairs  rested  on  the  upturned 
forehead  of  her  lover  as  he  sat  at  her  feet  in  the 
deepening  twilight,  and  she  answered  him  with  such 
sweet  words  as  are  linked  together  by  spells  known 
only  to  woman — but  his  palette  and  pencils  were, 
nevertheless,  burned  in  solemn  holocaust  that  very 
night,  and  the  lady  carried  her  point,  as  ladies  must. 
And  to  the  importation  of  silks  from  Lyons  was  de 
voted,  thenceforth,  the  genius  of  a  Raphael — perhaps  I 
Who  knows  ? 

The  reader  will  naturally  have  gathered  from  this 
dialogue  that  Miss  Fanny  Bellairs  had  black  eyes, 
and  was  rather  below  the  middle  stature.  She  was  a 
belle,  and  it  is  only  belle-metal  of  this  particular 
description  which  is  not  fusible  by  "  burning  words." 
She  had  mind  enough  to  appreciate  fully  the  romance 
and  enthusiasm  of  her  cousin,  Philip  Ballister,  and 
knew  precisely  the  phenomena  which  a  tall  blonde 
(this  complexion  of  woman  being  soluble  in  love  and 
tears),  would  have  exhibited  under  a  similar  experi 
ment.  While  the  fire  of  her  love  glowed,  therefore, 
she  opposed  little  resistance  and  seemed  softened  and 
yielding,  but  her  purpose  remained  unaltered,  and  she 
rang  out  "  no !"  the  next  morning,  with  a  tone  as  little 
changed  as  a  convent-bell  from  matins  to  vespers, 
though  it  has  passed  meantime  through  the  furnace 
of  an  Italian  noon. 

Fanny  was  not  a  designing  girl,  either.  She  might 
have  found  a  wealthier  customer  for  her  heart  than 
her  cousin  Philip.  And  she  loved  this  cousin  as  truly  ] 
and  well  as  her  nature  would  admit,  or  as  need  be, 
indeed.  But  two  things  had  conspired  to  give  her 
the  unmalleable  quality  just  described — a  natural  dis 
position  to  confide,  first  and  foremost,  on  all  occasions, 
in  her  own  sagacity,  and  a  vivid  impression  made  upon 
her  mind  by  a  childhood  of  poverty.  At  the  age  of 
twelve  she  had  been  transferred  from  the  distressed 
fireside  of  her  mother,  Mrs.  Bellairs,  to  the  luxurious 
roof  of  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Ballister,  and  her  mother  dying 
soon  after,  the  orphan  girl  was  adopted  and  treated  as 
a  child ;  but  the  memory  of  the  troubled  health  at 
which  she  had  first  learned  to  observe  and  reason, 
colored  all  the  purposes  and  affections,  thoughts, 
impulses  and  wishes  of  the  ripening  girl,  and  to  think 
of  happiness  in  any  proximity  to  privation  seemed  to 
her  impossible,  even  though  it  were  in  the  bosom  of 
Jove.  Seeing  no  reason  to  give  her  cousin  credit  for 
any  knowledge  of  the  world  beyond  his  own  experience, 
she  decided  to  think  for  him  as  well  as  love  him,  and 
not  being  so  much  pressed  as  the  enthusiastic  painter 
by  the  "  besoin  d 'aimer  et  de  se  faire  aimer"  she  very 
composedly  prefixed,  to  the  possession  of  her  hand, 


the  trifling  achievement  of  getting  rich — quite  sure 
that  if  he  knew  as  much  as  she,  he  would  willingly  run 
that  race  without  the  incumbrance  of  matrimony. 

The  death  of  Mr.  Ballister,  senior,  had  left  the 
widow  and  her  two  boys  more  slenderly  provided  for 
than  was  anticipated — Phil's  portion,  after  leaving 
college,  producing  the  moderate  income  before  men 
tioned.  The  elder  brother  had  embarked  in  his  father's 
business,  and  it  was  thought  best  on  all  hands  for  the 
younger  Ballister  to  follow  his  example.  But  Philip, 
whose  college  leisure  had  been  devoted  to  poetry  and 
painting,  and  whose  genius  for  the  latter,  certainly, 
was  very  decided,  brought  down  his  habits  by  a  res 
olute  economy  to  the  limits  of  his  income,  and  took 
up  the  pencil  for  a  profession.  With  passionate  en 
thusiasm,  great  purity  of  character,  distaste  for  all 
society  not  in  harmony  with  his  favorite  pursuit,  and 
an  industry  very  much  concentrated  and  rendered 
effective  by  abstemious  habits,  Philip  Ballister  was 
very  likely  to  develop  what  genius  might  lie  between 
his  head  and  hand,  and  his  progress  in  the  first  year 
had  been  allowed  by  eminent  artists  to  give  very 
unusual  promise.  The  Ballisters  were  still  together 
under  the  maternal  roof,  and  the  painter's  studies 
were  the  portraits  of  the  family,  and  Fanny's  picture 
of  course  much  the  most  difficult  to  finish.  It  would 
be  very  hard  if  a  painter's  portrait  of  his  liege  mistress, 
the  lady  of  his  heart,  were  not  a  good  picture,  and 
Fanny  Bellairs  on  canvass  was  divine  accordingly.  If 
the  copy  had  more  softness  of  expression  than  the 
original  (as  it  was  thought  to  have),  it  only  proves  that 
wise  men  have  for  some  time  suspected,  that  love  is 
more  dumb  than  blind,  and  the  faults  of  our  faultless 
idols  are  noted,  however  unconsciously.  Neither 
thumb-screws  nor  hot  coals — nothing  probably  but  re 
pentance  after  matrimony — would  have  drawn  from 
Philip  Ballister,  in  words,  the  same  confession  of  his 
mistress's  foible  that  had  oozed  out  through  his 
treacherous  pencil  ! 

Cupid  is  often  drawn  as  a  stranger  pleading  to  be 
"taken  in, "but  it  is  a  miracle  that  he  is  not  invariably 
drawn  as  a  portrait-painter.  A  bird  tied  to  the  muzzle 
of  a  gun — an  enemy  who  has  written  a  book — an  Indian 
prince  under  the  protection  of  Giovanni  Bulletto  (Tus 
can  for  John  Bull), — is  not  more  close  upon  demoli 
tion,  one  would  think,  than  the  heart  of  a  lady  deliver 
ed  over  to  a  painter's  eyes,  posed,  draped  and  lighted 
with  the  one  object  of  studying  her  beauty.  If  there 
be  any  magnetism  in  isolated  attention,  any  in  stead 
fast  gazing,  any  in  passes  of  the  hand  hither  and  thither 
— if  there  be  any  magic  in  ce  doux  demi-jour  so  loved 
in  France,  in  stuff  for  flattery  ready  pointed  and  feather 
ed,  in  freedom  of  admiration,  "and  all  in  the  way  of 
business" — then  is  a  loveable  sitter  to  a  love-like 
painter  in  "  parlous"  vicinity  (as  the  new  school  would 
phrase  it),  to  sweet-heart-land  !  Pleasure  in  a  voca 
tion  has  no  offset  in  political  economy  as  honor  has 
("  the  more  honor  the  less  profit,")  or  portrait-painters 
would  be  poorer  than  poets. 

And  malgre  his  consciousness  of  the  quality  which 
required  softening  in  his  cousin's  beauty,  and  malgre 
his  rare  advantages  for  obtaining  over  her  a  lover's 
proper  ascendency,  Mr.  Philip  Ballister  bowed  to  the 
stronger  will  of  Miss  Fanny  Bellairs,  and  sailed  for 
France  on  his  apprenticeship  to  Mammon. 

The  reader  will  please  to  advance  five  years.  Be 
fore  proceeding  thence  with  our  story,  however,  let 
us  take  a  Parthian  glance  at  the  overstepped  interval. 

Philip  Ballister  had  left  New  York  with  the  triple 
vow  that  he  would  enslave  every  faculty  of  his  mind 
and  body  to  business,  that  he  would  not  return  till  he 
had  made  a  fortune,  and  that  such  interstices  as  might 
occur  in  the  building  up  of  this  chateau  for  felicity 
should  be  filled  with  sweet  reveries  about  Fanny  Bel 
lairs.  The  forsworn  painter  had  genius,  as  we  have 


TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A  WELL. 


ft] 


before  hinted,  and  genius  is  (as  much  as  it  is  any  one 
thing),  the  power  of  concentration.  He  entered  upon 
his  duties  accordingly  with  a  force,  and  patience  of 
application,  which  soon  made  him  master  of  what  are 
called  business  habits,  and,  once  in  possession  of  the 
details,  his  natural  cleverness  gave  him  a  speedy  insight 
to  all  the  scope  and  tactics  of  his  particular  field  of 
•rade.  Under  his  guidance,  the  affairs  of  the  house 
.vere  soon  in  a  much  more  prosperous  train,  and  after 
a  year's  residence  at  Lyons,  Philip  saw  his  way  very 
clear  to  manage  them  with  a  long  arm  and  take  up  his 
quarters  in  Paris. 

"  Les  fats  sont  les  seuls  kommes  qui  aient  soin  d'eux 
tnemes"  says  a  French  novelist,  but  there  is  a  period, 
early  or  late,  in  the  lives  of  the  cleverest  men,  when 
ihey  become  suddenly  curious  as  to  their  capacity  for 
the  graces.  Paris,  to  a  stranger  who  does  not  visit  in 
the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  is  a  republic  of  personal 
exterior,  where  the  degree  of  privilege  depends  with 
Utopian  impartiality  on  the  style  of  the  outer  man ; 
and  Paris,  therefore,  if  he  is  not  already  a  Bachelor 
of  Arts  (qu? — beau's  Arts),  usually  serves  the  traveller 
as  an  Alma  Mater  of  the  pomps  and  vanities. 

Phil.  Ballister,  up  to  the  time  of  his  matriculation 
in  Ckaussee  D'Antin,  was  a  romantic-looking  sloven. 
From  this  to  a  very  dashing  coxcomb  is  but  half  a  step, 
and  to  be  rid  of  the  coxcombry  and  retain  a  look  of 
fashion,  is  still  within  the  easy  limits  of  imitation. 
But — to  obtain  superiority  of  presence  with  no  apparent 
aid  from  dress  and  no  describable  manner,  and  to  dis 
play  at  the  same  time  every  natural  advantage  in  ef 
fective  relief,  and,  withal,  to  adapt  this  subtle  philtre, 
not  only  to  the  approbation  of  the  critical  and  censori 
ous,  but  to  the  taste  of  fair  women  gifted  with  judg 
ment  as  God  pleases — this  is  a  finish  not  born  with 
any  man  (though  unsuccessful  if  it  do  not  seem  to  be), 
and  never  reached  in  the  apprenticeship  of  life,  and 
never  reached  at  all  by  men  not  much  above  their 
fellows.  He  who  has  it,  has  "  bought  his  doublet  in 
Italy,  his  round  hose  in  France,  his  bonnet  in  Germa 
ny,  and  his  behavior  everywhere,"  for  he  must  know, 
as  a  chart  of  quicksands,  the  pronounced  models  of 
other  nations  ;  but  to  be  a  "  picked  man  of  countries," 
and  to  have  been  a  coxcomb  and  a  man  of  fashion,  are, 
as  a  painter  would  say,  but  the  setting  of  the  palette 
toward  the  making  of  the  chef-d'<euvre. 

Business  prospered  and  the  facilities  of  leisure  in 
creased,  while  Ballister  passed  through  these  transi 
tions  of  taste,  and  he  found  intervals  to  travel,  and 
time  to  read,  and  opportunity  to  indulge  ;  as  far  as  he 
could  with  the  eye  only,  his  passion  for  knowledge  in 
the  arts.  To  all  that  appertained  to  the  refinement 
of  himself,  he  applied  the  fine  feelers  of  a  delicate  and 
passionate  construction,  physical  and  mental,  and,  as 
(he  reader  will  already  have  included,  wasted  on  culture 
comparatively  unprofitable,  faculties  that  would*  have 
eeen  better  employed  but  for  the  meddling  of  Miss 
fanny  Bellairs. 

Ballister's  return  from  France  was  heralded  by  the 
arrival  of  statuary  and  pictures,  books,  furniture,  and 
numberless  articles  of  tasteful  and  costly  luxury.  The 
reception  of  these  by  the  family  at  home  threw  rather 
•<  new  light  on  the  probable  changes  in  the  long-absent 
brother,  for,  from  the  signal  success  of  the  business 
he  had  managed,  they  had  very  naturally  supposed 
that  it  was  the  result  only  of  unremitted  and  plodding 
care.  Vague  rumors  of  changes  in  his  personal  ap 
pearance  had  reached  them,  such  as  might  be  expected 
from  conformity  to  foreign  fashions,  but  those  who 
had  seen  Philip  Ballister  in  France,  and  called  subse 
quently  on  the  family  in  New  York,  were  not  people 
qualified  to  judge  of  the  man,  either  from  their  own 
powers  of  observation  or  from  any  confidence  he  was 
likely  to  put  forward  while  in  their  society.  His 
letters  had  been  delightful,  but  they  were  confined  to 


third-person  topics,  descriptions  of  things  likely  to  in 
terest  them,  &c.,  and  Fanny  had  few  addressed  per 
sonally  to  herself,  having  thought  it  worth  while,  for 
the  experiment's  sake  or  for  some  other  reason,  to  see 
whether  love  would  subsist  without  its  usual  pabulum 
of  tender  correspondence,  and  a  veto  on  love-letters 
having  served  her  for  a  parting  injunction  at  Phil's 
embarkation  for  Havre.  However  varied  by  their 
different  fancies,  the  transformation  looked  for  by  the 
whole  family  was  substantially  the  same  —  the  romantic 
artist  sobered  down  to  a  practical,  plain  man  of  busi 
ness.  And  Fanny  herself  had  an  occasional  misgiving 
as  to  her  relish  for  his  counting-house  virtues  and 
manners;  though,  on  the  detection  of  the  feeling,  she 
immediately  closed  her  eyes  upon  it,  and  drummed 
up  her  delinquent  constancy  for  "  parade  and  inspec 
tion." 

All  bustles  are  very  much  alike  (we  use  the  word 
as  defined  in  Johnson),  and  the  reader  will  appreciate 
our  delicacy,  besides,  in  not  intruding  on  the  first  re 
union  of  relatives  and  lovers  long  separated. 

The  morning  after  Philip  Ballister's  arrival,  the 
family  sat  long  at  breakfast.  The  mother's  gaze 
fastened  untiringly  on  the  features  of  her  son  —  still  her 
boy  —  prying  into  them  with  a  vain  effort  to  reconcile 
the  face  of  the  man  with  the  cherished  picture  of  the 
child  with  sunny  locks,  and  noting  little  else  than  the 
work  of  inward  change  upon  the  countenance  and  ex 
pression.  The  brother,  with  the  predominant  feeling 
of  respect  for  the  intelligence  and  industry  of  one  who 
had  made  the  fortunes  of  the  house,  read  only  subdued 
sagacity  in  the  perfect  simplicity  of  his  whole  exterior. 
And  Fanny  —  Fanny  was  puzzled.  The  bourgeoisie 
and  leger-bred  hardness  of  manner  which  she  had 
looked  for  were  not  there,  nor  any  variety  of  the 
"foreign  slip-slop"  common  to  travelled  youth,  nor 
any  superciliousness,  nor  (faith  !)  any  wear  and  tear 
of  youth  or  good  looks  —  nothing  that  she  expected  — 
nothing  !  Not  even  a  French  guard-chain  ! 

What  there  was  in  her  cousin's  manners  and  ex- 


!  terior,  however,  was  much  more  difficult  to  define  by 
I  Miss  Bellairs  than  what  there  was  not.  She  began  the 
renewal  of  their  intercourse  with  very  high  spirits, 
herself  —  the  simple  nature  and  unpretendingness  of 
his  address  awakening  only  an  unembarrassed  pleasure 
at  seeing  him  again  —  but  she  soon  began  to  suspect 
there  was  an  exquisite  refinement  in  this  very  sim 
plicity,  and  to  wonder  at  "the  trick  of  it;"  and  after 
the  first  day  passed  in  his  society,  her  heart  beat  when 
he  spoke  to  her,  as  it  did  not  use  to  beat  when  she 
was  sitting  to  him  for  her  picture,  and  listening  to  his 
passionate  love-making.  And  with  all  her  faculties  she 
studied  him.  What  was  the  charm  of  his  presence!  He 
was  himself,  and  himself  only.  He  seemed  perfect,  but 
he  seemed  to  have  arrived  at  perfection  like  a  statue, 
not  like  a  picture  —  by  what  had  been  taken  away,  not 
by  what  had  been  laid  on.  He  was  as  natural  as  a  bird, 
and  as  graceful  and  unembarrassed.  He  neither  forced 
conversation,  nor  pressed  the  little  attentions  of  the  draw 
ing-room,  and  his  attitudes  were  full  of  repose  ;  yet  she 
was  completely  absorbed  in  what  he  said,  and  she  had 
been  impressed  imperceptibly  with  his  high-bred  polite 
ness,  and  the  singular  elegance  of  his  person.  Fanny 
felt  there  was  a  change  in  her  relative  position  to  her 
cousin.  In  what  it  consisted,  or  which  had  the  ad 
vantage,  she  was  perplexed  to  discover—  but  she  bit 
her  lips  as  she  caught  herself  thinking  that  if  she  were 
not  engaged  to  marry  Philip  Ballister,  she  should 
suspect  that  she  had  just  fallen  irrecoverably  in  love 
with  him. 

It  would  have  been  a  novelty  in  the  history  of  Miss 
Bellairs  that  any  event  to  which  she  had  once  con 
sented,  should  admit  of  reconsideration  ;  and  the 
Ballister  family,  used  to  her  strong  will,  were  confirm 
ed  fatalists  as  to  the  coming  about  of  her  ends  and 
aims.  Her  marriage  with  Philip,  therefore,  was 


S2 


TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A  WELL. 


discussed,  cceur  ouvert,  from  his  first  arrival,  and,  in 
deed,  in  her  usual  fashion  of  saving  others  the  trouble 
of  making  up  their  minds.  "  herself  had  named  the 
day."  This,  it  is  true,  was  before  his  landing,  and 
was  then,  an  effort  of  considerable  magnanimity,  as 
the  expectant  Penelope  was  not  yet  advised  of  her 
lover's  state  of  preservation  or  damages  by  cares  and 
keeping.  If  Philip  had  not  found  his  wedding-day 
fixed  on  his  arrival,  however,  he  probably  would  have 
had  a  voice  in  the  naming  of  it,  for  with  Fanny's  new 
inspirations  as  to  his  character,  there  hnd  grown  up  a 
new  flower  in  her  garden  of  beauties — timidity  ! 
What  bird  of  the  air  had  sown  the  seed  in  such  a  soil 
was  a  problem  to  herself — but  true  it  was! — the  con 
fident  belle  had  grown  a  blushing  trembler!  She 
would  as  soon  have  thought  of  bespeaking  her  wings 
for  the  sky,  as  to  have  ventured  on  naming  the  day  in 
a  short  week  after. 

The  day  was  named,  however,  and  the  preparations 
went  on — nem.  con. — the  person  most  interested  (after 
herself)  accepting  every  congratulation  and  allusion, 
touching  the  event,  with  the  most  impenetrable  suavity. 
The  marbles  and  pictures,  upholstery  and  services, 
were  delivered  over  to  the  order  of  Miss  Bellairs,  and 
Philip,  disposed,  apparently,  to  be  very  much  a  recluse 
in  his  rooms,  or  at  other  times,  engrossed  by  troops 
of  welcoming  friends,  saw  much  less  of  his  bride  elect 
than  suited  her  wishes,  and  saw  her  seldom  alone.  By 
particular  request,  also,  he  took  no  part  in  the  'plenish 
ing  and  embellishing  of  the  new  abode — not  permitted  j 
even  to  inquire  where  it  was  situated,  and  under  this  ; 
cover,  besides  the  pleasure  of  having  her  own  way,  ! 
Fanny  concealed  a  little  secret,  which,  when  disclosed, 
she  now  felt,  would  figure  forth  to  Philip's  comprehen-  j 
sion,  her  whole  scheme  of  future  happiness.  She  hnd 
taken  the  elder  brother  into  her  counsels  a  fortnight 
after  Philip's  return,  and,  with  his  aid  and  consent, 
had  abandoned  the  original  idea  of  a  house  in  town, 
purchased  a  beautifully-secluded  estate  and  cottage 
ornee,  on  the  East  river,  and  transferred  thither  all  the  [ 
objects  of  art,  furniture,  &c.  One  room  only  of  the  ! 
maternal  mansion  was  permitted  to  contribute  its 
quota  to  the  completion  of  the  bridal  dwelling — the 
wing,  never  since  inhabited,  in  which  Philip  had  made 
his  essay  as  a  painter — and  without  variation  of  a  cob 
web,  and  with  whimsical  care  and  effort  on  the  part 
of  Miss  Fanny,  this  apartment  was  reproduced  at 
Revedere — her  own  picture  on  the  easel,  as  it  stood 
on  the  night  of  his  abandonment  of  his  art,  and  palette, 
pencils  and  colors  in  tempting  readiness  on  the  table,  j 
Even  the  fire-grate  of  the  old  studio  had  been  re-set 
in  the  new,  and  the  cottage  throughout  had  been  re 
fitted  with  a  view  to  occupation  in  the  winter.  And 
to  sundry  hints  on  the  part  of  the  elder  brother,  that 
some  thought  should  be  given  to  a  city  residence — 
for  the  Christinas  holydays,  at  least — Fanny  replied, 
through  a  blush,  that  she  should  never  wish  to  see  the 
town— with  Philip  at  Revedere! 

Five  years  had  ripened  and  mellowed  the  beauty 
of  Fanny  Bellairs,  and  the  sairafr'summer-time  of  youth 
had  turned  into  fruit  the  feeling  left  by  Philip  in  bud 
and  flower.  She  was  ready  now  for  love.  She  had 
felt  the  variable  temper  of  society,  and  there  was  a 
presentiment  in  the  heart  of  receding  flatteries,  and 
the  winter  of  life.  It  was  with  mournful  self-reproach 
that  she  thought  of  the  years  wasted  in  separation,  of 
her  own  choosing,  from  the  man  she  loved,  and  with 
the  power  to  recall  time,  she  would  have  thanked 
God  with  tears  of  joy  for  the  privilege  of  retracing 
the  chain  of  life  to  that  link  of  parting.  Not  worth  a 
day  of  those  lost  years,  she  bitterly  confessed  to  her 
self,  was  the  wealth  they  had  purchased. 

It  lacked  as  little  as  one  week  of  <;the  happy  day," 
when  the  workmen  were  withdrawn  from  Revedere, 
and  the  preparations  for  a  family  breakfast,  to  be  suc 
ceeded  by  the  agreeable  surprise  to  Philip  of  inform 


ing  him  he  was  at  home,  were  finally  completed.  One 
or  two  very  intimate  friends  were  added  to  the  party, 
and  the  invitations  (from  the  elder  Ballister)  proposed 
simply  a  dejeuner  sur  I'herbe  in  the  grounds  of  an  un 
occupied  villa,  the  property  of  an  acquaintance. 

With  the  subsiding  of  the  excitement  of  return,  the 
early  associations  which  had  temporarily  confused  and 
colored  the  feelings  of  Philip  Ballister,  settled  gradu 
ally  away,  leaving  uppermost  once  more  the  fastidious 
refinement  of  the  Parisian.  Through  this  medium, 
thin  and  cold,  the  bubbles  from  the  breathing  of  the 
heart  of  youth,  rose  rarely  and  reluctantly.'  The  Bal- 
listers  held  a  good  station  in  society,  without  caring 
for  much  beyond  the  easy  conveniences  of  life,  and 
Fanny,  though  capable  of  any  degree  of  elegance,  had 
not  seen  the  expediency  of  raising  the  tone  of  her 
manners  above  that  of  her  immediate  friends.  With 
out  being  positively  distasteful  to  Philip,  the  family 
circle,  Fanny  included,  left  him  much  to  desire  in  the 
way  of  society,  and  unwilling  to  abate  the  warmth  of 
his  attentions  while  with  them,  he  had  latterly  pleaded 
occupation  more  frequently,  and  passed  his  time  in 
the  more  congenial  company  of  his  library  of  art. 
This  was  the  less  noticed  that  it  gave  Miss  Bellairs 
the  opportunity  to  make  frequent  visits  to  the  work 
men  at  Revedere,  and  in  the  polished  devotion  of  her 
betrothed,  when  with  her,  Fanny  saw  nothing  reflected 
but  her  own  daily  increasing  tenderness  and  admira 
tion. 

The  morning  of  the  fete  came  in  like  the  air  in  an 
overture — a  harmony  of  all  the  instruments  of  sum 
mer.  The  party  were  at  the  gate  of  Revedere  by  ten, 
and  the  drive  through  the  avenue  to  the  lawn  drew  a 
burst  of  delighted  admiration  from  all.  The  place  was 
exquisite,  and  seen  in  its  glory,  and  Fanny's  heart  was 
brimming  with  gratified  pride  and  exultation.  She 
assumed  at  once  the  dispensation  of  the  honors,  and 
beautiful  she  looked  with  her  snowy  dress  and  raven 
ringlets  flitting  across  the  lawn,  and  queening  it  like 
Perdita  among  the  flowers.  Having  narrowly  escaped 
bursting  into  tears  of  joy  when  Philip  pronounced  the 
place  prettier  than  anything  he  had  seen  in  his  travels, 
she  was,  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  calmly  happy,  and 
with  the  grateful  shade,  the  delicious  breakfast  in  the 
grove,  the  rambling  and  boating  on  the  river,  the  hours 
passed  oft'  like  dreams,  and  no  one  even  hinted  a  re 
gret  that  the  house  itself  was  under  lock  and  bar.  And 
so  the  sun  set,  and  the  twilight  came  on,  and  the 
guests  were  permitted  to  order  round  their  carriages 
and  depart,  the  Ballisters  accompanying  them  to  the 
gate.  And,  on  the  return  of  the  family  through  the 
avenue,  excuses  were  made  for  idling  hither  and  thith 
er,  till  lights  began  to  show  through  the  trees,  and  by 
the  time  of  their  arrival  at  the  lawn,  the  low  windows 
of  the  cottage  poured  forth  streams  of  light,  and  the 
open  doors,  and  servants  busy  within,  completed  a 
scene  more  like  magic  than  reality.  Philip  was  led  in 
by  the  excited  girl  who  was  the  fairy  of  the  spell,  and 
his  astonishment  at  the  discovery  of  his  statuary  and 
pictures,  books  and  furniture,  arranged  in  complete 
order  within,  was  fed  upon  with  the  passionate  delight 
of  love  in  authority. 

When  an  hour  had  been  spent  in  examining  and 
admiring  the  different  apartments,  an  inner  room  was 
thrown  open,  in  which  supper  was  prepared,  and  this 
fourth  act  in  the  day's  drama  was  lingered  over  in  un 
tiring  happiness  by  the  family. 

Mrs.  Ballister,  the  mother,  rose  and  retired,  and 
Philip  pleaded  indisposition,  and  begged  to  be  shown 
to  the  room  allotted  to  him.  This  was  ringing-up  the 
curtain  for  the  last  act  sooner  than  had  been  planned  by 
Fanny,  but  she  announced  herself  as  his  chamberlain, 
and  witli  her  hands  affectionately  crossed  on  his  arm, 
led  him  to  a  suite  of  rooms  in  a  wing  still  unvisited, 
and  with  a  good-night  kiss  left  him  at  the  open  door 
of  the  revived  studio,  furnished  for  the  night  with  a 


TWO  BUCKETS  IN  A  WELL. 


bachelor's  bed.  Turning  upon  the  threshold,  he 
closed  the  door  with  a  parting  wish  of  sweet  dreams, 
and  Fanny,  after  listening  a  moment  with  a  vain  hope 
of  overhearing  some  expression  of  pleasure,  and  lin 
gering  again  on  her  way  back,  to  be  overtaken  by  her 
surprised  lover,  sought  her  own  bed  without  rejoining 
the  circle,  and  passed  a  sleepless  and  happy  night  of 
tears  and  joy. 

Breakfast  was  served  the  next  morning  on  a  terrace 
overlooking  the  river,  and  it  was  voted  by  acclamation, 
that  Fanny  never  before  looked  so  lovely.  As  none 
but  the  family  were  to  be  present,  she  had  stolen  a 
inarch  on  her  marriage  wardrobe,  and  added  to  her 
demi-toilet  a  morning  cap  of  exquisite  becoming-ness. 
Altogether,  she  looked  deliciously  wife-like,  and  did 
the  honors  of  the  breakfast-table  with  a  grace  and 
sweetness  that  warmed  out  love  and  compliments  even 
from  the  sober  soil  of  household  intimacy.  Philip 
had  not  yet  made  his  appearance,  and  they  lingered 
long  at  table,  till  at  last  a  suggestion  that  he  might  be 
ill  started  Fanny  to  her  feet,  and  she  ran  to  his  door 
before  a  servant  could  be  summoned. 

The  rooms  were  open,  and  the  bed  had  not  been 
occupied.  The  candle  was  burned  to  the  socket,  and 
on  the  easel,  resting  against  the  picture,  was  a  letter 
addressed — "  Miss  Fanny  Bellairs." 

THE    LETTER. 

"  I  have  followed  up  to  this  hour,  my  fair  cousin,  in 
the  path  you  have  marked  out  for  me.  It  has  brought 
me  back,  in  this  chamber,  to  the  point  from  which  I 
started  under  your  guidance,  and  if  it  had  brought  me 
back  unchanged — if  it  restored  me  my  energy,  my 
hope,  and  my  prospect  of  fame,  I  should  pray  Heaven 
that  it  would  also  give  me  back  my  love,  and  be  con 
tent — more  than  content,  if  it  gave  me  back  also  my 
poverty.  The  sight  of  my  easel,  and  of  the  surround 
ings  of  my  boyish  dreams  of  glory,  have  made  my 
heart  bitter.  They  have  given  form  and  voice  to  a 
vague  unhappiness,  which  has  haunted  me  through  all 
these  absent  years — years  of  degrading  pursuits  and  ' 
wasted  powers — and  it  now  impels  me  from  you,  kind 
and  lovely  as  you  are,  with  an  aversion  I  can  not  con-  ! 
trol.  I  can  not  forgive  you.  You  have  thwarted  my  i 
destiny.  You  have  extinguished  with  sordid  cares  a  \ 
lamp  within  me  that  might,  by  this  time,  have  shone 
through  the  world.  And  what  am  I,  since  your  wishes 
are  accomplished  ?  Enriched  in  pocket,  and  bankrupt 
in  happiness  and  self-respect. 

"With  a  heart  sick,   and  a  brain  aching  for  distinc 
tion,  I  have  come  to  an  unhonored  stand-still  at  thirty  !  j 
I  am  a  successful  tradesman,  and  in  this  character  I  ! 
shall  probably  die.     Could  I  begin  to  be  a  painter  now,  ! 
say  you  ?     Alas  !  my  knowledge  of  the  art  is  too  great 
for  patience  with  the  slow  hand  !     I  could  not  draw  a 
line  without  despair.     The  pliant  fingers  and  the  plas 
tic  mind  must  keep  pace  to  make  progress  in  art.     My  | 
taste  is  fixed,  and  my  imagination  uncreative,  because 
chained  down  by  certainties;  and  the  shortsighted  ar 
dor  and  daring  experiment  which  are  indispensable  to 
sustain  and   advance  the  follower  in  Raphael's  foot 
steps,  are  too  far  behind  for  my  resuming.     The  tide 
ebbed  from  me  at  the  accursed  burning  of  my  pencils 
by  your  pitiless  hand,  and  from  that  hour  I  have  felt 
hope  receding.     Could  I  be  happy  with  you,  stranded 
here  in  ignoble  idleness,  and  owing  to  you  the  loss  of 
my   whole  venture  of  opportunity  ?     No,  Fanny ! — 
surely  no  ! 

"  I  would  not  be  unnecessarily  harsh.  I  am  sensi 
ble  of  your  affection  and  constancy.  I  have  deferred 
this  explanation  unwisely,  till  the  time  and  place  make 
it  seem  more  cruel.  You  are  at  this  very  moment,  I 


well  know,  awake  in  your  chamber,  devoting  to  me  the 
vigils  of  a  heart  overflowing  with  tenderness.  And  1 
:  would — if  it  were  possible — if  it  were  not  utterly  be 
yond  my  powers  of  self-sacrifice  and  concealment — I 
would  affect  a  devotion  I  can  not  feel,  and  carry  out 
this  error  through  a  life  of  artifice  and  monotony.  But 
here,  again,  the  work  is  your  own,  and  my  feelings  re 
vert  bitterly  to  your  interference.  If  there  were  no 
other  obstacle  to  my  marrying  you — if  you  were  not 
associated  repulsively  with  the  dark  cloud  on  my  life, 
you  are  not  the  woman  I  could  now  enthrone  in  my 
j  bosom.  We  have  diverged  since  the  separation  which 
I  pleaded  against,  and  which  you  commanded.  I  need 
for  my  idolatry,  now,  a  creature  to  whom  the  sordid 
cares  you  have  sacrificed  me  to,  are  utterly  unknown 
— a  woman  born  and  educated  in  circumstances  where 
want  is  never  feared,  and  where  calculation  never  en 
ters.  I  must  lavish  my  wealth,  if  I  fulfil  my  desire, 
on  one  who  accepts  it  like  the  air  she  breathes,  and 
who  knows  the  value  of  nothing  but  love — a  bird  with 
a  human  soul  and  form,  believing  herself  free  of  all 
the  world  is  rich  in,  and  careful  only  for  pleasure  and 
the  happiness  of  those  who  belong  to  her.  Such 
women,  beautiful  and  highly  educated,  are  found  only 
in  ranks  of  society  between  which  and  my  own  I  have 
been  increasing  in  distance — nay,  building  an  impassa 
ble  barrier,  in  obedience  to  your  control.  Where  I 
stop,  interdicted  by  the  stain  of  trade,  the  successful 
artist  is  free  to  enter.  You  have  stamped  me  plebeian 
— you  would  not  share  my  slow  progress  toward  a 
higher  sphere,  and  you  have  disqualified  me  for  attain 
ing  it  alone.  In  your  mercenary  and  immoveable  will, 
and  in  that  only,  lies  the  secret  of  our  twofold  unhap 
piness. 

"  I  leave  you,  to  return  to  Europe.  My  brother  and 
i  my  friends  will  tell  you  I  am  mad  and  inexcusable,  and 
j  look  upon  you  as  a  victim.  They  will  say  that,  to 
have  been  a  painter,  were  nothing  to  the  career  that  1 
might  mark  out  for  my  ambition,  if  ambition  1  must 
!  have,  in  politics.  Politics  in  a  country  where  distinc- 
|  tion  is  a  pillory  !  But  I  could  not  live  here.  It  is  my 
misfortune  that  my  tastes  are  so  modified  by  that  long 
and  compulsory  exile,  that  life,  here,  would  be  a  per 
petual  penance.  This  unmixed  air  of  merchandise 
suffocates  me.  Our  own  home  is  tinctured  black  with 
j  it.  You  yourself,  in  this  rural  paradise  you  have  con 
jured  up,  move  in  it  like  a  cloud.  The  counting- 
house  rings  in  your  voice,  calculation  draws  together 
your  brows,  you  look  on  everything  as  a  means,  and 
know  its  cost;  and  the  calm  and  means-forgetting//-M- 
ition,  which  forms  the  charm  and  dignity  of  superior 
life,  is  utterly  unknown  to  you.  What  would  be  my 
happiness  with  such  a  wife  ?  What  would  be  yours 
with  such  a  husband  ?  Yet  I  consider  the  incompat 
ibility  between  us  as  no  advantage  on  my  part — on  the 
contrary,  a  punishment,  and  of  your  inflicting.  What 
shall  I  be  anywhere  but  a  Tantalus — a  fastidious  en- 
nuye,  with  a  thirst  for  the  inaccessible  burning  in  my 
bosom  continually  ! 

"  I  pray  you  let  us  avoid  another  meeting  before  my 
departure.  Though  I  can  not  forgive  you  as  a  lover, 
I  can  think  of  you  with  pleasure  as  a  cousin,  and  I 
give  you,  as  your  due  ("damages,"  the  law  would 
phrase  it),  the  "portion  of  myself  which  you  thought 
most  important  when  I  offered  you  my  all.  You 
would  not  take  me  without  the  fortune,  but  perhaps 
you  will  be  content  with  the  fortune  without  me.  I 
shall  immediately  take  steps  to  convey  to  you  this 
property  of  Revedere,  with  an  income  sufficient  to 
maintain  it,  and  I  trust  soon  to  hear  that  you  have 
found  a  husband  better  worthy  of  you  than  your 
cousin —  "PHILIP  BALLISTER." 


LIGHT  VERVAIN. 


LIGHT  VERVAIN, 


"  And  thou  light  vervain,  too— thou  next  come  after, 
Provoking  souls  to  mirth  and  easy  laughter."—  Old  Somebody. 


ROME,  May  30,  1832. 

DINED  with  F — ,  the  artist,  at  a  trattoria.  F —  is 
a  man  of  genius,  very  adventurous  and  imaginative  in 
his  art,  but  never  caring  to  show  the  least  touch  of 
these  qualities  in  his  conversation.  His  pictures  have 
given  him  great  vogue  and  consideration  at  Rome,  so 
that  his  daily  experience  furnishes  staple  enough  for 
his  evening's  chit-chat,  and  he  seems,  of  course,  to  be 
always  talking  of  himself.  He  is  very  generally  set 
down  as  an  egotist.  His  impulse  to  talk,  however, 
springs  from  no  wish  for  self-glorification,  but  rather 
from  an  indolent  aptness  to  lay  hands  on  the  readiest 
and  most  familiar  topic,  and  that  is  a  kind  of  egotism 
to  which  I  have  very  little  objection — particularly 
with  the  mind  fatigued,  as  it  commonly  is  in  Rome, 
by  a  long  day's  study  of  works  of  art. 

I  had  passed  the  morning  at  the  Barberini  palace 
with  a  party  of  picture-hunters,  and  1  made  some 
remark  as  to  the  variety  of  impressions  made  upon 
the  minds  of  different  people  by  the  same  picture. 
Apropos  of  this  remark,  F —  told  me  a  little  anecdote, 
which  I  must  try  to  put  down  by  way  of  a  new  shoal 
in  the  chart  of  human  nature. 

"  It  is  very  much  the  same  with  everything  else," 
said  F — ;  "no  two  people  see  with  the  same  eyes, 
physically  or  morally  ;  and  faith,  we  might  save  our 
selves  a  great  deal  of  care  and  bother  if  we  did  but 
keep  it  in  mind." 

"  As  how  ?"  I  asked,  for  I  saw  that  this  vague 
remark  was  premonitory  of  an  illustration. 

"  I  think  I  introduced  young  Skyring  to  you  at  a 
party  somewhere?" 

"A  youth  with  a  gay  waistcoat  and  nothing  to  say  ? 
Yes." 

"  Well — your  observation  just  now  reminded  me  of 
the  different  estimate  put  by  that  gentleman  and 
myself  upon  something,  and  if  I  could  give  you  any 
idea  of  my  month's  work  in  his  behalf  you  would 
agree  with  me  that  I  might  have  spared  myself  some 
trouble — keeping  in  mind,  as  I  said  before,  the  differ 
ence  in  optics. 

"I  was  copying  a  bit  of  foreshortening  from  a  pic 
ture  in  the  Vatican,  one  day,  when  this  youth  passed 
without  observing  me.  I  did  not  immediately  recol 
lect  him.  He  was  dressed  like  a  figure  in  a  tailor's 
widow,  and  with  Mrs.  Stark  in  his  hand  was  hunting 
up  the  pictures  marked  with  four  notes  of  admiration, 
and  I,  with  a  smile  at  the  waxy  dandyism  of  the  man. 
turned  to  my  work  and  forgot  him.  Presently  his 
face  recurred  to  me,  or  rather  his  sister's  face,  which 
some  family  likeness  had  insensibly  recalled,  and 
gejting  another  look,  I  recognised  in  him  an  old, 
though  not  very  intimate  playmate  of  my  boyish  days. 
It  immediately  occurred  to  me  that  I  could  serve  him 
a  very  good  turn  by  giving  him  the  entree  to  society 
here,  and  quite  as  immediately,  it  occurred  to  me  to 
doubt  whether  it  was  worth  my  while." 

"  And  what  changed  your  mind,"  I  asked,  "  for  of 
course  you  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  not  ?" 

"Oh,  for  his'  sake  alone  I  should  have  left  him  as 
he  was,  a  hermit  in  his  varnished  boots — for  he  had 
not  an  acquaintance  in  the  city — but  Kate  Skyring 
had  given  me  roses  when  roses  were  to  me,  each  a 
world;  and  for  her  sake,  though  I  was  a  rejected 
lover,  I  thought  better  of  my  demurrer.  Then  I  had 


a  little  pique  to  gratify — for  the  Skyrings  had  rather 
given  me  the  dc  haul  en  bas  in  declining  the  honor  of 
my  alliance  (lucky  for  me,  since  it  brought  me  here 
and  made  me  what  I  am),  and  I  was  not  indisposed  to 
show  that  the  power  to  serve,  to  say  the  least,  was  now 
on  my  side." 

"Two  sufficient,  as  well  as  dramatic  reasons  for 
being  civil  to  a  man." 

"  Only  arrived  at,  however,  by  a  night's  deliberation, 
for  it  cost  me  some  trouble  of  thought  and  memory  to 
get  back  into  my  chrysalis  and  imagine  myself  at  all 
subject  to  people  so  much  below  my  present  vogue — 
whatever  that  is  worth !  Of  course  I  don't  think  of 
Kate  in  this  comparison,  for  a  woman  one  has  once 
loved  is  below  nothing.  We'll  drink  her  health,  God 
bless  her!" 

(A  bottle  of  Lagrima.) 

"  I  left  my  card  on  Mr.  Skyring  the  next  morning, 
with  a  note  enclosing  three  or  four  invitations  which  I 
had  been  at  some  trouble  to  procure,  and  a  hope  from 
myself  of  the  honor  of  his  company  to  a  quiet  dinner. 
He  took  it  as  a  statue  would  take  a  shower-bath,  wrote 
me  a  note  in  the  third  person  in  reply  to  mine  in  the 
first,  and  came  in  ball-dress  and  sulphur  gloves  at  pre 
cisely  the  canonical  fifteen  minutes  past  the  hour. 
Good  old  Thorwalsden  dined  with  me,  and  an  English 
viscount  for  whom  I  was  painting  a  picture,  and 
between  my  talking  Italian  to  the  venerable  sculptor, 
and  Skyring's  belording  and  belordshipping  the  good- 
natured  nobleman,  the  dinner  went  trippingly  off — the 
Little  Pedlington  of  our  mutual  nativity  furnishing 
less  than  its  share  to  the  conversation. 

"  We  drove,  all  together,  to  the  Palazzo  Rossi,  for 
its  was  the  night  of  the  Marchesa's  soiree.  As  spon 
sor,  I  looked  with  some  satisfaction  at  Skyring  in  the 
ante-room,  his  toggery  being  quite  unexceptionable, 
and  his  maintien  very  uppish  and  assured.  I  presented 
him  to  our  fair  hostess,  who  surveyed  him  as  he 
approached  with  a  satisfactory  look  of  approval,  and 
no  one  else  chancing  to  be  near,  I  left  him  to  improve 
what  was  rather  a  rare  opportunity — a  tete-a-tete  with 
the  prettiest  woman  in  Rome.  Five  minutes  after  I 
returned  to  reconnoitre,  and  there  he  stood,  stroking 
down  his  velvet  waistcoat  and  looking  from  the  carpet 
to  the  ceiling,  while  the  marchioness  was  quite  red 
with  embarrassment  and  vexation.  He  had  not  opened 
his  lips  !  She  had  tried  him  in  French  and  Italian 
(the  dunce  had  told  me  that  he  spoke  French  too), 
and  finally  she  had  ventured  upon  English,  which  she 
knew  very  little  of,  and  still  he  neither  spoke  nor  ran 
away ! 

"  'Perhaps  Monsieur  would  like  to  dance,'  said  the 
marchioness,  gliding  away  from  him  with  a  look  of 
inexpressible  relief,  and  trusting  to  me  to  find  him  a 
partner. 

"I  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  him  a  partner,  for 
(that  far)  his  waistcoat  'put  him  on  velvet' — but  I 
could  not  trust  him  alone  again  ;  so,  having  presented 
him  to  a  very  pretty  woman  and  got  them  vis-a-vis  in 
the  quadrille,  I  stood  by  to  supply  the  shortcomings. 
And  little  of  a  sinecure  it  was  !  The  man  had  nothing 
to  say  ;  nor,  confound  him,  had  he  any  embarrassment 
on  the  subject.  He  looked  at  his  varnished  pumps, 
and  coaxed  his  coat  to  his  waist,  and  set  back  his  neck 
like  a  goose  bolting  a  grasshopper,  and  took  as  much 


LIGHT  VERVAIN. 


interest  in  the  conversation  as  a  footman  behind  your 
chair — deaf  and  dumb  apparently,  but  perfectly  at  his 
ease.  He  evidently  had  no  idea  that  there  was  any 
distinction  between  men  except  in  dress,  and  was  per 
suaded  that  he  was  entirely  successful  as  far  as  he  had 
gone  :  and  as  to  my  efforts  in  his  behalf,  he  clearly 
took  them  as  gratuitous  on  my  part — probably  thinking, 
from  the  difference  in  our  exteriors,  that  I  paid  myself 
in  the  glory  of  introducing  him. 

"  Well — I  had  begun  so  liberally  that  T  could  scarce 
refuse  to  find  my  friend  another  partner,  and  after  that 
another  and  another — I,  to  avoid  the  odium  of  inflict 
ing  a  bore  on  my  fair  acquaintances,  feeling  compelled 
to  continue  my  service  as  chorus  in  the  pantomime — 
and,  you  will  scarce  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I 
submitted  to  this  bore  nightly  for  a  month  !  I  could 
not  get  rid  of  him.  He  would  not  be  let  go.  With 
out  offending  him  mortally,  and  so  undoing  all  my 
sentimental  outlay  for  Kate  Skyring  and  her  short 
sighted  papa,  I  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  on  till  he 
should  go  off — ridden  to  death  with  him  in  every  con 
ceivable  variety  of  bore." 

"  And  is  he  gone  ?" 

"  Gone.  And  now,  what  thanks  do  you  suppose  I 
got  for  all  this  ?" 

"  A  present  of  a  pencil-case  ?" 

"  No,  indeed  !  but  a  lesson  in  human  nature  that 
will  stick  by  me  much  longer.  He  called  at  my  studio 
yesterday  morning  to  say  good-by.  Through  all  my 
sense  of  his  boredom  and  relief  at  the  prospect  of 
being  rid  of  him,  I  felt  embarrassed  when  he  came  in, 
thinking  how  difficult  it  would  be  for  him  to  express 
properly  his  sense  of  the  obligation  he  was  under  to 
me.  After  half  an  hour's  monologue  (by  myself)  on 
pictures,  &c.,  he  .started  up  and  said  he  must  go. 
•  And  by-the-by,'  said  he,  coloring  a  little,  '  there  is 
one  thing  I  want  to  say  to  you,  Mr.  F — !  Hang  it, 
it  has  stuck  in  my  throat  ever  since  I  met  you  ! 
You've  been  very  polite  and  I'm  obliged  to  you,  of 
course — but  I  don't  like  your  devilish  patronizing 
manner  !  Good-by,  Mr.  F —  !' " 

****** 

The  foregoing  is  a  leaf  from  a  private  diary  which  I 
kept  at  Rome.  In  making  a  daily  entry  of  such 
passing  stuff  as  interests  us,  we  sometimes,  amid  much 
that  should  be  ticketed  for  oblivion,  record  that  which 
has  a  bearing,  important  or  amusing,  on  the  future; 
and  a  late  renewal  of  my  acquaintance  with  Mr.  F — , 
followed  by  a  knowledge  of  some  fortunate  changes 
in  his  worldly  condition,  has  given  that  interest  to  this 
otherwise  unimportant  scrap  of  diary  which  will  be 
made  apparent  presently  to  the  reader.  A  vague 
recollection  that  I  had  something  in  an  old  book 
which  referred  to  him,  induced  me  to  look  it  up,  and 
I  was  surprised  to  find  that  I  had  noted  down,  in  this 
trifling  anecdote,  what  turned  out  to  be  the  mainspring 
of  his  destiny. 

F —  returned  to  his  native  country  after  five  years 
study  of  the  great  masters  of  Italy.  "His  first  pictures 
painted  at  Rome  procured  for  him,  as  is  stated  in  the 
diary  I  have  quoted,  a  high  reputation.  He  carried 
with  him  a  style  of  his  own  which  was  merely  stimu 
lated  and  heightened  by  his  first  year's  walk  through 
the  galleries  of  Florence,  and  the  originality  and  bold 
ness  of  his  manner  of  coloring  seemed  to  promise  a 
sustained  novelty  in  the  art.  Gradually,  however,  the 
awe  of  the  great  masters  seemed  to  overshadow  his 
confidence  in  himself,  and  as  he  travelled  and  deep 
ened  his  knowledge  of  painting,  he  threw  aside  feature 
after  feature  of  his  own  peculiar  style,  till  at  last  he 
fell  into  the  track  of  the  great  army  of  imitators,  who 
follow  the  immortals  of  the  Vatican  as  doomed  ships 
follow  the  Flying  Dutchman. 

Arrived  at  home,  and  depending  solely  on  his  art 
for  a  subsistence,  F —  commenced  the  profession  to 
which  be  had  served  so  long  an  apprenticeship.  But 


his  pictures  sadly  disappointed  his  friends.  After  the 
first  specimens  of  his  acquired  style  in  the  annual  ex 
hibitions,  the  calls  at  his  rooms  became  fewer  and 
farther  between,  and  his  best  works  were  returned 
from  the  galleries  unsold.  Too  proud  to  humor  the 
popular  taste  by  returning  to  what  he  considered  an 
inferior  stage  of  his  art,  he  stood  still  with  his  reputa 
tion  ebbing  from  him,  and  as  his  means,  of  course, 
depended  on  the  tide  of  public  favor,  he  was  soon  in 
volved  in  troubles  before  which  his  once-brilliant  hopes 
rapidly  faded. 

At  this  juncture  he  received  the  following  letter: — 

"  You  will  be  surprised  on  glancing  at  the  signature 
to  this  letter.  You  will  be  still  more  surprised  when 
you  are  reminded  that  it  is  a  reply  to  an  unanswered 
one  of  your  own — written  years  ago.  That  letter  lies 
by  me,  expressed  with  all  the  diffidence  of  boyish 
feeling.  And  it  seems  as  if  its  diffidence  would  en 
courage  me  in  what  I  wish  to  say.  Yet  I  write  far 
!  more  tremblingly  than  you  could  have  done. 

"  Let  me  try  to  prepare  the  way  by  some  explana- 
|   tion  of  the  past. 

"You  were  my  first  lover.  I  was  not  forbidden,  at 
ji  fourteen,  to  express  the  pleasure  I  felt  at  your  admi- 
J!  ration,  and  you  can  not  have  forgotten  the  ardor  and 
j  simplicity  with  which  I  returned  it.  I  remember 
1 1  giving  you  roses  better  than  I  remember  anything  so 
''long  ago.  Now — writing  to  you  with  the  same  feel- 
j|  ing  warm  at  my  heart — it  seems  to  me  as  if  it  needed 
;  but  a  rose,  could  I  give  it  you  in  the  same  garden,  to 
!1  make  us  lovers  again.  Yet  I  know  you  must  be 
changed.  I  scarce  know  whether  I  should  go  on  with 
;  this  letter. 

"But  I  owe  you  reparation.     I  owe  you  an  answer 
to  this  which  lies  before  me  :  and  if  I  err  in  answer 
ing  it  as  my  heart  burns  to  do,   you  will  at  least  be 
made  happier   by  knowing    that   when   treated  with 
j  neglect  and  repulsion,  you  were  still  beloved. 

"  I  think  it  was  not  long  before  the  receipt  of  this 
j  letter  that  my  father  first  spoke  to  me  of  our  attach 
ment.  Till  then  I  had  only  thought  of  loving  you. 
That  you  were  graceful  and  manly,  that  your  voice 
was  sweet,  and  that  your  smile  made  me  happy,  was 
all  I  could  have  told  of  you  withoutj-eflection.  I  had 
never  reasoned  upon  your  qualities  of  mind,  though  I 
had  taken  an  unconscious  pride  in  your  superiority  to 
your  companions,  and  least  of  all  had  I  asked  myself 
whether  those  abilities  for  making  your  way  in  the 
world  which  my  father  denied  you,  were  among  your 
boyish  energies.  With  a  silent  conviction  that  you 
had  no  equal  among  your  companions,  in  anything,  I 
listened  to  my  father's  disparagement  of  you,  bewil 
dered  and  overawed,  the  very  novelty  and  unexpected 
ness  of  the  light  in  which  he  spoke  of  you,  sealing 
my  lips  completely.  Perhaps  resistance  to  his  will 
would  have  been  of  no  avail,  but  had  I  been  better 
prepared  to  reason  upon  what  he  urged,  I  might  have 
expressed  to  you  the  unwillingness  of  my  acquies 
cence.  I  was  prevented  from  seeing  you  till  your 
letter  came,  and  then  all  intercourse  with  you  was 
formally  forbidden.  My  father  said  he  would  himself 
reply  to  your  proposal.  But  it  was  addressed  to  me, 
and  I  have  only  recovered  possession  of  it  by  his  death. 
"  Though  it  may  seem  like  reproaching  you  for 
yielding  me  without  an  effort,  I  must  say,  to  complete 
the  history  of  my  own  feelings,  that  I  nursed  a  vague 
hope  of  hearing  from  you  until  your  departure  for 
Italy,  and  that  this  hope  was  extinguished  not  without 
bitter  tears.  The  partial  resentment  that  mingled  with 
this  unhappiness  aided  me  doubtless  in  making  up  my 
mind  to  forget  you,  and  for  a  while,  for  years  I  may 
say,  I  was  possessed  by  other  excitements  and  feel 
ings.  It  is  strange,  however,  that,  though  scarce 
remembering  you  when  waking,  I  still  saw  you  per 
petually  in  my  dreams. 


86 


NORA  MEHIDY. 


"And,  so  far,  this  is  a  cold  and  easy  recital.  How 
shall  I  describe  to  you  the  next  change,  the  re-awaken 
ing  of  this  smothered  and  slumbering  affection  !  How 
shall  I  evade  your  contempt  when  I  tell  you  that  it 
awoke  with  your  renown  !  But  my  first  feeling  was 
not  one  of  love.  When  your  name  began  to  come  to 
us  in  the  letters  of  travellers  and  in  the  rumor  of  lit 
erary  circles,  I  felt  as  if  something  that  belonged  to 
me  was  praised  and  honored  ;  a  pride,  an  exulting  and 
gratified  pride,  that  feeling  seemed  to  be,  as  if  the 
heart  of  my  childhood  had  been  staked  on  your  aspi 
rations,  and  was  borne  up  with  you,  a  part  and  a  par 
taker  of  your  fame.  With  all  my  soul  I  drank  in  the 
news  of  your  successes  in  the  art  ;  I  wrote  to  those 
who  came  home  from  Italy;  I  questioned  those  likely 
to  have  heard  of  you,  as  critics  and  connoisseurs  ;  I 
devoted  all  my  reading  to  the  literature  of  the  arts, 
and  the  history  of  painters,  for  my  life  was  poured 
into  yours  irresistibly,  by  a  power  I  could  not,  and 
cannot  now,  control.  My  own  imagination  turned 
painter,  indeed,  for  I  lived  on  revery,  calling  up,  with 
endless  variations,  pictures  of  yourself  amid  ihe  works 
of  your  pencil,  visited  and  honored  as  I  knew  you 
were,  yet  unchanged  in  the  graceful  and  boyish  beauty 
I  remembered.  I  was  proud  of  having  loved  you,  of 
having  been  the  object  of  the  earliest  and  purest  pref 
erence  of  a  creature  of  genius  ;  and  through  this 
pride,  supplanting  and  overflowing  it,  crept  and 
strengthened  a  warmer  feeling,  the  love  I  have  the 
hardihood  to  avow.  Oh  !  what  will  you  think  of  this 
boldness  !  Yet  to  conceal  my  love  were  now  a  se 
verer  task  than  to  wait  the  hazard  of  your  contempt. 

"One  explanation — a  palliative,  perhaps  you  will 
allow  it  to  be,  if  you  are  generous — remains  to  be 
given.  The  immediate  impulse  of  this  letter  was  in 
formation  from  my  brother,  long  withheld,  of  your 
kindness  to  him  in  Rome.  From  some  perverseness 


which  I  hardly  understand,  he  has  never  before  hinted 
in  my  presence  that  he  had  seen  you  in  Italy,  and  it 
was  only  by  needing  it  as  an  illustration  of  some  feel 
ing  which  seemed  to  have  piqued  him,  and  which  he 
was  expressing  to  a  friend,  that  he  gave  the  particulars 
of  your  month  of  devotion  to  him.  Knowing  the  dif 
ference  between  your  characters,  and  the  entire  want 
of  sympathy  between  your  pursuits  and  my  brother's, 
to  what  motive  could  I  attribute  your  unusual  and 
self-sacrificing  kindness  ? 

"  Did  I  err — was  I  presumptuous,  in  believing  that 
it  was  from  a  forgiving  and  tender  memory  of  myself? 

"  You  are  prepared  now,  if  you  can  be,  for  what  I 
would  say.  We  are  left  alone,  my  brother  and  I,  or 
phan  heirs  to  the  large  fortune  of  my  father.  I  have 
no  one  to  control  my  wishes,  no  one's  permission  to 
ask  for  any  disposition  of  my  hand  and  fortune.  Will 
you  have  them  ?  In  this  question  is  answered  the 
sweet,  and  long-treasured,  though  long-neglected  let 
ter  lying  beside  me.  "  KATHERINE  SKYRING." 

Mrs.  F — ,  as  will  be  seen  from  the  style  of  her  let 
ter,  is  a  woman  of  decision  and  cleverness,  and  of  such 
a  helpmeet,  in  the  way  of  his  profession  as  well  as  in 
the  tenderer  relations  of  life,  F —  was  sorely  in  need. 
By  her  common-sense  counsels  and  persuasion,  he 
has  gone  back  with  his  knowledge  of  the  art  to  the 
first  lights  of  his  own  powerful  genius,  and  with 
means  to  command  leisure  and  experiment,  he  is, 
without  submitting  the  process  to  the  world,  perfect 
ing  a  manner  which  will  more  than  redeem  his  early 
promise. 

As  his  career,  though  not  very  uncommon  or  dra 
matic,  hinged  for  its  more  fortunate  events  on  an  act 
of  high-spirited  politeness,  I  have  thought,  that  in 
this  age  of  departed  chivalry,  the  story  was  worth 
preserving  for  its  lesson. 


NORA    MEHIDY; 


OR,  THE  STRANGE  ROAD  TO  THE  HEART  OF  MR.  HYPOLET  LEATHERS. 


Now,  Heaven  rest  the  Phoenicians  for  their  pleasant 
invention  of  the  art  of  travel. 


This  is  to  be  a  story  of  love  and  pride,  and  the  he 
ro's  name  is  Hypolet  Leathers. 


You  have  smiled  prematurely,  my  friend  and  reader, 
if  you  "think  you  see"  Mr.  Leathers  foreshadowed, 
as  it  were,  in  his  name. 


(Three  mortal  times  have  I  mended  this  son  of  a 
goose  of  a  pen,  and  it  will  not — as  you  see  by  the 
three  unavailing  attempts  recorded  above — it  will  not 
commence,  for  me,  this  tale,  with  a  practicable  begin 
ning.) 

The  sun  was  rising  (I  think  this  promises  well) — 
leisurely  rising  was  the  sun  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
Susquehannah.  The  tall  corn  endeavored  to  lift  its 
silk  tassel  out  of  the  sloppy  fog  that  had  taken  upon 
itself  to  rise  from  the  water  and  prognosticate  a  hot  fair 
day,  and  the  driver  of  the  Binghamton  stage  drew  over 
his  legs  a  two-bushel  bag  as  he  cleared  the  street  of 
the  village,  and  thought  that,  for  a  summer's  morn 
ing,  it  was  "  very  cold" — wholly  unaware,  however, 
that,  in  murmuring  thus,  he  was  expressing  himself 
as  Hamlet  did  while  waiting  for  his  father's  ghost  upon 
the  platform. 


Inside  the  coach  were  three  passengers.  A  gentle 
man  sat  by  the  window  on  the  middle  seat,  with  his 
cloak  over  his  lap,  watching  the  going  to  heaven  of 
the  fog  that  had  fulfilled  its  destiny.  His  mind  was 
melancholy — partly  for  the  contrast  he  could  not  but 
draw  between  this  exemplary  vapor  and  himself,  who 
was  "but  a  vapor,"*  and  partly  that  his  pancreas  be 
gan  to  apprehend  some  interruption  of  the  thorough 
fare  above — or,  in  other  words,  that  he  was  hungry 
for  his  breakfast,  having  gone  supperless  to  bed.  He 
mused  as  he  rode.  He  was  a  young  man,  about 
:  twenty-five,  and  had  inherited  from  his  father,  John 
I  Leathers,  a  gentleman's  fortune,  with  the  two  draw 
backs  of  a  name  troublesome  to  Phcebus  ("Phoebus! 
what  a  name!"),  and  premature  gray  hair.  He  was, 
in  all  other  respects,  a  finished  and  well-conditioned 
hero — tall,  comely,  courtly,  and  accomplished — and 
had  seen  the  sight-worthy  portions  of  the  world,  and 
knew  their  differences.  Travel,  indeed,  had  become 
a  kind  of  diseased  necessity  with  him — for  he  fled 
from  the  knowledge  of  his  name,  and  from  the  obser 
vation  of  his  gray  hair,  like  a  man  fleer.ig  from  two 
fell  phantoms/  He  was  now  returning  from  Niagara, 

*  "  Man's  but  a  vapor, 

Full  of  woes, 
Cuts  a  caper, 
And  down  he  goes."— .Fam?7/<w  Ballads. 


NORA  MEHIDY. 


87 


and  left  the  Mohawk  route  to  see  where  the  Susque- 
hannah  makes  its  Great  Bend  in  taking  final  leave  of 
Mr.  Cooper,  who  lives  above;  and  at  the  village  of 
the  Great  Bend  he  was  to  eat  that  day's  breakfast. 

On  the  back  seat,  upon  the  leather  cushion,  behind  I 
Mr.  Leathers,  sat  two  other  chilly  persons,  a  middle-  < 
aged  man  and  a  girl  of  sixteen— the  latter  with  her 
shawl  drawn  close  ^to  her  arms,  and  her  dark  eyes  bent 
upon  her  knees,  as  if  to  warm  them  (as  unquestion-  ' 
ably  they  did).  Her  black  curls  swung  out  from  her 
bonnet,  like  ripe  grapes  from  the  top  of  an  arbor — 
heavy,  slumberous,  bulky,  prodigal  black  curls— oh,  j 
how  beautiful!  And  I  do  not  know  that  it  would  be  j 
a  "  trick  worth  an  egg"  to  make  any  mysiery  of  these 
two  persons.  The  gentleman  was  John  Mehidy,  the  | 
widowed  tailor  of  Binghamton,  and  the  lady  was  Nora  j 
Mehidy,  his  daughter ;  and  they  were  on  their  way  to  I 
New  York  to  change  the  scene,  Mrs.  Mehidy  having  j 
left  the  painful  legacy  of  love — her  presence — behind 
her.  For,  ill  as  he  could  afford  the  journey,  Mr.  Me-  j 
hidy  thought  the  fire  of  Nora's  dark  eyes  might  be  i 
put  out  with  water,  and  he  must  go  where  every  ! 
patch  and  shred  would  not  set  her  a  weeping.  She  | 
"  took  it  hard,"  as  they  describe  grief  for  the  dead  in  ; 
the  country. 

The  Great  Bend  is  a  scene  you   may  look  at  with 
pleasure,  even  while  waiting   for  procrastinated  prog,  j 
and  Hypolet  Leathers  had  been  standing  for  ten  min-  | 
utes  on  the  high  bank  around  which  the  Susquehan- 
nah  sweeps,  like  a  train  of  silver  tissue  after  a  queen  i 
turning  a  corner,  when  past  him  suddenly  tripped  No 
ra  Mehidy  bonnetless,  and  stood  gazing  on  the  river  j 
from  the  outer  edge  of  the  precipice.     Leathers's  vis 
ual  consciousness  dropped  into  thai  mass  of  cluster 
ing   hair  like  a  ring   into   the  sea,  and  disappeared. 
His  soul  dived  after  it,  and  left  him  with  no  sense  or  | 
remembrance  of  how  his  outer  orbs  were  amusing  i 
themselves.     Of  what   unpatented  texture  of  velvet, 
and  of  what  sifting  of  diamond  dust  were  those  lights  I 
and   shadows   manufactured !      What   immeasurable 
thickness  in  those   black   flakes — compared,  with  all  ' 
locks  that  he  had   ever  seen,  as  an   edge  of  cocoa-  ' 
meat,  fragrantly  and  newly  broken,  to  a  torn  leaf,  limp  ! 
with  wilting.     Nora  stood  motionless,  absorbed  in  the 
incomparable  splendor  of  that  silver  hook   bent  into  j 
the  forest — Leathers  as  motionless,  absorbed  in   her  i 
wilderness  of  jetty  locks— till  the  barkeeper  rang  the 
bell   for  them  to  come  to   breakfast.     Ah,  Hypolet! 
Hypolet!  what  dark  thought  came  to  share,  with  that 
innocent  beefsteak,  your  morning's  digestion  ! 

That  tailors  have,  and  why  they  have,  the  hand-  i 
somest  daughters,  in  all  countries,  have  been  points 
of  observation  and  speculation  for  physiology,  written 
and  unwritten.  Most  men  know  the  fact.  Some 
writers  have  ventured  to  guess  at  the  occult  secret. 
But  I  think  "it  needs  no  ghost,  come  from  the^rave," 
to  unravel  the  matter.  Their  vocaiion  is  the  embel 
lishment—partly  indeed  the  creation — of  material 
beauty.  If  philosophy  sit  on  their  shears  (as  it  should 
ever),  there  are  questions  to  decide  which  discipline 
the  sense  of  beauty — the  degree  in  which  fashion 
should  be  sacrificed  to  becomingness,  and  the  resist 
ance  to  the  invasion  of  the  poetical  by  whim  and 
usage,  for  example — and  as  a  man  thinketh — to  a  cer 
tain  degree — so  is  his  daughter.  Beauty  is  the  busi 
ness-thought  of  every  day,  and  the  desire  to  know 
how  best  to  remedy  its  defects  is  the  ache  and  agony 
of  the  tailor's  soul,  if  he  be  ambitious.  Why  should 
not  this  have  its  exponent  on  the  features  of  the  race, 
as  other  strong  emotions  have — plastic  and  malleable 
as  the  human  body  is,  by  habit  and  practice.  Shak- 
spere,  by-the-way,  says — 

'Tis  use  that  breeds  a  habit  in  a  man, 

and  I  own  to  the  dulness  of  never  till  now  apprehend 
ing  that  this  remarkable  passage  typifies  the  steeping 


of  superfine  broadcloth  (made  into  superfine  habits) 
into  the  woof  and  warp  of  the  tailor's  idiosyncracy. 
Q.  E.  D. 

Nora  Mehidy  had  ways  with  her  that,  if  the  world 
had  not  been  thrown  into  a  muss  by  Eve  and  Adam, 
would  doubtless  have  been  kept  for  queens.  Leath 
ers  was  particularly  struck  with  her  never  lifting  up 
her  eyelids  till  she  was  ready.  If  she  chanced  to  be 
looking  thoughtfully  down  when  he  spoke  to  her, 
which  was  her  habit  of  sadness  just  now,  she  heard 
what  he  had  to  say  and  commenced  replying — and 
then,  slowly,  up  went  the  lids,  combing  the  loving  air 
with  their  long  lashes,  and  no  more  hurried  than  the 
twilight  taking  its  fringes  off  the  stars.  It  was  ado 
rable — altogether  adorable  !  And  her  hands  and  lips, 
and  feet  and  shoulders,  had  the  same  contemptuous 
and  delicious  deliberateness. 

On  the  second  evening,  at  half-past  five — just  half 
an  hour  too  late  for  the  "Highlander"  steamer — the 
"  Binghamton  stage"  slid  down  the  mountain  into 
Newburgh.  The  next  boat  was  to  touch  at  the  pier 
at  midnight,  and  Leathers  had  six  capacious  hours  to 
work  on  the  mind  of  John  Mehidy.  What  was  the 
process  of  that  fiendish  temptation,  what  the  lure  and 
the  resistance,  is  a  secret  locked  up  with  Moloch — 
but  it  was  successful !  The  glorious  chevelure  of  the 
victim — (sweet  descriptive  word — chevelure.') — the 
matchless  locks  that  the  matchlocks  of  armies  should 
have  defended — went  down  in  the  same  boat  with  No 
ra  Mehidy,  but  tied  up  in  Mr.  Leathers'  linen  pocket- 
handkerchief!  And,  in  one  week  from  that  day,  the 
head  of  Hypolet  Leathers  was  shaven  nude,  and  the 
black  curls  of  Nora  Mehidy  were  placed  upon  its 
irritated  organs  in  an  incomparable  WIG  !  ! 

A  year  had  elapsed.  It  was  a  warm  day,  in  No.  77 
of  the  Astor,  and  Hypolet  Leathers,  Esq.,  arrived  a 
week  before  by  the  Great  Western,  sat  aiding  the 
evaporation  from  his  brain  by  lotions  of  iced  lavender. 
His  wig  stood  before  him,  on  the  blockhead  that  was 
now  his  inseparable  companion,  the  back  toward  him; 
and,  as  the  wind  chased  of  the  volatile  lavender  from 
the  pores  of  his  skull,  he  toyed  thoughtfully  with  the 
lustrous  curls  of  Nora  Mehidy.  His  heart  was  on 
that  wooden  block  !  He  dressed  his  own  wig  habit 
ually,  and  by  dint  of  perfuming,  combing,  and  cares 
sing  those  finger-like  ringlets— he  had  tangled  up  his 
heart  in  their  meshes.  A  phantom,  with  the  superb 
face  of  the  owner,  stayed  with  the  separated  locks,  and 
it  grew  hourly  more  palpable  and  controlling.  The 
sample  had  made  him  sick  at  heart  for  the  remainder. 
He  wanted  the  rest  of  Nora  Mehidy.  He  had  come 
over  for  her.  He  had  found  John  Mehidy,  following 
his  trade  obscurely  in  a  narrow  lane,  and  he  had  asked 
for  Nora's  hand.  But  though  this  was  not  the  whole 
of  his  daughter,  and  he  had  already  sold  part  of  her 
to  Leathers,  he  shook  his  head  over  his  shiny  shears. 
Even  if  Nora  could  be  propitiated  after  the  sacrifice 
,  she  had  made  (which  he  did  not  believe  she  could  be), 
I  he  would  as  lief  put  her  in  the  world  of  spirits  as  in  a 
•world  above  him.  She  was  his  life,  and  he  would  not 
give  "his  life  willingly  to  a  stranger  who  would  take  it 
from  him,  or  make  it  too  fine  for  his  using.  Oh,  no 
Nora  must  marry  a  tailor,  if  she  marry  at  all— and 
this  was  the  adamantine  resolution,  stern  and  without 
appeal,  of  John  Mehidy. 

Some  six  weeks  after  this,  a  new  tailoring  estab 
lishment  of  great  outlay  and  magnificence  was  opened 
in  Broadway.  The  show-window  was  like  a  new  rev 
elation  of  stuff  for  trowsers,  and  resplendent,  but  not 
gaudy,  were  the  neckcloths  and  waistcoatings — for 
absolute  taste  reigned  over  all.  There  was  not  an  ar 
ticle  on  show  possible  to  William  street— not  a  waist 
coat  that,  seen  in  Maiden  lane,  would  not  have  been 
as  unsphered  as  the  Lost  Pleiad  in  Botany  Bay.  It 
was  quite  clear  that  there  was  some  one  of  the  firm 


THE  PHARISEE  AND  THE  BARBER. 


of  "  Mehidy  &  Co."  (the  new  sign)  who  exercised 
his  taste  "  from  within,  out,"  as  the  Germans  say  of 
the  process  of  true  poetry.  He  began  inside  a  gen 
tleman,  that  is  to  say,  to  guess  at  what  was  wanted  for 
a  gentleman's  outside.  He  was  a  tailor-gentleman, 
and  was  therefore,  and  by  that  .quality  only,  fitted  to 
be  a  gentleman's  tailor. 

The  dandies  flocked  to  Mehidy  &  Co.  They 
could  not  be  measured  immediately — oh  no  !  The 
gentleman  to  be  built  was  requested  to  walk  about  the 
shop  for  a  half  hour,  till  the  foreman  got  him  well  in 
his  eye,  and  then  to  call  again  in  a  week.  Meantime 
he  would  mark  his  customer  in  the  street,  to  see  how 
he  performed.  Mehidy  &  Co.  never  ventured  to  take 
measure  for  terra  incognita.  The  man's  gait,  shrug, 
speed,  style,  and  quality,  were  all  to  be  allowed  for, 
and  these  were  not  seen  in  a  minute.  And  a  very 
sharp  and  stylish  looking  fellow  seemed  that  foreman 
to  be.  There  was  evidently  spoiled  some  very  capa 
ble  stuff  for  a  lord  when  he  was  made  a  tailor. 

"  His  leaf, 

By  some  o'er  hasty  angel,  was  misplaced 
In  Fate's  eternal  volume." 

And,  faith  !  it  was  a  study  to  see  him  take  a  custom 
er's  measure!  The  quiet  contempt  with  which  he 
overruled  the  man's  indigenous  idea  of  a  coat ! — the 
rather  satirical  comments  on  his  peculiarities  of  wear 
ing  his  kerseymere ! — the  cool  survey  of  the  adult  to 
be  embellished,  as  if  he  were  inspecting  him  for  ad 
mission  to  the  grenadiers  !  On  the  whole,  it  was  a 
nervous  business  to  be  measured  for  a  coat  by  that 
fellow  with  the  devilish  fine  head  of  black  hair! 

And,  with  the  hair  upon  his  head,  from  which  Nora 
had  once  no  secrets — with  the  curls  upon  his  cheek 
and  temples  which  had  once  slumbered  peacefully 
over  hers,  Hypolet  Leathers,  the  foreman  of  "  Mehi 
dy  &  Co.,"  made  persevering  love  to  the  tailor's  mag 
nificent  daughter.  For  she  u>as  magnificent!  She 
had  just  taken  that  long  stride  from  girl  to  woman, 
and  her  person  had  filled  out  to  the  imperial  and  vo 
luptuous  model  indicated  by  her  deliberate  eyes. 


With  a  dusky  glow  in  her  cheek,  that  looked  like  a 
peach  feinted  by  a  rosy  twilight,  her  mouth,  up  to  the 
crimson  edge  of  its  bow  of  Cupid,  was  moulded  with 
the  slumberous  fairness  of  newly  wrought  sculpture, 
and  gloriously  beautiful  in  expression.  She  was  a 
creature  for  whom  a  butterfly  might  do  worm  over 
again — to  whose  condition  in  life,  if  need  be,  a  prince 
might  proudly  come  down.  Ah,  queenly  Nora  Me 
hidy  ! 

But  the  wooing — alas!  the  wooing  throve  slowly  ! 
That  lovely  head  was  covered  again  with  prodigal 
locks,  in  short  and  massive  clusters,  but  Leathers  was 
pertinacious  as  to  his  property  in  the  wig,  and  its  be- 
comingness  and  indispensableness — and  to  be  made 
love  to  by  a  man  in  her  own  hair! — to  be  obliged  to 
keep  her  own  dark  curls  at  a  respectful  distance! — to 
forbid  all  intercourse  between  them  and  their  chil 
dren-ringlets,  as  it  were — it  roughened  the  course  of 
Leathers's  true  love  that  Nora  must  needs  be  obliged 
to  reason  on  such  singular  dilemmas.  For,  though  a 
tailor's  daughter,  she  had  been  furnished  by  nature 
with  an  imagination  ! 

But  virtue,  if  nothing  more  and  no  sooner,  is  its 
own  reward,  and  in  time  "  to  save  its  bacon."  John 
Mehidy's  fortune  was  pretty  well  assured  in  the  course 
of  two  years,  and  made,  in  his  own  line,  by  his  pro 
posed  son-in-law,  and  he  could  no  longer  refuse  to 
throw  into  the  scale  the  paternal  authority.  Nora's 
hair  was,  by  this  time,  too,  restored  to  its  pristine 
length  and  luxuriousness,  and,  on  condition  that  Hyp 
olet  would  not  exact  a  new  wig  from  his  new  posses 
sions,  Nora,  one  summer's  night,  made  over  to  him 
the  remainder.  The  long-exiled  locks  revisited  their 
natal  soil,  during  the  caresses  which  sealed  the  com 
pact,  and  a  very  good  tailor  was  spoiled  the  week 
after,  for  the  married  Leathers  became  once  more  a 
gentleman  at  large,  having  bought,  in  two  instalments, 
at  an  expense  of  a  hundred  dollars,  a  heart,  and  two 
years  of  service,  one  of  the  finest  properties  of  which 
Heaven  and  a  gold  ring  ever  gave  mortal  the  copy 
hold  ! 


THE   PHARISEE  AND  THE  BARBER, 


ISHEAFE  LANE,  in  Boston,  is  an  almost  unmention 
able   and    plebeian   thoroughfare,    between   two  very 
mentionable  and  patrician  streets.     It  is  mainly  used 
by  bakers,   butchers,   urchins   going  to  school,   and  j 
clerks  carrying  home  parcels — in  short,  by  those  who  I 
care  less  for  the  beauty  of  the  road  than  for  economy  | 
of  time  and  shoe-leather.     If  you  please,  it  is  a  shabby 
hole.     Children  are  born  there,  however,  and  people  j 
die  and  marry  there,  and  are  happy  and  sad  there,  and  i 
the   great   events  of   life,    more  important  than   our 
liking  or  disliking  of  Sheafe    lane,   take   place  in  it  i 
continually.     It  used  not  to  be  a  very  savory  place. 
Yet  it  has  an  indirect  share  of  such  glory  as  attaches 
to  the  birth-places  of  men  above  the  common.     The 
(present)  great  light  of  the  Unitarian  church  was  born 
at  one  end  of  Sheafe  lane,  and  one  of  the  most  accom 
plished  merchant -gentlemen  in  the  gay  world  of  New 
York  was  born  at  the  other.     And  in  the  old  Hay- 
market  (a  kind  of  cul-de-sac,  buried  in  the  side  of 
Sheaf  lane),   stood   the  dusty  lists   of   chivalric   old 
Roulstone,  a  gallant  horseman,   who    in   other   days 
would  have  been  a  knight  of  noble  devoir,  though  in 
the  degeneracy  of  a  Yankee  lustrum,  he  devoted  his 


soldierly  abilities  to  the  teaching  of  young  ladies  how 
to  ride. 

Are  you  in  Sheafe  lane  ?  (as  the  magnetisers  in 
quire).  Please  to  step  back  twenty-odd  years,  and 
take  the  hand  of  a  lad  with  a  rosy  face  (ourself — for 
we  lived  in  Sheafe  lane  twenty-odd  years  ago),  and 
come  to  a  small  house,  dingy  yellow,  with  a  white 
i  gate.  The  yard  is  below  the  level  of  the  street. 
I  Mind  the  step. 

The  family  are  at  breakfast  in  the  small  parlor 
fronting  on  the  street.  But  come  up  this  dark  stair 
case,  to  the  bedroom  over  the  parlor — a  very  neat 
room,  plainly  furnished ;  and  the  windows  are  cur 
tained,  and  there  is  one  large  easy  chair,  and  a  stand 
with  a  bible  open  upon  it.  In  the  bed  lies  an  old  man 
of  seventy,  deaf,  nearly  blind,  and  bed-ridden. 

We  have  now  shown  you  what  comes  out  of  the 
shadows  to  us,  when  we  remember  the  circumstances 
we  are  about  to  body  forth  in  a  sketch,  for  it  can 
scarcely  be  called  a  story. 

It  wanted  an  hour  to  noon.  The  Boylston  clock 
struck  eleven,  and  close  on  the  heel  of  the  last  stroke 
followed  the  tap  of  the  barber's  knuckle  on  the  door 


THE  PHARISEE  AND  THE  BARBER. 


89 


of  the  yellow  house  in  Sheafe  lane.  Before  answering 
to  the  rap,  the  maid-of-all-work  filled  a  tin  can  from 
the  simmering  kettle,  and  surveying  herself  in  a  three- 
cornered  bit  of  looking-glass,  fastened  on  a  pane  of  the 
kitchen  window  ;  then,  with  a  very  soft  and  sweet 
"  good  morning,"  to  Rosier,  the  barber,  she  led  the 
way  to  the  old  man's  room. 

"He  looks  worse  to-day,"  said  the  barber,  as  the 
skinny  hand  of  the  old  man  crept  up  tremblingly  to 
his  face,  conscious  of  the  daily  office  about  to  be  per 
formed  for  him. 

"  They  think  so  below  slairs,"  said  Harriet,  "  and 
one  of  the  church  is  coming  to  pray  with  him  to-night. 
Shall  I  raise  him  up  now?" 

The  barber  nodded,  and  the  girl  seated  herself  near 
the  pillow,  and  lifting  the  old  man,  drew  him  upon  her 
breast,  and  as  the  operation  went  rather  lingeringly  on, 
the  two  chatted  together  very  earnestly. 

Rosier  was  a  youth  of  about  twenty-one,  talkative 
aiul  caressing,  as  all  barbers  are;  and  what  with  his 
curly  hair  and  ready  smile,  and  the  smell  of  soap  that 
seemed  to  be  one  of  his  natural  properties,  he  was  a 
man  to  be  thought  of  over  a  kitchen  fire.  Besides,  he 
was  thriving  in  his  trade,  and  not  a  bad  match.  All  of 
which  was  duly  considered  by  the  family  with  which 
Harriet  lived,  for  they  loved  the  poor  girl. 

Poor  girl,  I  say.  But  she  was  not  poor,  at  least  if 
it  be  true  that  as  a  woman  thinketh  so  is  'she.  Most 
people  would  have  described  her  as  a  romantic  girl. 


together,  and  the  girl  seemed  very  tranquilly  happy  in 
her  prospect  of  marriage. 

At  four  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  before 
mentioned,  Mr.  Flint  was  to  make  a  spiritual  visit  to 
the  old  man.  Let  us  first  introduce  him  to  the  reader. 
Mr.  Asa  Flint  was  a  bachelor  of  about  forty-five, 
and  an  "active  member"  of  a  church  famed  for  its 
zeal.  He  was  a  tall  man,  with  a  little  bend  in  his 
back,  and  commonly  walked  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
ground,  like  one  intent  on  meditation.  His  complex- 
!  ion  was  sallow,  and  his  eyes  dark  and  deeply  set ;  but 
)  by  dint  of  good  teeth,  and  a  little  "  wintry  redness  in 
!  his  cheek,"  he  was  good-looking  enough  for  all  his 
!  ends.  He  dressed  in  black,  as  all  religious  men  must 
(in  Boston),  and  wore  shoes  with  black  stockings  the 
year  round.  In  his  worldly  condition,  Mr.  Flint  had 
always  been  prospered.  He  spent  five  hundred  dollars 
a  year  in  his  personal  expenses,  and  made  five  thou 
sand  in  his  business,  and  subscribed,  say  two  hundred 
dollars  a  year  to  such  societies  as  printed  the  name  of 
the  donors.  Mr.  Flint  had  no  worldly  acquaintances. 
He  lived  in  a  pious  boarding-house,  and  sold  all  his 
goods  to  the  members  of  the  country  churches  in 
communion  with  his  own.  He  "  loved  the  brethren," 
for  he  wished  to  converse  with  no  one  who  did  not  see 
heaven  and  the  church  at  his  back — himself  in  the 
foreground,  and  the  other  two  accessories  in  the  per 
spective.  Piety  apart,  he  had  found  out  at  twenty-five, 
that,  as  a  sinner  he  would  pass  through  the  world 


And  so  she  was,  but  without  deserving  a  breath  of  the  ||  simply  Asa  Flint — as  a  saint,  he  would  be  Asa  Flint 
"idicule  commonly  attached  to  the  word.  She  was  j|  plus  eternity  and  the  respect  of  a  large  congregation, 
uneducated,  too,  if  any  child  of  New  England  can  be  M  He  was  a  shrewd  man,  and  chose  the  better  part. 


called  uneducated.  Beyond  school-books  and  the 
Bible,  she  had  read  nothing  but  the  Scottish  Chiefs, 
and  this  novel  was  to  her  what  the  works  of  God  are 
to  others.  It  could  never  become  familiar.  It  must 
be  the  gate  of  dream-land;  what  the  moon  is  to  a 
poet,  what  a  grove  is  to  a  man  of  revery,  what  sun 
shine  is  to  all  the  world.  And  she  mentioned  it  as 
seldom  as  people  praise  sunshine,  and  lived  in  it  as 
unconsciously. 

Harriet  had  never  before  been  out  to  service.  She 
was  a  farmer's  daughter,  new  from  the  country.  If 
she  was  not  ignorant  of  the  degradation  of  her  condi 
tion  in  life,  she  forgot  it  habitually.  A  cheerful  and 
thoughtful  smile  was  perpetually  on  her  lips,  and  the 
hardships  of  her  daily  routine  were  encountered  as 
things  of  course,'  as  clouds  in  the  sky,  as  pebbles  in 
the  inevitable  path.  Her  attention  seemed  to  belong 
to  her  body,  but  her  consciousness  only  to  her 
imagination.  In  her  voice  and  eyes  there  was  no 
touch  or  taint  of  her  laborious  servitude,  and  if 
she  had  suddenly  been  "  made  a  lady,"  there  would 
have  been  nothing  but  her  hard  hands  to  redeem  from 
her  low  condition.  Then,  hard-working  creature  as 
she  was,  she  was  touchingly  beautiful.  A  coatue  eye 
would  have  passed  her  without  notice,  perhaps,  but  a 


Also,   he   remembered,   sin   is   more   expensive   than 
|  sanctity. 

At  four  o'clock  Mr.  Flint  knocked  at  the  door.    At 

!  the  same  hour  there  was  a  maternal  prayer-meeting  at 

the  vestry,   and  of   course   it  was  to   be   numbered 

among  his  petty  trials  that  he  must  find  the  mistress 

;  of   the   house   absent   from    home.     He   walked   up 

i  stairs,  and  after  a  look  into  the  room  of  the  sick  man, 

despatched  the  lad  who  had  opened  the  door  for  him, 

to  request  the  "  help"  of  the  family  to  be  present  at 

|  the  devotions. 

Harriet  had  a  rather  pleasing  recollection  of  Mr. 
j  Flint.     He  had  offered  her  his  arm,  a  week  before,  in 
j  coming  out  from  a  conference  meeting,  and  had  "  pre 
sumed  that  she  was  a  young  lady  on  a  visit"  to  the 
mistress !     She  arranged  her  'kerchief  and  took  the 
kettle  off  the  fire. 

Mr.  Flint  was  standing  by  the  bedside  with  folded 

hands.     The  old   man  lay  looking  at  him  with  a  kind 

of  uneasy  terror  in  his  face,  which  changed,  as  Harriet 

!  entered,  to  a  smile  of  relief.     She  retired  modestly  to 

li  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and,  hidden  by  the  curtain,  open 

'!  only  at  the  side,  she  waited  the  commencement  of  the 

I!  prayer. 

"Kneel  there,  little  boy  !"  said  Mr.  Flint,  pointing 

and 


painter  would  not.    She  was  of  a  fragile  shape,  and  had     to  a  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  light-stand,  " 
a  slight  stoop,  but  her  head  was  small  and  exquisitely  |j  you,  my  dear,  kneel  here  by  me  !     Let  us  pray  !" 


moulded,  and  her  slender  neck,  round,  graceful,  and  j 
polished,  was  set  upon  her  shoulders  with  the  fluent 
grace  of  a  bird's.  Her  hair  was  profuse,  and  of  a 
tinge  almost  yellow  in  the  sun,  but  her  eyes  were  of  a 
blue,  deep  almost  to  blackness,  and  her  heavy  eye 
lashes  darkened  them  still  more  deeply.  She  had  the 
least  possible  color  in  her  cheeks.  Her  features  were 
soft  and  unmarked,  and  expressed  delicacy  and  repose, 
though  her  nostrils  were  capable  of  dilating  with  an 
energy  of  expression  that  seemed  wholly  foreign  to 
her  character. 

Rosier  had  first  seen  Harriet  when  called  in  to  the 
old  man,  six  months  before,  and  they  were  now  sup 
posed  by  the  family  to  be  engaged  lovers,  waiting  only 
for  a  little  more  sunshine  on  the  barber's  fortune. 
Meantime,  they  saw  each  other  at  least  half  an  hour 
every  morning,  and  commonly  passed  their  evenings 


Harriet  had  dropped  upon  her  knees  near  the  cor 
ner  of  the  bed,  and  Mr.  Flint  dropped  upon  his,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  post,  so  that  after  raising  his 
hands  in  the  first  adjuration,  they  descended  gradually, 
and  quite  naturally,  upon  the  folded  hands  of  the 
neighbor — and  there  they  remained.  She  dared  not 
withdraw  them,  but  as  his  body  rocked  to  and  fro  in 
his  devout  exercise,  she  drew  back  her  head  to  avoid 
coming  into  farther  contact,  and  escaped  with  only  his 
breath  upon  her  temples. 

It  was  a  very  eloquent  prayer.  Mr.  Flint's  voice, 
in  a  worldly  man,  would  have  been  called  insinuating, 
but  its  kind  of  covert  sweetness,  low  and  soft,  seemed, 
in  a  prayer,  only  the  subdued  monotony  of  reverence 
and  devotion.  But  it  won  upon  the  ear  all  the  same. 
He  began,  with  a  repetition  of  all  the  most  sublime 
ascriptions  of  the  psalmist,  filling  the  room,  it  appeared 


THE  PHARISEE  AND  THE  BARBER. 


to  Harriet,  with  a  superhuman  presence.  She  trem 
bled  to  be  so  near  him  with  his  words  of  awe.  Grad 
ually  he  took  up  the  more  affecting  and  lender  pas 
sages  of  scripture,  and  drew  the  tears  into  her  eyes 
with  the  pathos  of  his  tone  and  the  touching  images 
he  wove  together.  His  hand  grew  moist  upon  hers, 
and  he  leaned  closer  to  her.  He  began,  after  a  short 
pause,  to  pray  for  her  especially— that  her  remarkable 
beauty  might  not  be  a  snare  to  her — that  her  dove- 
like  eyes  might  beam  only  on  the  saddened  faces  of 
the  saints — that  she  might  be  enabled  to  shun  the 
company  of  the  worldly,  and  consort  only  with  God's 
people — and  that  the  tones  of  prayer  now  in  her  ears 
might  sink  deep  into  her  heart  as  the  voice  of  one 
who  would  never  cease  to  feel  an  interest  in  her  tem 
poral  and  eternal  welfare.  His  hand  tightened  its 
grasp  upon  hers,  and  his  face  turned  more  toward 
her;  and  as  Harriet,  blushing,  spite  of  the  awe 
weighing  on  her  heart,  stole  a  look  at  the  devout 
man,  she  met  the  full  gaze  of  his  coal-black  eyes 
fixed  unwinkingly  upon  her.  She  was  entranced. 
She  dared  not  stir,  and  she  dared  not  take  her 
eyes  from  his.  And  when  he  came  to  his  amen,  she 
sank  back  upon  the  ground,  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands.  And  presently  she  remembered,  with 
some  wonder,  that  the  old  man,  for  whom  Mr.  Flint 
had  come  to  pray,  had  not  been  even  mentioned  in 
the  prayer. 

The  lad  left  the  room  after  the  amen,  and  Mr.  FliiH 
raised  Harriet  from  the  floor  and  seated  her  upon  a 
chair  out  of  the  old  man's  sight,  and  pulled  a  hymn- 
book  from  his  pocket,  and  sat  down  beside  her.  She 
was  a  very  enthusiastic  singer,  to  say  the  least,  and  he 
commonly  led  the  singing  at  the  conferences,  and  so, 
holding  her  hand  that  she  might  beat  the  time  with 
him,  he  passed  an  hour  in  what  he  would  call  very 
sweet  communion.  And  by  this  time  the  mistress  of- 
the  family  came  home,  and  Mr.  Flint  took  his  leave. 

From  that  evening,  Mr.  Flint  fairly  undertook  the 
"  eternal  welfare"  of  the  beautiful  girl.  From  her 
kind  mistress  he  easily  procured  for  her  the  indul 
gence  due  to  an  awakened  sinner,  and  she  had  permis 
sion  to  frequent  the  nightly  conference,  Mr.  Flint 
always  charging  himself  with  the  duty  of  seeing  her 
safely  home.  He  called  sometimes  in  the  afternoon, 
and  had  a  private  interview  to  ascertain  the  "  state  of 
her  mind,"  and  under  a  strong  "  conviction"  of  some 
thing  or  other,  the  excited  girl  lived  now  in  a  constant 
revery,  and  required  as  much  looking  after  as  a  child. 
She  was  spoiled  as  a  servant,  but  Mr.  Flint  had  only 
done  his  duty  by  her. 

This  seemed  all  wrong  to  Rosier,  the  barber,  how 
ever.  The  bright,  sweet  face  of  the  girl  he  thought 
to  marry,  had  grown  sad,  and  her  work  went  all  amiss 
— he  could  see  that.  She  had  no  smile,  and  almost 
no  word,  for  him.  He  liked  little  her  going  out  at 
dusk  when  he  could  not  accompany  her,  and  coming 
home  late  with  the  same  man  always,  though  a  very 
good  man,  no  doubt.  Then,  once  lately,  when  he 
had  spoken  of  the  future,  she  had  murmured  some 
thing  which  Mr.  Flint  had  said  about  "  marrying  with 
unbelievers,"  and  it  stuck  in  Rosier's  mind  and  trou 
bled  him.  Harriet  grew  thin  and  haggard  besides, 
though  she  paid  more  attention  to  her  dress,  and 
dressed  more  ambitiously  than  she  used  to  do. 


We  are  reaching  back  over  a  score   or  more  of 

years  for  the  scenes  we  are  describing,  and  memory 

j  drops  here  and  there  a  circumstance  by  the  way.    The 

reader  can  perhaps  restore  the  lost  fragments,  if  we 

j  give  what  we  remember  of  the  outline. 

The  old  man  died,  and  Rosier  performed  the  last 
of  his  offices  to  fit  him  for  the  grave,  and  that,  if  we 
j  remember  rightly,  was  the  last  of  his  visits,  but  one, 
to  the  white  house  in  Sheafe  lane.  The  bed  was 
scarce  vacated  by  the  dead,  ere  it  was  required  again 
for  another  object  of  pity.  Harriet  was  put  into  it 
with  a  brain  fever.  She  was  ill  for  many  weeks,  and 
called  constantly  on  Mr.  Flint's  name  in  her  delirium; 
and  when  the  fever  left  her,  she  seemed  to  have  but 
one  desire  on  earth — that  he  should  come  and  see 
her.  Message  after  message  was  secretly  carried  to 
him  by  the  lad,  whom  she  had  attached  to  her  with 
her  uniform  kindness  and  sweet  temper,  but  he  never 
came.  She  relapsed  after  a  while  into  a  state  of  stu 
por,  like  idiocy,  and  when  day  after  day  passed  with 
out  amendment,  it  was  thought  necessary  to  sendflfr 
her  father  to  take  her  home. 

A  venerable  looking  old  farmer,  with  white  hairs, 
drove  his  rough  wagon  into  Sheafe  lane  one  evening, 
we  well  remember.  Slowly,  with  the  aid  of  his  long 
staff,  he  crept  up  the  narrow  staircase  to  his  daugh 
ter's  room,  and  stood  a  long  time,  looking  at  her  in 
silence.  She  did  not  speak  to  him. 

He  slept  upon  a  bed  made  up  at  the  side  of  hers, 
upon  the  floor,  and  the  next  morning  he  went  out 
early  for  his  horse,  and  she  was  taken  up  and  dressed 
for  the  journey.  She  spoke  to  no  one,  and  when  the 
old  man  had  breakfasted,  she  quietly  submitted  to  be 
carried  toward  the  door.  The  sight  of  the  street  first 
seemed  to  awaken  some  recollection,  and  suddenly  in 
a  whisper  she  called  to  Mr.  Flint. 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Flint  ?"  asked  the  old  man. 

Rosier  was  at  the  gate,  standing  there  with  his  hat 
off  to  bid  her  farewell.  She  stopped  upon  the  side 
walk,  and  looked  around  hurriedly. 

"He  is  not  here — I'll  wait  for  him."'  cried  Harriet, 
in  a  troubled  voice,  and  she  let  go  her  father's  arm 
and  stepped  back. 

They  took  hold  of  her  and  drew  her  toward  the 
wagon,  but  she  struggled  to  get  free,  and  moaned  like 
a  child  in  grief.  Rosier  took  her  by  the  hand  and 
tried  to  speak  to  her,  but  he  choked,  and  the  tears 
came  to  his  eyes.  Apparently  she  did  not  know  him. 

A  few  passers-by  gathered  around  now,  and  it  was 
necessary  to  lift  her  into  the  wagon  by  force,  for  the 
distressed  father  was  confused  and  embarrassed  with 
her  struggles,  and  the  novel  scene  around  him.  At 
the  suggestion  of  the  mistress  of  the  family,  Rosier 
lifted  her  in  his  arms  and  seated  hsr  in  the  chair  in 
tended  for  her,  but  her  screams  began  to  draw  a  crowd 
around,  and  her  struggles  to  free  herself  were  so  vio 
lent,  that  it  was  evident  the  old  man  could  never  take 
her  home  alone.  Rosier  kindly  offered  to  accompany 
him,  and  as  he  held  her  in  her  seat  and  tried  to  sooth  her, 
the  unhappy  father  got  in  beside  her  and  drove  away. 

She  reached  home,  Rosier  informed  us,  in  a  state 
of  dreadful  exhaustion,  still  calling  on  the  name  that 
haunted  her;  and  we  heard  soon  after,  that  she  re 
lapsed  into  a  brain  fever,  and  death  soon  came  to  her 
with  a  timely  deliverance  from  her  trouble. 


MRS.  PASSABLE  TROTT. 


ai 


MRS,    PASSABLE    TROTT, 


n'aime  pas  qtte  les  autr 


THE  temerity  with  which  I  hovered  on  the  brink  ||  mourning  should  be  over — the  very  day — the  very 
of  matrimony  when  a  very  young  man  could  only  be  |i  hour — her  first  love  should  be  ready  for  her,  good  as 
appreciated  by  a  fatuitous  credulity.  The  number!  new! 

of  very  fat  mothers  of  very  plain  families  who  can  jl  I  have  said  nothing  of  any  evidences  of  continued 
point  me  out  to  their  respectable  offspring  as  their  !  attachment  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Trott.  She  was  a 
once  imminent  papa,  is  ludicrously  improbable.  The  j  discreet  person,  and  not  likely  to  compromise  Mr.  P. 
truth  was  that  I  had  a  powerful  imagination  in  my  Trott  till  she  knew  the  strength  of  his  constitution, 
early  youth,  and  no  "realizing  sense."  A  ""-1  """''- 


But  there  was  one  evidence  of  lingering  preference 
which  I  built  upon  like  a  rock.  I  had  not  visited  her 
during  these  fifteen  years.  Trott  liked  me  not — you 
can  guess  why  !  But  I  had  a  nephew,  five  years  old 
when  Miss  Balch  was  my  "  privately  engaged,"  and 
as  like  me,  that  boy,  as  could  be  copied  by  nature. 


A  coral  neck 

lace,  warm  from  the  wearer — a  shoe  with  a  little  round 
stam  in  the  sole — anything  flannel — a  biften  rosebud 
with  the  mark  of  a  tooth  upon  it— a  rose,  a  glove,  a 
thimble— either  of  these  was  agony,  ecstasy  !  To  any 
thing  with  curls  and  skirts,  and  especially  if  encircled 

by  a  sky-blue  sash,   my  heart  was  as  prodigal  as  a  II  He  was  our  unsuspecting  messenger  of  love,  going  to 
Croton  hydrant.     Ah  me  !  jl  play  in  old  Batch's  garden  when  I  was  forbidden  the 

But,  of  all   my  short  eternal  attachments,  Fidelia  1 1  house,  unconscious  of  the   billet-doux  in  the  pocket 
Balch  (since  Mrs.  P.  Trott)  was  the  kindest  and  fair-   '  of  his  pinafore  ;  and  to  this  boy,  after  our  separation, 

seemed  Fidelia  to  cling.  He  grew  up  to  a  youth  of 
mind  and  manners,  and^ still  she"  cherished  him.  He 
all  but  lived  at  old  Trott's,  petted  and  made  much  of 
— her  constant  companion — reading,  walking,  riding — 
indeed,  when  home  from  college,  her  sole  society. 
Are  you  surprised  that,  in  all  this,  there  was  a  tender- 


est.  Faithless  of  course  she  was,  since  my  name 
does  not  begin  with  a  T.  —  but  if  she  did  not  continue 
to  love  me  —  P.  Trott  or  no  P.  Trott—  she  was  shock 
ingly  forsworn,  as  can  be  proved  by  several  stars, 
usually  considered  very  attentive  listeners.  I  rather 
pitied  poor  Trott  —  for  ]  knew 


"  Her  heart—  it  was  another's," 

and  he  was  rich  and  forty-odd.  But  they  seemed  to 
live  very  harmoniously,  and  if  I  availed  myself  of 
such  little  consolations  as  fell  in  my  way,  it  was  the 
result  of  philosophy.  I  never  forgot  the  faithless 
Fidelia. 

This  is  to  be  a  disembowelled  narrative,  dear  reader 
—  skipping  from  the  maidenhood  of  my  heroine  to 
her  widowhood,  fifteen  years  —  yet  I  would  have  you 
supply  here  and  there  a  betweenity.  My  own  suffer 
ings  at  seeing  my  adored  Fidelia  go  daily  into  another 
man's  house  and  shut  the  door  after  her,  you  can 
easily  conceive.  Though  not  in  the  habit  of  rebelling 
against  human  institutions,  it  did  seem  to  me  that  the 
marriage  ceremony  had  no  business  to  give  old  Trott 
quite  so  much  for  his  money.  But  the  aggravating 
part  of  it  was  to  come  !  Mrs.  P.  Trott  grew  prettier 
every  day,  and  of  course  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  noticeable  degrees  prettier  every  year!  She 
seemed  incapable  of,  or  not  liable  to,  wear  and  tear  ; 
and  probably  old  Trott  was  a  man,  in-doors,  of  tery 
even  behavior.  And,  it  should  be  said  too,  in  expla 
nation,  that,  as  Miss  Balch,  Fidelia  was  a  shade  too 
fat  for  her  model.  She  embellished  as  her  dimples 


ness  of  reminiscence  that  touched  and  assured  me  ? 
Ah— 

"  On  revient  toujours 
A  ses  premiers  amours  !" 

I  thought  it  delicate,  and  best,  to  let  silence  do  it3 
work  during  that  year  of  mourning.  I  did  not  whis 
per  even  to  my  nephew  Bob  the  secret  of  my  happi 
ness.  I  left  one  card  of  condolence  after  old  Trott's 
funeral,  and  lived  private,  counting  the  hours.  The 
slowest  kind  of  eternity  it  appeared  ! 

The  morning  never  seemed  to  me  to  break  with  so 
much  difficulty  and  reluctance  as  on  the  anniversary 
of  the  demise  of  Mr.  Passable  Trott — June  2,  1840. 
Time  is  a  comparative  thing,  I  well  know,  but  the 
minutes  seemed  to  stick,  on  that  interminable  morn 
ing.  I  began  to  dress  for  breakfast  at  four — but  de 
tails  are  tiresome.  Let  me  assure  you  that  twelve 
o'clock,  A.  M.,  did  arrive  !  The  clocks  struck  it,  and 
the  shadows  verified  it. 

I  could  not  have  borne  an  accidental  "  not  at  home," 
and  I  resolved  not  to  run  the  risk  of  it.  Lovers,  be 
sides,  are  not  tied  to  knockers  and  ceremony.  I  bribed 
the  gardener.  Fidelia's  boudoir,  I  knew,  opened  upon 
the  lawn,  and  it  seemed  more  like  love  to  walk  in. 


grew  shallower.     Trifle  by  trifle,  like  the  progress  of  jj  She  knew— I  knew— Fate  and  circumstance  knew  and 
a  statue,  the  superfluity  fell  away  from   nature's  ori-  I   had  ordained— that  that  morning  was  to  be  ibovedilp, 
inal  Miss  Balch  (as  designed  in  Heaven),  and  when  1    joined  on,  and  dovetailed  to  our  last  separatio 

'  time  between  was  to  be  a  blank.     Of  ex 
pected  me. 

The  garden  door  was  ajnr— as  paid  for 


The 
Of  course  she  ex- 


I  entered, 

•wrsed  the  vegetable  beds,  tripped  through  the  flow- 
-walk,   and-oh   bliss  .'-the  window  was  open!     I 


old   Passable   died   (and   no   one   knew  what  that  P. 
stood  for,  till  it  was   betrayed  by  the  indiscreet  plate 
on  his  coffin)  Mrs.  Trott,  thirty-three  years  old,  was 
at  her  maximum  of  beauty.     Plump,  taper,  transpa-  j;  tn 
rently  fair,  with  an  arm  like  a  high-conditioned  Venus,  j  er--a.n.,   ....-     ---   - 

and  a  neck  set  on  like  the  swell  of  a  French  horn,  !|  could  just  see  the  Egyptian  urn  on  its  pedestal  of 
•he  was  consumedly  srood-looking.  When  I  saw  in  ||  sphinxes,  into  which  I  knew  (per  Bob)  she  threw  all 
the  paper,  "  Died,  Mr.  P.  Trott,"  I  went  out  and  i!  her  fading  roses.  I  glided  near.  I  looked  in  at  the 
walked  passed  the  house,  with  overpowering  emotions.  \  window. 

Thanks  to  a  "rent  many  refusals,  /  had  been  faithful !         Ah,  that  picture  !     She  sat  with  her  back  to  nie- 
/  could  bring  hw  the  same  heart,  unused  and  undam-  !  her  arm-that  arm  of  rosy  alabaster-thrown  careless- 
aged,    which    I   had   offered    her   before!      /  could  ||  ly  over  her  chair— her  egg-shell  chin  resting  o 
generously  overlook  Mr.  Trott's  temporary  occupa-     other  thumb  and  forefinger-hereyehds  sweeping  her 
tion  (since  he  had  l«ft  us  his  money  !)-and  when  her     cheek-and  a  white-yes  !  a  white  bow  in  her  hair  . 


THE  SPIRIT-LOVE  OP  "  IONE 


And  her  dress  was  of  snowy  lawn — white,  bridal 
white  !  Adieu,  old  Passable  Trott ! 

I  wiped  ray  eyes  and  looked  again.  Old  Trott's 
portrail  hung  on  the  wall,  but  that  was  nothing.  Her 
guitar  Iny  on  the  table,  and — did  I  see  aright  ? — a 
miniature  just  beside  it !  Perhaps  of  old  Trott — ta 
ken  out  for  the  last  time.  Well — well  !  He  was  a 
very  respectable  man,  and  had  been  very  kind  to  her, 
most  likely. 

"  Ehem  !"  said  I,  stepping  over  the  sill,  "  Fidelia!" 

She  started  and  turned,  and  certainly  looked  sur 
prised. 

"  Mr.  G !"  said  she. 

"  It  is  long  since  we  parted  !"  I  said,  helping  my 
self  to  a  chair. 

"  Quite  long  !"  said  Fidelia. 

"  So  long  that  you  have  forgotten  the  name  of 
G ?"  I  asked  tremulously. 

"  Oh  no  !"  she  replied,  covering  up  the  miniature 
on  the  table  by  a  careless  movement  of  her  scarf. 

"  And  may  I  hope  that  that  name  has  not  grown 
distasteful  to  you  ?"  I  summoned  courage  to  say. 

"N ,  no!  I  do  not  know  that  it  has,  Mr.  G !" 

The  blood  returned  to  my  fainting  heart !  I  felt  as 
in  days  of  yore. 

"Fidelia  !"  said  I,  "  let  me  not  waste  the  precious 
moments.  You  loved  me  at  twenty — may  I  hope  that 
I  may  stand  to  you  in  a  nearer  relation  !  May  I  ven 
ture  to  think  that  our  family  is  not  unworthy  of  a 

union  with  the  Balches  ? — that,  as  Mrs.  G ,  you 

could  be  happy  ?" 

Fidelia  looked — hesitated — took  up  the  miniature, 
and  clasped  it  to  her  breast. 

"  Do  1  understand  you  rightly,  Mr.  G !"  she 

tremulously  exclaimed.  "But  I  think  I  do!  I  re 
member  well  what  you  were  at  twenty  !  This  picture 
is  like  what  you  were  then — with  differences,  it  is  true, 
but  still  like!  Dear  picture!"  she  exclaimed  again, 
kissing  it  with  rapture. 

(How  could  she  have  got  my  miniature? — but  no 
matter — taken  by  stealth,  I  presume.  Sweet  and  ea 
ger  anticipation!) 

"And  Robert  has  returned  from  college,  then  ?" 
she  said,  inquiringly. 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  I. 

"  Indeed  ! — then  he  has  written  to  you !" 

"  Not  recently  !" 

"  Ah,  poor  boy  !  he  anticipated !  Well,  Mr.  G ! 

1  will  not  affect  to  be  coy  where  my  heart  has  been  so 
long  interested." 

(I  stood  ready  to  clasp  her  to  my  bosom.) 

"  Tell  Robert  my  mourning  is  over — tell  him  his 
name"  (the  name  of  G ,  of  course)  "  is  the  mu 
sic  of  my  life,  and  that  I  will  marry  whenever  he 
pleases !" 


A  horrid  suspicion  crossed  my  mind. 

"Pardon  me!"  said  I ;  "whenever  he  pleases,  did 
you  say  ?  Why,  particularly,  when  he  pleases?" 

"  La  !  his  not  being  of  age  is  no  impediment,  I 
hope!"  said  Mrs.  Trott,  with  some  surprise.  "Look 

at  his  miniature,  Mr.  G !  It  has  a  boyish  look, 

it's  true — but  so  had  you — at  twenty  !" 

Hope  sank  within  me !  I  would  have  given  worlds 
to  be  away.  The  truth  was  apparent  to  me — perfect 
ly  apparent.  She  loved  that  boy  Bob — that  child — 
that  mere  child — and  meant  to  marry  him  !  Yet  how 
could  it  be  possible  !  I  might  be — yes — I  must  be, 
mistaken.  Fidelia  Balch — who  was  a  woman  when 
he  was  an  urchin  in  petticoats  ! — she  to  think  of  mar 
rying  that  boy  !  I  wronged  her — oh  I  wronged  her  ! 
But.  worst  come  to  the  worst,  there  was  no  harm  in 
having  it  perfectly  understood. 

"Pardon  me!"  said  I,  putting  on  a  look  as  if  I 
expected  a  shout  of  laughter  for  the  mere  supposi 
tion,  "  I  should  gather — (categorically,  mind  you  !— 
only  categorically) — I  should  gather  from  what  you 
said  just  now — (had  I  been  a  third  person  listening, 
that  is  to  say — with  no  knowledge  of  the  parties) — I 
should  really  have  gathered  that  Bob — little  Bob — was 
the  happy  man,  and  not  I  !  Now  don't  laugh  at  me!" 

"  You  the  happy  man  ! — Oh  Mr.  G !  you  are 

joking!  Oh  no!  pardon  me  if  I  have  unintentionally 

misled  you — but  if  I  marry  again,  Mr.  G ,  it  will 

be  a  young  man!  !  !  In  short,  not  to  mince  the  mat 
ter,  Mr.  G !  your  nephew  is  to  become  my  hus 
band  (nothing  unforeseen  turning  up),  in  the  course 
of  the  next  week  !  We  shall  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  at  the  wedding,  of  course  '  Oh  no  !  You! 
I  should  fancy  that  no  woman  would  make  two  une 
qual  marriages,  Mr.  G !  Good  morning,  Mr. 

I  was  left  alone,  and  to  return  as  I  pleased,  by  the 
vegetable  garden  or  the  front  door.  I  chose  the  lat 
ter,  being  somewhat  piqued  as  well  as  inexpressibly 
grieved  and  disappointed.  But  philosophy  came  to 
my  aid,  and  I  soon  fell  into  a  mood  of  speculation. 

"  Fidelia  is  constant!"  said  I  to  myself — "  constant, 
after  all  !  She  made  up  her  mouth  for  me  at  twenty. 
But  I  did  not  stay  twenty!  Oh  no!  I,  unadvisedly, 
and  without  preparatively  cultivating  her  taste  for 
thirty-five,  became  thirty-five.  And  now  what  was  she 
to  do  ?  Her  taste  was  not  at  all  embarked  in  Passa 
ble  Trott,  and  it  stayed  just  as  it  was — waiting  to  be 
called  up  and  used.  She  locks  it  up  decently  till  old 
Trott  dies,  and  then  reproduces — what?  Why,  just 
what  she  locked  up — a  taste  for  a  young  man  at 
twenty — and  just  such  a  young  man  as  she  loved  when 
she  was  twenty  !  Bob — of  course  !  Bob  is  like  me — • 
Bob  is  twenty  !  Be  Bob  her  husband  ! 

But  I  cannot  say  I  quite  like  such  constancy ! 


THE   SPIRIT-LOVE   OF   "IONE 


(SINCE  DISCOVERED  TO  BE  MISS  JONES.) 


NOT  long  ago,  but  before  poetry  and  pin-money 
were  discovered  to  be  cause  and  effect,  Miss  Phebe 
Jane  Jones  was  one  of  the  most  charming  contributors 
to  a  certain  periodical  now  gone  over  "  Lethe's  wharf." 

Her  signature  was  "lone  S !"  a  neat  anagram, 

out  of  which  few  would  have  picked  the  monosyllable 
engraved  upon  her  father's  brass  knocker.  She  wrote 
mostly  in  verse ;  but  her  prose,  of  which  you  will 
presently  see  a  specimen  or  two,  was  her  better  vein — 


as  being  more  easily  embroidered,  and  not  cramped 
with  the  inexorable  fetters  of  rhyme.  Miss  Jones 
abandoned  authorship  before  the  New  Mirror  was  es 
tablished,  or  she  would,  doubtless,  have  been  one  of 
its  paid  contributors — as  much  ("we"  flatter  ourselves) 
as  could  well  be  said  of  her  abilities. 

The  beauty  of  hectics  and  hollow  chests  has  been 
written  out  of  fashion  ;  so  I  may  venture  upon  the 
simple  imagery  of  truth  and  nature.  Miss  Jones  was- 


THE  SPIRIT-LOVE  OF  "  IONE  S- 


as  handsome  as  a  prize  heifer.     She  was  a  compact,  I 
plump,  wholesome,  clean-limbed,  beautifully-marked 
animal,  with  eyes  like  inkstands  running  over;  and  a 
mouth  that  looked,  when  she  smiled,  as  if  it  had  never  j 
been  opened  before,  the  teeth  seemed  so  fresh  and  un-  ' 
handled.     Her  voice  had  a  tone  clear  as  the  ring  of  a  j 
silver  dollar ;  and  her  lungs  must  have  been  as  sound  j 
as  a  pippin,  for  when  she  laughed  (which  she  never 
did  unless  she  was  surprised  into  it,  for  she  loved  mel 
ancholy),  it  was  like  the  gurgling  of  a  brook  over  the 
pebbles.     The   bran-new  people  made  by  Deucalion 
and  Pyrrha,  when  it  cleared  up  after  the  flood,  were  j 
probably  in  Miss  Jones's  style. 

But  do  you  suppose  tint  "lone  S "  cared  any 

thing  for  her  looks  !  What — value  the  poor  perishing 
tenement  in  which  nature  had  chosen  to  lodge  her 
intellectual  and  spiritual  part !  What — care  for  her 
covering  of  clay  !  What — waste  thought  on  the  chain 
that  kept  her  from  the  Pleiades,  of  which,  perhaps, 
she  was  the  lost  sister  (who  knows)  ?  And,  more  than 
all — oh  gracious  ! — to  be  loved  for  this  trumpery-dra 
pery  of  her  immortal  essence  ! 

Yes — infra  dig.  as  it  may  seem  to  record  such  an 
unworthy  trifle — the  celestial  Phebe  had  the  superflu 
ity  of  an  every-day  lover.  Gideon  Flimmins  was  wil 
ling  to  take  her  on  her  outer  inventory  alone.  He 
loved  her  cheeks— he  did  not  hesitate  to  admit  !  He 
loved  her  lips — he  could  not  help  specifying  !  He  had 
been  known  to  name  her  shoulders  !  And,  in  taking 
out  a  thorn  for  her  with  a  pair  of  tweezers  one  day,  he 
had  literally  exclaimed  with  rapture  that  she  had  a 

heavenly  little  pink  thumb!     But  of  "  lone  S " 

he  had  never  spoken  a  word.     No,  though  she  read 
him  faithfully  every  eft'usion  that  appeared — asked  his  j 
opinion    of  every  separate   stanza — talked  of  "lone 

S "  as  the  person  on  earth  she  most  wished  to  see 

(for  she  kept  her  literary  incog.) — Gideon  had  never 
alluded  to  her  a  second  time,  and  perseveringly,  hate 
fully,  atrociously,  and  with  mundane  motive  only,  he 
made  industrious  love  to  the  outside  and  visible  Phe 
be  !  Well!  well! 

Contiguity  is  something,   in   love  ;  and  the  Flim- 
minses  were  neighbors  of  the  Joneses.     Gideon  had 
another  advantage— for  Ophelia  Flimmins,  his  eldest 
sister,  was  Miss  Jones's  eternally  attached  friend.    To 
explain  this,  I  must  trouble  the  reader  to  take  notice 
that  there  were  two  streaks  in  the  Flimmins  family. 
Fat  Mrs.  Flimmins,  the  mother  (who  had  been  dead  a 
year),  was  a  thorough  "  man  of  business,"  and  it  was  | 
to  her  downright  and  upright  management  of  her  hus 
band's  wholesale  and  retail  hat-lining  establishment,  ! 
that  the  family  owed   its   prosperity ;  for  Herodotus 
Flimmins,  whose  name  was  on  the  sign,  was  a  flimsy-  ! 
ish  kind  of  sighing-dying  man,  and  nobody  could  ever 
find  out  what  on  earth  he  wanted.     Gideon  and  the  . 
two  fleshy  Miss  Flimminses  took  after  their  mother;  ; 
but  Ophelia,  whose  semi-translucent  frame  was  the  ! 
envy  of  her  faithful  Phebe,  was,  with  very  trifling  ex 
ceptions,  the  perfect  model  of  her  sire.     She  devotedly  i 
loved  the  moon.     She  had  her  preferences  among  the 
stars  of  heaven.    She  abominated  the  garish  sun.    And 
she  and  Phebe  met  by  night — on  the  sidewalk  around  ; 
their  mutual  nearest  corner — deeply  veiled  to  conceal 
their  emotion  from  the  intruding  gaze  of  such  stars  as 
they  were  not  acquainted  with — and  there  they  com 
muned  ! 

I  never  knew,  nor  have  I  any,  the  remotest  suspicion 
of  the  reasoning  by  which  these  commingled  spirits 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  there  was  a  want  in  their 
delicious  union.     They  might  have   known,   indeed,  ; 
that  the  chain  of  bliss,  ever  so  far  extended,  breaks  off  j 
at  last  with  an  imperfect  link — that  though  mustard  > 
and  ham  may  turn  two  slices  of  innocent  bread  into  a 
sandwich,  there  will  still  be  an  unbuttered  outside.  ' 
But  they  were  young— they  were  sanguine.     Phebe, 
at  least,  believed  that  in  the  regions  of  space  there  ex 


isted — "wandering  but  not  lost" — the  aching  worser 
half  of  which  she  was  the  "better" — some  lofty  intel 
lect,  capable  of  sounding  the  unfathomable  abysses  of 
hers — some  male  essence,  all  soul  and  romance,  with 
whom  she  coald  soar  finally,  arm-in-arm,  to  their  na 
tive  star,  with  no  changes  of  any  consequence  between 
their  earthly  and  their  astral  communion.  It  occurred 
to  her  at  last  that  a  letter  addressed  to  him,  through 
her  favorite  periodical,  might  possibly  reach  his  eye. 
The  following  (which  the  reader  may  very  likely  re 
member  to  have  seen)  appeared  in  the  paper  of  the 
following  Saturday  : — 

"  To  my  spirit-husband,  greeting  : — 

"  Where  art  thou,  bridegroom  of  my  soul  ?  Thy 

lone  S calls  to  thee  from  the  aching  void  of  her 

lonely  spirit  !  What  name  bearest  thou  ?  What  path 
walkest  thou  ?  How  can  I,  glow-worm  like,  lift  my 
wings  and  show  thee  my  lamp  of  guiding  love  ?  Thus 
wing  I  these  words  to  thy  dwelling-place  (for  thou  art, 

perhaps,  a  subscriber  to  the  M r).  Go — truants  ! 

Rest  not  till  ye  meet  his  eye. 

"But  I  must  speak  to  thee  after  the  manner  of  this 
world. 

"  I  am  a  poetess  of  eighteen  summers.  Eighteen 
weary  years  have  I  worn  this  prison-house  of  flesh,  in 
which,  when  torn  from  thee,  I  was  condemned  to  wan 
der.  But  my  soul  is  untamed  by  its  cage  of  dark 
ness  !  I  remember,  and  remember  only,  the  lost  hus 
band  of  my  spirit-world.  I  perform,  coldly  and  scorn 
fully,  the  unheavenly  necessities  of  this  temporary 
existence ;  and  from  the  windows  of  my  prison  (black 
— like  the  glimpses  of  the  midnight  heaven  they  let  in) 
I  look  out  for  the  coming  of  my  spirit-lord.  Lonely  ! 
lonely ! 

"  Thou  wouldst  know,  perhaps,  what  semblance  1 
bear  since  my  mortal  separation  from  thee.  Alas !  the 
rose,  not  the  lily,  reigns  upon  my  cheek  !  I  would 
not  disappoint  thee,  though  of  that  there  is  little  fear, 
for  thou  lovest  for  the  spirit  only.  But  believe  not, 
because  health  holds  me  rudely  down,  and  I  seem  not 
fragile  and  ready  to  depart — believe  not,  oh  bridegroom 
of  my  soul  !  that  I  bear  willingly  my  fleshly  fetter,  or 
endure  with  patience  the  degrading  homage  to  its 
beauty.  For  there  are  soulless  worms  who  think  me 
fair.  Ay — in  the  strength  and  freshness  of  my  corpo 
real  covering,  there  are  those  who  icjoice !  Oh ! 
mockery  !  mockery  ! 

"  List  to  me,  Ithuriel  (for  I  must  have  a  name  to 
call  thee  by,  and,  till  thou  breathest  thy  own  seraphic 
name  into  my  ear,  be  thou  Ithuriel)  !  List !  I  would 
meet  thee  in  the  darkness  only  !  Thou  shall  not  see 
me  with  thy  mortal  eyes  !  Penetrate  the  past,  and 
remember  the  smoke-curl  of  wavy  lightness  in  which 
I  floated  to  thy  embrace !  Remember  the  sunset- 
cloud  to  which  we  retired;  the  starry  lamps  that  hung 
over  our  slumbers!  And  on  the  softest  whisper  of 
our  voices  let  thy  thoughts  pass  to  mine!  Speak  not 
aloud!  Murmur!  murmur!  murmur! 

"Dost  thou  know,  Ilhuriel,  I  would  fain  prove  to 
thee  my  freedom  from  the  trammels  of  this  world  ?  In 
what  chance  shape  thy  accident  of  clay  may  be  cast,  I 
know  not.  Ay,  and  I  care  not !  I  would  thou  wert  a 
hunchback,  Ithuriel !  I  would  thou  wert  disguised 
as  a  monster,  my  spirit-husband  !  So  would  I  prove 
to  thee  my  elevation  above  mortality  !  So  would  I 
show  thee,  that  in  the  range  of  eternity  for  which  we 
are  wedded,  a  moment's  covering  darkens  thee  not — 
that,  like  a  star  sailing  through  a  cloud,  thy  brightness 
is  remembered  while  it  is  eclipsed — that  thy  lone 
would  recognise  thy  voice,  be  aware  of  thy  presence, 
adore  thee,  as  she  was  celestially  wont — ay,  though 
thou  wert  imprisoned  in  the  likeness  of  a  reptile  ! 
lone  care  for  mortal  beauty  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! — Ha.' 
ha!  ha! 

"  Come  to  me,  Ithuriel !     My  heart  writhes  in  its 


THE  SPIRIT-LOVE  OF  "  IONE  S- 


cell  for  converse  with  thee  !  I  am  sick-thoughted  ! 
My  spirit  wrings  its  thin  fingers  to  play  with  thy  ethe 
real  hair !  My  earthly  cheek,  though  it  obstinately 
refuses  to  pale,  tingles  with  fever  for  thy  coming. 
Glide  to  me  in  the  shadow  of  eve — softly  !  softly  ! 

"Address  'P.'  at  the  M r  office. 

"Thine,  "loNES ." 

****** 

There  came  a  letter  to  "P." 

****** 

It  was  an  inky  night.  The  moon  was  in  her  private 
chamber.  The  stars  had  drawn  over  their  heads  the 
coverlet  of  clouds  and  pretended  to  sleep.  The  street 
lamps  heartlessly  burned  on. 

Twelve  struck  with  "damnable  iteration." 

On  tiptoe  and  with  beating  heart  Phebe  Jane  left 
her  father's  area.  Ophelia  Flimmins  followed  her  at 
a  little  distance,  for  lone  was  going  to  meet  her  spirit- 
bridegroom,  and  receive  a  renewal  of  his  ante-vital 
vows;  and  she  wished  her  friend,  the  echo  of  her  soul, 
to  overhear  and  witness  them.  For  oh — if  words  were 
anything — if  the  soul  could  be  melted  and  poured, 
lava-like,  upon  "  satin  post" — if  there  was  truth  in  feel 
ings  magnetic  and  prophetic — then  was  he  who  had 

responded  to,  and  corresponded  with,  lone  S (she 

writing  to  "I,"  and  he  to  "P"),  the  ideal  for  whom 
she  had  so  long  sighed — the  lost  half  of  the  whole  so 
mournfully  incomplete — her  soul's  missing  and  once 
spiritually  Siamesed  twin  !  His  sweet  letters  had 
echoed  every  sentiment  of  her  heart.  He  had  agreed 
with  her  that  outside  was  nothing — that  earthly  beauty 
was  poor,  perishing,  pitiful — that  nothing  that  could 
be  seen,  touched,  or  described,  had  anything  to  do 
with  the  spiritually-passionate  intercourse  to  which 
their  respective  essences  achingly  yearned — that,  un 
seen,  unheard,  save  in  whispers  fainl  as  a  rose's  sigh 
when  languishing  at  noon,  they  might  meet  in  com 
munion  blissful,  superhuman,  and  satisfactory. 

Yet  where  fittingly  to  meet — oh  agony  !  agony  ! 

The  street-lamps  two  squares  off  had  been  taken  up 
to  lay  down  gas.  Ophelia  Flirnmins  had  inwardly 
marked  it.  Between  No.  12G  and  No.  132,  more  par 
ticularly,  the  echoing  sidewalk  was  bathed  in  unfath 
omable  night — for  there  were  vacant  lots  occupied  as 
a  repository  for  used-up  omnibuses.  At  the  most 
lonely  point  there  stood  a  tree,  and,  fortunately,  this 
night,  in  the  gutter  beneath  the  tree,  stood  a  newly- 
disabled  'bus  of  the  Knickerbocker  line — and  (sweet 
omen  !)  it  was  blue  !  In  this  covert  could  the  witness 
ing  Ophelia  lie  perdu,  observing  unseen  through  the 
open  door;  and  beneath  this  tree  was  to  take  place  the 
meeting  of  souls — the  re-interchange  of  sky-born  vows 
— the  immaterial  union  of  Ithuriel  and  lone  !  Bliss  ! 
bliss  ! — exquisite  to  anguish. 

But— oh  incontinent  vessel — Ophelia  had  blabbed  ! 
The  two  fat  Miss  Flimminses  were  in  the  secret — 
nay,  more — they  were  in  the  omnibus  !  Ay — deeply 
in,  and  portentously  silent,  they  sat,  warm  and  won 
dering,  on  either  side  of  the  lamp  probably  extin 
guished  for  ever!  They  knew  not  well  what  was  to 
be.  But  whatever  sort  of  thing  was  a  "marriage  of 
soul,"  and  whether  "  Ithuriel"  was  body  or  nobody — 
mortal  man  or  angel  in  a  blue  scarf — the  Miss  Flim 
minses  wished  to  see  him.  Half  an  hour  before  the 
trysting-time  they  had  fanned  their  way  thither,  for  a 
thunder-storm  was  in  the  air  and  the  night  was  intol 
erably  close;  and,  climbing  into  the  omnibus,  they  re 
ciprocally  loosened  each  other's  upper  hook,  and  with 
their  moistened  collars  laid  starchless  in  their  laps, 
awaited  the  opening  of  the  mystery. 

Enter  Ophelia,  as  expected.  She  laid  her  thin  hand 
upon  the  leather  string,  and,  drawing  the  door  after 


j  her,  leaned  out  of  its  open  window  in  breathless  sus- 
[  pense  and  agitation. 

lone's  step  was  now  audible,  returning  from  132. 
I  Slowly  she  came,  but  invisibly,  for  it  had  grown  sud 
denly  pitch-dark  ;  and  only  the  far-off  lamps,  up  and 
I  down  the  street,  served  to  guide  her  footsteps. 

But  hark  !  the  sound  of  a  heel !  He  came  !  They 
j  met !  He  passed  his  arm  around  her  and  drew  her 
beneath  the  tree — and  with  whispers,  soft  and  low, 
leaned  breathing  to  her  ear.  He  was  tall.  He  was  in 
a  cloak.  And,  oh  ecstasy,  lie  was  thin  !  But  thinkest 
thou  to  know,  oh  reader  of  dust,  what  passed  on  those 
ethereal  whispers?  Futile — futile  curiosity !  Even  to 
I  Ophelia's  straining  ear,  those  whispers  were  inaudible. 

But  hark  !  a  rumble  !  Something  wrong  in  the 
bowels  of  the  sky  !  And  pash  !  pash  ! — on  the  re 
sounding  roof  of  the  omnibus — fell  drops  of  rain — fit 
fully  !  fitfully! 

"  My  dear !"  whispered  Ophelia  (for  lone  had  bor 
rowed  her  chip  hat,  the  better  to  elude  recognition), 
"ask  Ithuriel  to  step  in." 

Ithuriel  started  to  find  a  witness  near,  but  a  whisper 
from  lone  reassured  him,  and  gathering  his  cloak 
around  his  face,  he  followed  his  spirit-bride  into  the 
'bus. 

The  fat  Miss  Flimminses  contracted  their  orbed 

shapes,  and  made  themselves  small  against  the  padded 

extremity  of  the  vehicle ;  Ophelia  retreated  to  the  mid- 

j  die,  and,  next  the  door,  on  either  side,  sat  the  starry 

bride  and   bridegroom — all   breathlessly  silent.     Yet 

there  was  a  murmur — for  five  hearts  beat  within  that 

'bus's  duodecimal  womb;  and  the  rain  pelted  on  the 

j  roof,  pailsful-like  and  unpityingly. 

But  slap!  dash!  whew!  heavens! — In  rushed  a 
I  youth,  dripping,  dripping  ! 

"  Get  out !"  cried  lone,  over  whose  knees  he  drew 
himself  like  an  eel  pulled  through  a  basket  of  con 
torted  other  eels. 

"  Come,  come,  young  man  !"  said  a  deep  bass  voice, 
of  which  everybody  had  some  faint  remembrance. 

"  Oh  !"  cried  one  fat  Miss  Flimmins. 

"  Ah  !"  screamed  the  other. 

"  What  ? — dad  !"  exclaimed  Gideon  Flimmins,  who 
had  dashed  into  the  sheltering  'bus  to  save  his  new 
hat — "dad  here  with  a  girl !" 

But  the  fat  Flimminses  were  both  in  convulsions. 
Scream  !  scream  !  scream  ! 

A  moment  of  confusion  !  The  next  moment  a  sud 
den  light !  A  watchman  with  his  lantern  stood  at  the 
door. 

"Papa  !"  ejaculated  three  of  the  ladies. 

"Old  Flimmins! — my  heart  will  burst !"  murmured 
lone. 

The  two  fat  girls  hurried  on  their  collars;  and  Gid 
eon,  all  amazement  at  finding  himself  in  such  a  family 
party  at  midnight  in  a  lonely  'bus,  stepped  out  and  en 
tered  into  converse  with  the  guardian  of  the  night. 

The  rain  stopped  suddenly,  and  the  omnibus  gave 
up  its  homogeneous  contents.  Old  Flimmins,  who 
was  in  a  violent  perspiration,  gave  Gideon  his  cloak  to 
carry,  and  his  two  arms  to  his  two  pinguid  adult 
pledges.  Gideon  took  Ophelia  and  Phebe,  and  they 
mizzled.  Mockery  !  mockery  ! 

lone  is  not  yet  gone  to  the  spirit-sphere — kept  here 
partly  by  the  strength  of  the  fleshy  fetter  over  which 
she  mourned,  and  partly  by  the  dove-tailed  duties  con 
sequent  upon  annual  Flimminses.  Gideon  loves  her 
after  the  manner  of  this  world — but  she  sighs  "when 
she  hears  sweet  music,"  that  her  better  part  is  still 
unappreciated — unfathomed — "cabined,  cribbed,  con 
fined  !" 


MABEL  WYNNE. 


MABEL  WYNNE, 


MABEL  WYNNE  was  the  topmost  sparkle  on  the 
crest  of  the  first  wave  of  luxury  that  swept  over  New 
York.  Up  to  her  time,  the  aristocratic  houses  were 
furnished  with  high  bullets,  high-backed  and  hair- 
bottomed  mahogany  chairs,  one  or  two  family  portraits, 
and  a  silver  tray  on  the  side  board,  containing  cordials 
and  brandy  for  morning-callers.  In  the  centre  of  the 
room  hung  a  chandelier  of  colored  lamps,  and  the  I 
lighting  of  this  and  the  '  ' 


hiring  of  three  negroes  (to  i 
h  say,  a  clarinet,  a  baseviol, 


"fatigue,"  as  the  French  say,  a  clarinet,  a  baseviol,  j 
and  a  violin)  were  the  only  preparations  necessary  for  j 
the  most  distinguished  ball.  About  the  time  that  j 
Mabel  left  school,  however,  some  adventurous  pointer 
of  the  Dutch  haul  ton  ventured  upon  lamp-stands  for 
the  corners  of  the  rooms,  stuffed  red  benches  along  , 
the  walls,  and  chaHied  floors;  and  upon  this  a  French 
family  of  great  beauty,  residing  in  the  lower  part  of 
Broadway,  ventured  upon  a  fancy  ball  with  wax-candles 
instead  of  lamps,  French  dishes  and  sweetmeats  in 
stead  of  pickled  oysters  and  pink  champagne  ;  and, 
the  door  thus  opened,  luxury  came  in  like  a  flood. 
Houses  were  built  on  a  new  plan  of  sumptuous  ar 
rangement,  the  ceiling  stained  in  fresco,  and  the 
columns  of  the  doors  within  painted  in  imitation  of 
bronze  and  marble;  and  at  last  the  climax  was  topped 
by  Mr.  Wynne,  who  sent  the  dimensions  of  every 
room  in  his  new  house  to  an  upholsterer  in  Paris, 


would  show  better  the  humbler  her  surroundings. 
As  Perdita  upon  the  greensward,  and  open  to  a  shep- 
j  herd's  wooing,  I  should  inevitably  sling  my  heart  upou 
a  crook — " 

"And  forswear  that  formidable,  impregnable  vow  of 
celibacy  ?"  interrupted  Miss  Wynne. 

"  I  am  only  supposing  a  case,  and  you  are  not  likely 
to  be  a  shepherdess  on  the  green."  But  Mr.  Blythe's 
smile  ended  in  a  look  of  clouded  revery,  and,  after 
a  few  minutes'  conversation,  ill  sustained  by  the  gen 
tlemen,  who  seemed  each  in  the  other's  way,  they 
rose  and  took  their  leave — Mr.  Bellallure  lingering 
last,  for  he  was  a  lover  avowed. 

As  the  door  closed  upon  her  admirer,  Miss  Wynne 
drew  a  letter  from  her  portfolio,  and  turning  it  over 
and  over  with  a  smile  of  abstracted  curiosity,  opened 
and  read  it  for  the  second  time.  She  had  received  it 
that  morning  from  an  unknown  source,  and  as  it  was 
rather  a  striking  communication,  perhaps  the  reader 
had  better  know  something  of  it  before  we  go  on. 

It  commenced  without  preface,  thus: — 

"  On  a  summer  morning,  twelve  years  ago,  a 
chimney-sweep,  after  doing  his  work  and  singing  his 
song,  commenced  his  descent.  It  was  the  chimney 
of  a  large  house,  and  becoming  embarrassed  among 
the  flues,  he  lost  his  way  and  found  himself  on  the 


with  carle  blanche  as  to  costliness  and  style,  and  the  ,  hearth  of  a  sleeping-chamber  occupied  by  a  child. 
fournisscur  to  come  out  himself  and  see  to  the  arrange-  jj  The  sun  was  just  breaking  through  the  curtains  of 
ment  and  decoration.  r'16  roorn'  a  vacated  bed  showed  that  some  one  had 

Jt  was  Manhattan  tea-time,  old  style,  and  while  risen  lately,  probably  the  nurse,  and  the  sweep,  with 
Mr.  Wynne,  who  had  the  luxury  of  a  little  plain  h  an  irresistible  impulse,  approached  the  unconscious 
furniture  in  the  basement,  was  comfortably  taking  his  j  little  sleeper.  She  lay  with  her  head  upon  a  round 


toast  and  hyson  below  stairs,  Miss  Wynne  was  just 
announced  as  "at  home,"  by  the  black  footman,  and 
two  of  her  admirers  made  their  highly-scented  entree. 
They  were  led  through  a  suite  of  superb  rooms,  light 
ed  with  lamps  hid  in  ahbaster  vases,  and  ushered  in 
at  a  mirror-door  beyond,  where,  in  a  tent  of  fluted  silk, 
with  ottomans  and  draperies  of  the  same  stuff,  ex 
quisitely  arranged,  the  imperious  Mabel  held  her 
court  of 'teens. 

Mabel  Wynne  was  one  of  those  accidents  of  sover 
eign  beauty  which  nature  seems  to  take  delight  in  mis 
placing  in  the  world— like  the  superb  lobelia  flashing 
among  the  sedges,  or  the  golden  oriole  pluming »his 
dazzling  wings  in  the  depth  of  a  wilderness.  She 
was  no  less  than  royal  in  all  her  belongings.  Her 
features  expressed  consciousness  of  sway — a  sway 
whose  dictates  had  been  from  infancy  anticipated. 


arm  buried  in  flaxen  curls,  and*  the  smile  of  a  dream 
on  her  rosy  and  parted  lips.  It  was  a  picture  of 
singular  loveliness,  and  something  in  the  heart  of  that 
boy-sweep,  as  he  stood  and  looked  upon  the  child, 
knelt  to  it  with  an  agony  of  worship.  The  tears  gush 
ed  to  his  eyes.  He  stripped  the  sooty  blanket  from 
his  breast,  and  looked  at  the  skin  white  upon  his  side. 
j  The  contrast  between  his  condition  and  that  of  the 
fair  child  sleeping  before  him  brought  the  blood  to  his 
blackened  brow  with  the  hot  rush  of  lava.  He  knelt 
j  beside  the  bed  on  which  she  slept,  took  her  hand  in 
j  his  sooty  grasp,  and  with  a  kiss  upon  the  white  and 
!  dewy  fingers  poured  his  whole  soul  with  passionate 
earnestness  into  a  resolve. 

"  Hereafter  you  may  learn,  if  you  wish,  the  first 
struggles  of  that  boy  in  the  attempt  to  diminish  the 
distance  between  yourself  and  him — for  you  will  have 


Never  a  surprise  had  startled  those  languishing  eyelids  'j  understood  that  you  were  the  beautiful  child  he  saw 
from  their  deliberateness — never  a  suffusion  other  than  |  j  asleep.  *I  repeat  that  it  is  twelve  years  since  he  stood 
the  humid  cloud  of  a  tender  and  pensive  hour  had  1 1  in  your  chamber.  He  has  seen  you  almost  daily  since 
dimmed  those  adorable  dark  eyes.  Or,  so  at  least  it  i  then — watched  your  going  out  and  coming  in— fed  his 

'  I  eyes  and  heart  on  your  expanding  beauty,  and  inlorm- 
'  ed  himself  of  every  change  and  development  in  your 
With  this  intimate  knowledge 


seemed  ! 

She  was  a  fine  creature,  nevertheless — Mabel 
Wynne  !  But  she  looked  to  others  like  a  specimen 
of  such  fragile  and  costly  workmanship  that  nothing 
beneath  a  palace  would  be  a  becoming  home  for  her. 

"  For  the  present,"  said  Mr.  Bellallure,  one  of  the 
gentlemen  who  entered,  "  the  bird  has  a  fitting  cage." 

Miss  Wynne  only  smiled  in  reply,  and  the  other 
gentleman  took  upon  himself  to  be  the  interpreter  of 
her  unexpressed  thought. 

"  The  cage  is  the  accessory — not  the  bird,"  said 
Mr.  Blythe,  "  and,  for  iny  part,  1  think  Miss  Wynne 


I  mind  and  character. 
of  you,  and  with  the  expansion  of  his  own  intellect, 
his  passion  has  deepened  and  strengthened.  It  pos 
sesses  him  now  as  life  does  his  heait,  and  will  endure 
as  long.  But  his  views  with  regard  to  you  have 
changed,  nevertheless. 

"  You  will  pardon  the  presumption  of  my  first 
feeling — that  to  attain  my  wishes  I  had  only  to  be 
come  your  equal.  It  was  a  natural  error— for  my 
agony  at  realizing  the  difference  of  our  conditions  iu 


MABEL  WYNNE. 


life  was  enough  to  absorb  me  at  the  time — but  it  is 
surprising  to  me  how  long  that  delusion  lasted.  I  am 
rich  now.  I  have  lately  added  to  my  fortune  the  last 
acquisition  I  thought  desirable.  B  ut  with  the  thought 
of  the  next  thing  to  be  done,  came  like  a  thunderbolt 
upon  me  the  feai*  that  after  all  my  efforts  you  might 
be  destined  for  another!  The  thought  is  simple 
enough.  You  would  think  that  it  would  have  haunted 
me  from  the  beginning.  But  I  have  either  uncon 
sciously  shut  my  eyes  to  it,  or  I  have  been  so  absorbed 
in  educating  and  enriching  myself  that  that  goal  only 
was  visible  to  me.  It  was  perhaps  fortunate  for  my 
perseverance  that  I  was  so  blinded.  Of  my  midnight 
studies,  of  my  labors,  of  all  my  plans,  self-denials,  and 
anxieties,  you  have  seemed  the  reward  !  I  have  never 
gained  a  thought,  never  learned  a  refinement,  never 
turned  over  gold  and  silver,  that  it  was  not  a  step 
nearer  to  Mabel  Wynne.  And  now,  that  in  worldly 
advantages,  after  twelve  years  of  effort  and  trial,  I 
stand  by  your  side  at  last,  a  thousand  men  who  never 
thought  of  you  till  yesterday  are  equal  competitors 
with  me  for  your  hand  ! 

"But,  as  I  said,  my  views  with  regard  to  you  have 
changed.  I  have,  with  bitter  effort,  conquered  the 
selfishness  of  this  one  lifetime  ambition.  I  am  devo 
ted  to  you,  as  I  have  been  from  the  moment  I  first 
saw  you — life  and  fortune.  These  are  still  yours — 
but  without  the  price  at  which  you  might  spurn  them. 
My  person  is  plain  and  unattractive.  You  have  seen 
me,  and  shown  me  no  preference.  There  are  others 
whom  you  receive  with  favor.  And  with  your  glorious 
beauty,  and  sweet,  admirably  sweet  qualities  of  char 
acter,  it  would  be  an  outrage  to  nature  that  you  should 
not  choose  freely,  and  be  mated  with  something  of 
your  kind.  Of  those  who  now  surround  you  I  see  no 
one  worthy  of  you — but  he  may  come  !  Jealousy 
shall  not  blind  me  to  his  merits.  The  first  mark  of 
your  favor  (and  I  shall  be  aware  of  it)  will  turn  upon 
him  my  closest,  yet  most  candid  scrutiny.  He  must 
love  you  well — for  I  shall  measure  his  love  by  my 
own.  He  must  have  manly  beauty,  and  delicacy,  and 
honor — he  must  be  worthy  of  you,  in  short — but  he 
need  not  be  rich.  He  who  steps  between  me  and  you 
takes  the  fortune  I  had»amassed  for  you.  1  tell  you 
this  that  you  may  have  no  limit  in  your  choice — for  the 
worthiest  of  a  woman's  lovers  is  often  barred  from  her 
by  poverty. 

"Of  course  I  have  made  no  vow  against  seeking 
your  favor.  On  the  contrary,  I  shall  lose  no  oppor 
tunity  of  making  myself  agreeable  to  you.  It  is  against 
my  nature  to  abandon  hope,  though  I  am  painfully 
conscious  of  my  inferiority  to  other  men  in  the  quali 
ties  which  please  a  woman.  All  I  have  done  is  to 
deprive  my  pursuit  of  its  selfishness — to  make  it  sub 
servient  to  your  happiness  purely — as  it  still  would  be 
were  I  the  object  of  your  preference.  You  will  hear 
from  me  at  any  crisis  of  your  feelings.  Pardon  my 
being  a  spy  upon  you.  I  know  you  well  enough  to 
be  sure  that  this  letter  will  be  a  secret — since  1  wish 
it.  Adieu." 

Mabel  laid  her  cheek  in  the  hollow  of  her  hand  and 
mused  long  on  this  singular  communication.  It  stirred 
her  romance,  but  it  wakened  still  more  her  curiosity. 
Who  was  he?  She  had  "seen  him  and  shown  him 
no  preference  !"  Which  could  it  be  of  the  hundred 
of  herchance-made  acquaintances  ?  She  conjectured 
at  some  disadvantage,  for  "  she  had  come  out"  within 
the  past  year  only,  and  her  mother  having  long  been 
dead,  the  visiters  to  the  house  were  all  but  recently 
made  known  to  her.  She  could  set  aside  two  thirds 
of  them,  as  sons  of  families  well  known,  but  there 
were  at  least  a  score  of  others,  any  one  of  whom  might, 
twelve  years  before,  have  been  as  obscure  as  her 
anonymous  lover.  Whoever  he  might  be,  Mabel 
thought  he  could  hardly  come  into  her  presence  again 


without  betraying  himself,  and,  with  a  pleased  smile 
at  the  thought  of  the  discovery,  she  again  locked  up 
the  letter. 

Those  were  days  (to  be  regretted  or  not,  as  you 
please,  dear  reader !)  when  the  notable  society  of 
New  York  revolved  in  one  self-complacent  and  clear 
ly-defined  circle.  Call  it  a  wheel,  and  say  that  the 
centre  was  a  belle  and  the  radii  were  beaux — (the 
periphery  of  course  composed  of  those  who  could 
"down  with  the  dust").  And  on  the  fifteenth  of  July, 
regularly  and  imperatively,  this  fashionable  wheel 
rolled  off  to  Saratoga. 

"  Mabel !  my  daughter !"  said  old   Wynne,  as  he 

bade  her  good  night  the  evening  before  starting  for 

the  springs,  "  it  is  useless  to  be  blind  to  the  fact  that 

among  your  many   admirers  you  have  several   very 

pressing  lovers — suiters  for  your  hand  I  may  safely 

say.     Now,  I  do  not  wish  to  put  any  unnecessary  re- 

i  straint  upon  your  choice,  but  as  you  are  going  to  a 

|  gay  place,  where  you  are  likely  to  decide  the  matter 

j  in  your  own  mind,  I  wish  to  express  an  opinion.    You 

j  may  give  it  what  weight  you  think  a  father's  judg- 

j  ment  should  have  in  such  matters.     I  do  not  like  Mr. 

!  Bellallure — for,  beside  my  prejudice  against  the  man, 

we  know  nothing  of  his  previous  life,  and  he  may  be 

a  swindler  or  anything  else.     I  do  like  Mr.  Blythe — 

j  for  I   have   known  him   many  years,  he  comes  of  a 

!  most  respectable  family,  and  he  is  wealthy  and  worthy. 

j  These  two  seem  to  me  the  most  in  earnest,  and  you 

apparently  give  them  the  most  of  your  time.     Ifthede- 

I  cision  is  to  be  between  them,  you  have  my  choice. 

Good  night,  my  love  !" 

Some  people  think  it  is  owing  to  the  Saratoga 
water.  I  differ  from  them.  The  water  is  an  "altera 
tive,"  it  is  true — but  I  think  people  do  not  so  much 
alter  as  develop  at  Saratoga.  The  fact  is  clear  enough 
— that  at  the  springs  we  change  our  opinionsof  almost 
everybody — but  (though  it  seems  a  bold  supposition 
at  first  glance)  I  am  inclined  to  believe  it  is  because 
we  see  so  much  more  of  them  !  Knowing  people  in 
the  city  and  knowing  them  at  the  springs  is  very  much 
in  the  same  line  of  proof  as  tasting  wine  and  drinking 
a  bottle.  Why,  what  is  a  week's  history  of  a  city  ac 
quaintance?  A  morning  call  thrice  a  week,  a  diurnal 
bow  in  Broadway,  and  perhaps  a  quadrille  or  two  in 
the  party  season.  What  chance  in  that  to  ruffle  a 
temper  or  try  a  weakness?  At  the  springs,  now,  dear 
lady,  you  wear  a  man  all  day  like  a  shoe.  Down  at 
the  platform  with  him  to  drink  the  waters  before  break 
fast — strolls  on  the  portico  with  him  till  ten — drives  with 
him  to  Barheight's  till  dinner — lounges  in  the  draw 
ing-room  with  him  till  tea — dancing  and  promenading 
with  him  till  midnight — very  little  short  altogether  of 
absolute  matrimony  ;  and,  like  matrimony,  it  is  a  very 
severe  trial.  Your  "  best  fellow"  is  sure,  to  be  found 
out,  and  so  is  your  plausible  fellow,  your  egotist,  and 
I  your  "spoon." 

Mr.  Beverly  Bellallure  had  cultivated  the  male 
I  attractions  with  marked  success.  At  times  he  proba- 
[  bly  thought  himself  a  plain  man,  and  an  artist  who 
should  only  paint  what  could  be  measured  with  a  rule, 
I  would  have  made  a  plain  portrait  of  Mr.  Bellallure. 
But — the  atmosphere  of  the  man  !  There  is  a  phys 
iognomy  in  movement — there  is  aspect  in  the  har 
monious  link  between  mood  and  posture — there  is  ex 
pression  in  the  face  of  which  the  features  are  as  much 
a  portrait  as  a  bagpipe  is  a  copy  of  a  Scotch  song. 
Beauty,  my  dear  artist,  can  not  always  be  translated 
by  canvass  and  oils.  You  must  paint  "  the  magnetic 
fluid"  to  get  a  portrait  of  some  men.  Sir  Thomas 
Lawrence  seldom  painted  anything  else — as  you  may 
see  by  his  picture  of  Lady  Blessington,  which  is  like 
her  without  having  copied  a  single  feature  of  her  face. 
Yet  an  artist  would  be  very  much  surprised  if  you 
should  offer  to  sit  to  him  for  your  magnetic  atmo 
sphere — though  it  expresses  (does  it  not?)  exactly 


MABEL  WYNNE. 


what  you  want  when  you  order  a  picture !  You  wish 
to  be  painted  as  your  appear  to  those  who  love  you — 
a  picture  altogether  unrecognisable  by  those  who  love 
you  not. 

Mr.  Bellallure,  then,  was  magnetically  handsome 
— positively  plain.  He  dressed  with  an  art  beyond 
detection.  He  spent  his  money  as  if  he  could  dip  it 
at  will  out  of  Pactolus.  He  was  intimate  with  nobody, 
and  so  nobody  knew  his  history  ;  but  he  wrote  him 
self  on  the  register  of  Congress  hall  as  "from  New 
York,"  and  he  threw  all  his  forces  into  one  unmista 
kable  demonstration — the  pursuit  of  Miss  Mabel 
Wynne. 

But  Mr.  Bellallure  had  a  formidable  rival.  Mr. 
Blythe  was  as  much  in  earnest  as  he,  though  he  play 
ed  his  game  with  a  touch-and-go  freedom,  as  if  he 
was  prepared  to  lose  it.  And  Mr.  Blythe  had  very 
much  surprised  those  people  at  Saratoga  who  did  not 
know  that  between  a  very  plain  man  and  a  very  elegant 
man  there  is  often  but  the  adding  of  the  rose-leaf  to 
the  brimming  jar.  fie  was  perhaps  a  little  gayer 
than  in  New  York,  certainly  a  little  more  dressed, 
certainly  a  little  more  prominent  in  general  conversa 
tion — but  without  any  difference  that  you  could  swear 
to,  Mr.  Blythe,  the  plain  and  reliable  business  man, 
whom  everybody  esteemed  without  particularly  ad 
miring,  had  become  Mr.  Blythe  the  model  of  ele 
gance  and  ease,  the  gentleman  and  conversationist 
•par  excellence.  And  nobody  could  tell  how  the  statue 
could  have  Iain  so  long  unsuspected  in  the  marble. 

The  race  for  Miss  Wynne's  hand  and  fortune  was 
a  general  sweepstakes,  and  there  were  a  hundred  men 
at  the  springs  ready  to  take  advantage  of  any  falling 
back  on  the  part  of  the  two  on  the  lead  ;  but  with 
Blythe  and  Bellallure  Miss  Wynne  herself  seemed 
fully  occupied.  The  latter  had  a  "  friend  at  court" 
— the  belief,  kept  secret  in  the  fair  Mabel's  heart,  that 
he  was  the  romantic  lover  of  whose  life  and  fortune 
she  had  been  the  inspiration.  She  was  an  eminently 
romantic  girl  with  all  her  strong  sense  ;  and  the  devo 
tion  which  had  proved  itself  so  deep  and  controlling 
was  in  reality  the  dominant  spell  upon  her  heart. 
She  felt  that  she  must  love  that  man,  whatever  his 
outside  might  be,  and  she  construed  the  impenetrable 
silence  with  which  Bellallure  received  her  occasional 
hints  as  to  his  identity,  into  a  magnanimous  deter 
mination  to  win  her  without  any  advantage  from  the 
romance  of  his  position. 

Yet  she  sometimes  wished  it  had  been  Mr.  Blythe! 
The  opinion  of  her  father  had  great  weight  with  her; 
but,  more  than  that,  she  felt  instinctively  that  he  was 
the  safer  man  to  be  intrusted  with  a  woman's  happi 
ness.  If  there  had  been  a  doubt — if  her  father  had 
not  assured  her  that  "  Mr.  Blythe  came  of  a  most 
respectable  family" — if  the  secret  had  wavered  be 
tween  them — she  would  have  given  up  to  BeMallure 
without  a  sigh.  Blythe  was  everything  she  admired 
and  wished  for  in  a  husband — but  the  man  who  had 
made  himself  for  her,  by  a  devotion  unparalleled  even 
in  her  reading  of  fiction,  held  captive  her  dazzled  im 
agination,  if  not  her  grateful  heart.  She  made  con 
stant  efforts  to  think  only  of  Bellallure,  but  the  efforts 
were  .preceded  ominously  with  a  sigh. 

And  now  Bellallure'sstar  seemed  in  theascendant — 
for  urgent  business  called  Mr.  Wynne  to  the  city,  and 
on  the  succeeding  day  Mr.  Blythe  followed  him, 
though  with  an  assurance  of  speedy  return.  Mabel 
was  left  under  the  care  of  an  indulgent  chaperon,  who 
took  a  pleasure  in  promoting  the  happiness  of  the 
supposed  lovers  ;  and  driving,  lounging,  waltzing,  and 
promenading,  Bellallure  pushed  his  suit  with  ardor 
unremitted.  He  was  a  skilful  master  of  the  art  of 
wooing,  and  it  would  have  been  a  difficult  woman  in 
deed  who  would  not  have  been  pleased  with  his  soci 
ety—but  the  secret  in  Mabel's  breast  was  the  spell  by 
which  he  held  her. 

7 


A  week  elapsed,  and  Bellallure  pleaded  the  receipt 
of  unexpected  news,  and  left  suddenly  for  New  York — 
to  Mabel's  surprise  exacting  no  promise  at  parting, 
though  she  felt  that  she  should  have  given  it  with  re 
luctance.  The  mail  of  the  second  day  following 
brought  her  a  brief  letter  from  her  father,  requesting 
her  immediate  return;  and  more  important  still,  a  note 
from  her  incognito  lover.  It  ran  thus:  — 

"  You  will  recognise  my  handwriting  again.  I  have 
little  to  say — for  I  abandon  the  intention  I  had  formed 
to  comment  on  your  apparent  preference.  Your  hap 
piness  is  iu  your  own  hands.  Circumstances  which 
will  be  explained  to  you,  and  which  will  excuse  this 
abrupt  forwardness,  compel  me  to  urge  you  to  an  im 
mediate  choice.  On  your  arrival  at  home,  you  will 
meet  me  in  your  father's  house,  where  I  shall  call  to 
await  you.  I  confess  tremblingly,  that  I  still  cherish 
a  hope.  If  I  am  not  deceived — if  you  can  consent  to 
love  me — if  my  long  devotion  is  to  be  rewarded — take 
my  hand  when  you  meet  me.  That  moment  will  de 
cide  the  value  of  my  life.  But  be  prepared  also  to 
name  another  if  you  love  him — for  there  is  a  neces 
sity,  which  I  can  not  explain  to  you  till  you  have 
chosen  your  husband,  that  this  choice  should  be  made 
on  your  arrival.  Trust  and  forgive  one  who  has  so 
long  loved  you!" 

Mabel  pondered  long  on  this  strange  letter.  Her 
spirit  at  moments  revolted  against  its  apparent  dicta 
tion,  but  there  was  the  assurance,  which  she  could 
not  resist  trusting,  that  it  could  be  explained  and  for 
given.  At  all  events,  she  was  at  liberty  to  fulfil  its 
requisitions  or  not — and  she  would  decide  when  the 
time  came.  Happy  was  Mabel — unconsciously  hap 
py — in  the  generosity  and  delicacy  of  her  unnamed 
lover!  Her  father,  by  one  of  the  sudden  reverses  of 
mercantile  fortune,  had  been  stripped  of  his  wealth 
in  a  day!  Stunned  and  heart-broken,  he  knew  not 
how  to  break  it  to  his  daughter,  but  he  had  written 
for  her  to  return.  His  sumptuous  house  had  been 
sold  over  his  head,  yet  the  purchaser,  whom  lie  did 
not  know,  had  liberally  offered  the  use  of  it  till  his 
affairs  were  settled.  And,  meantime,  his  ruin  was 
made  public.  The  news  of  it,  indeed,  had  reached 
Saratoga  before  the  departure  of  Mabel — but  there 
|  were  none  willing  to  wound  her  by  speaking  of  it. 

The  day  was  one  of  the  sweetest  of  summer,  and 
|  as  the  boat  ploughed  her  way  down  the  Hudson,  Ma- 
j  bel  sat  on  the  deck   lost  in    thought.     Her   father's 
•  opinion  of  Bellallure,  and  his  probable  displeasure  at 
'.  her   choice,    weighed    uncomfortably   on    her   mind, 
i  She  turned  her  thoughts  upon  Mr.  Blythe,  and  felt  sur- 
j  prised  at  the  pleasure  with  which  she  remembered  his 
j  kind  manners  and  his  trust-inspiring  look.     She   be- 
j  gan  to  reason  with  herself  more  calmly  than  she  had 
i  power  to  do  with  her  lovers  around   her.     She  con- 
'  fessed  to   herself  that  Bellallure  might  have  the  ro 
mantic  perseverance  shown  in  the  career  of  the  chim 
ney-sweep,  and  still  be  deficient  in  qualities  necessary 
to  domestic  happiness.     There  seemed  to  her  some 
thing  false   about  Bellallure.     She  could   not  say  in 
what— but  he  had  so   impressed  her.     A  long  day's 
silent  "reflection  deepened  this  impression,  and  Mabel 
j  arrived  at  the  city  with  changed  feelings.     She  pre 
pared  herself  to  meet  him  at  her  father's  house,  and 
j  show  him   by  her  manner  that  she  could  accept  nei 
ther  his  hand  nor  his  fortune. 

Mr.  Wynne  was  at  the  door  to  receive  his  daughter, 
and  Mabel  felt  relieved,  for  she  thought  that  his  pres- 
sence  would  bar  all  explanation  between  herself  and 
Bellallure.  The  old  man  embraced  her  with  an  effu 
sion  of  tears  which  she  did  not  quite  understand,  but 
he  led  her  to  the  drawing-room  and  closed  the  door. 
Mr.  Blythe  stood  before  her  ! 

Forgetting  the  letter — dissociated  wholly  as  it  was, 
in  her  mind,  with  Mr.  Blythe — Mabel  ran  to  him 
with  frank  cordiality  and  gave  him  her  hand  !  Blythe 


98 


THE  GHOST-BALL  AT  CONGRESS  HALL. 


stood  a  moment — his  hand  trembling  in  hers — and  as 
a  suspicion  of  the  truth  flashed  suddenly  on  Mabel's 
mind,  the  generous  Jover  drew  her  to  his  bosom  and 
folded  her  passionately  in  his  embrace.  Mabel's 
struggles  were  slight,  and  her  happiness  unexpectedly 
complete. 

The  marriage  was  like  other  marriages. 

Mr.  Wynne  had  drawn  a  little  on  his  imagination 
in  recommending  Mr.  Blythe  to  his  daughter  as  "a 
young  man  of  most  respectable  family." 


|  Mr.  Blythe  was  the  purchaser  of  Mr.  Wynne's  su 
perb  house,  and  the  old  man  ended  his  days  under  its 
roof — happy  to  the  last  in  the  society  of  the  Blythes, 

j  large  and  little. 

Mr.  Bellallure  turned  out  to  be  a  clever  adventurer, 
and  had  Mabel  married  him,  she  would  have  been 
Mrs.  Bellallure  No.  2 — possibly  No.  4.  He  thought 
himself  too  nice  a  young  man  for  monopoly. 

I  think   my  story  is  told — if  your  imagination  has 

I  rilled  up  the  interstices,  that  is  to  say. 


THE  GHOST-BALL  AT  CONGRESS  HALL, 


IT  was  the  last  week  of  September,  and  the  keeper 
of  "  Congress  hall"  stood  on  his  deserted  colonnade. 
Ths  dusty  street  of  Saratoga  was  asleep  in  the  still 
ness  of  village  afternoon.  The  whittlings  of  the  stage- 
runners  at  the  corners,  and  around  the  leaning  posts, 
were  fading  into  dingy  undistinguishableness.  Stiff 
and  dry  hung  the  slop-cloths  at  the  door  of  the  livery 
stable,  and  drearily  clean  was  doorway  and  stall. 
"  The  season"  was  over. 

"  Well,  Mr.  B !"  said  the  Boniface  of  the 

great  caravansary,  to  a  gentlemanly-looking  invalid, 
crossing  over  from  the  village  tavern  on  his  way  to 
Congress  spring,  "  this  looks  like  the  end  of  it !  A 

slimmish  season,  though,  Mr.  B !  'Gad,  things 

isn't  as  they  used  to  be  in  your  time  !  Three  months 
we  used  to  have  of  it,  in  them  days,  and  the  same 
people  coming  and  going  all  summer,  and  folks'  own 
horses,  and  all  the  ladies  drinking  champagne  !  And 
every  '  hop'  was  as  good  as  a  ball,  and  a  ball — when  do 
you  ever  see  such  balls  now-a-days  ?  Why,  here's 

all  my  best  wines  in  the  cellar;  and  as  to  beauty 

pooh! — they're  done  coming  here,  any  how,  are  the 
belles,  such  as  belles  was!" 

"  You  may  say  that,  mine  host,  you  may  say  that!" 
replied  the  damaged  Corydon,  leaning  heavily  on  his 
cane, — "  what — they're  all  gone,  now,  eh — nobody  at 
the  '  United  States  ?'  " 

"Not  a  soul — and  here's  weather  like  August! 

capital  weather  for  young  ladies  to  walk  out  evenings, 
and,  for  a  drive  to  Barheight's — nothing  like  it !  It's 
a  sin,  /say,  to  pass  such  weather  in  the  city  !  Why 
shouldn't  they  come  to  the  springs  in  the  Indian 
summer,  Mr.  B ?" 

Coming  events  seemed  to  have  cast  their  shadows 
before.  As  Boniface  turned  his  eyes  instinctively 
toward  the  sand  hill,  whose  cloud  of  dust  was  the 
precursor  of  new  pilgrims  to  the  waters,  and  the  sign 
for  the  black  boy  to  ring  the  bell  of  arrival,  behold,  on 
its  summit,  gleaming  through  the  nebulous  pyramid, 
like  a  lobster  through  the  steam  of  the  fisherman's 
pot,  one  of  the  red  coaches  of  "  the  People's  Line." 

And  another! 

And  another! 

And  another! 

Down  the  sandy  descent  came  the  first,  while  the 
driver's  horn,  intermittent  with  the  crack  of  his  whip, 
set  to  bobbing  every  pine  cone  of  the  adjacent  wil 
derness. 

"  Prrr — ru — te — too— toot — pash ! — crack  ! — snap  ! 
— prrrr — r — rut— rut — nut  !  !  G'lang  ! — Hip  !" 

Boniface  laid  his  hand  on  the  pull  of  the  porter's 
bell,  but  the  thought  flashed  through  his  mind  that 
he  might  have  been  dreaming — was  he  awake  ? 

And,  marvel  upon  wonder  !— a  horn  of  arrival  from 


the  other  end  of  the  village !     And  as  he  turned  his 

eyes  in  that  direction,  he  saw  the  dingier  turnouts 

from  Lake  Sacrament — extras,  wagons — every  variety 

of  rattletrap  conveyance — pouring  in   like   an   Irish 

I  funeral  on  the  return,  and  making  (oh,  climax  more 

;  satisfactory  !)  straight,  all,  for  Congress  Hall ! 

Events  now  grew  precipitate — 

Ladies  were  helped  out  with  green  veils — parasols 

and  baskets  -were   handed   after   them — baggage  was 

chalked  and  distributed — (and  parasols,  baskets,  and 

!  baggage,  be  it  noted,  were  all  of  the  complexion  that 

I  innkeepers  love,  the  indefinable  look  which  betrays 

the  owner's  addictedness  to  extras) — and  now  there 

I  was  ringing  of  bells  ;  and  there  were  orders  for  the 

I   woodcocks  to  be  dressed  with  pork  chemises,  and  for 

|  the   champagne   to    be    iced,    the    sherry    not — and 

;j  through   the  arid  corridors  of  Congress  hall  floated 

|   a  delicious  toilet  air  of  cold  cream  and  lavender — and 

i  ladies'  maids  came  down  to  press  out  white  dresses, 

I  while  the  cook  heated   the  curling  irons — and  up  and 

I  down  the   stairs  flitted,  with  the  blest  confusion  of 

:  |  other  days,  boots  and  iced  sangarees,  hot  water,  towels, 

| i  and  mint-juleps—all  delightful,  but  all  incomprehen- 

I  sible !     Was  the  summer  encored,  or  had  the  Jews 
|   gone  back   to   Jerusalem?     To  the  keeper  of  Con- 

I  gress  hall  the  restoration  of  the  millenium  would  have 

|  been  a  rush-light  to  this  second  advent  of  fun-and- 

\  fashion-dom  ! 

Thus  far  we  have  looked  through  the  eves  of  the 

:  person  (pocket-ually  speaking)  most  interested  in  the 
singular  event  we  wished  to  describe.  Let  us  now 

i  (tea  being  over,  and  your  astonishment  having  had 

|  time  to  breathe)  take  the  devil's  place  at  the  elbow  of 
the  invalided  dandy  beforementioned,  and  follow  him 
over  to  Congress  Hall.  It  was  a  mild  night  and,  as  I 
said  before  (or  meant  to,  if  I  did  not),  August,  having 
been  prematurely  cut  off  by  his  raining  successor, 
seemed  up  again,  like  Hamlet's  governor,  and  bent  on 

i  walking  out  his  time. 

Rice  (you  remember  Rice— famous  for  his  lemon 
ades  with  a  corrective)— Rice,  having  nearly  ignited 

I 1  his  forefinger  with  charging  wines  at  dinner,  was  out 
||  to    cool   on   the   colonnade,   and   B ,   not  strong 

enough  to  stand  about,  drew  a  chair  near  the  drawing- 
room  window,  and  begged  the  rosy  barkeeper  to  throw 
what  light  he  could  upon  this  multitudinous  appari 
tion.  Rice  could  only  feed  the  fire  of  his  wonder 
with  the  fuel  of  additional  circumstances.  Coaches 
had  been  arriving  from  every  direction  till  the  house 
was  full.  The  departed  black  band  had  been  stopped 
at  Albany,  and  sent  back.  There  seemed  no  married 
people  in  the  party — at  least,  judging  by  dress  and 
flirtation.  Here  and  there  a  belle,  a  little  on  the 
wane,  but  all  most  juvenescent  in  gayety,  and  (Rice 


THE  GHOST-BALL  AT  CONGRESS  HALL. 


99 


thought)  handsomer  girls  than  had  been  at  Congress 
hall  since  the  days  of  the  Albany  regency  (the  regency 
of  beauty),  ten  years  ago  !  Indeed,  it  struck  Rice 
that  he  had  seen  the  faces  of  these  lovely  girls  before, 
though  they  whom  he  thought  they  resembled  had 
long  since  gone  off  the  stage — grandmothers,  some  of 
them,  now! 

Rice  had  been  told,  also,  that  there  was  an  extraor 
dinary  and  overwhelming  arrival  of  children  and 
nurses  at  the  Pavilion  Hotel,  but  he  thought  the 
eport  smelt  rather  like  a  jealous  figment  of  the 
Pavilioners.  Odd,  if  true — that's  all  ! 

Mr.  B had  taken  his  seat  on  the  colonnade,  as 

Shakspere  expresses  it,  "about  cock-shut  time"— 
twilight — and  in  the  darkness  made  visible  of  the 
rooms  within,  he  could  only  distinguish  the  outline  of 
some  very  exquisite,  and  exquisitely  plump  figures 
gliding  to  and  fro,  winged,  each  one,  with  a  pair  of 
rather  stoutish,  but  most  attentive  admirers.  As  the 
curfew  hour  stole  away,  however,  the  ladies  stole  away 
with  it,  to  dress;  and  at  ten  o'clock  the  sudden  out 
break  of  the  full  band  in  a  mazurka,  drew  Mr. 

B 's  attention  to  the  dining-room  frontage  of  the 

colonnade,  and,  moving  his  chair  to  one  of  the  win 
dows,  the  cockles  of  his  heart  warmed  to  see  the 
orchestra  in  its  glory  of  old — thirteen  black  Orpheuses 
perched  on  a  throne  of  dining-tables,  and  the  black 
veins  on  their  shining  temples  strained  to  the  crack  j 
of  mortality  with  their  zealous  execution.  The 
waiters,  meantime,  were  lighting  the  tinBriareus  (that 
spermaciti  monster  so  destructive  to  broadcloth),  and 
the  side-sconces  and  stand-lamps,  and  presently  a  I 
blaze  of  light  flooded  the  dusty  evergreens  of  the  j 
facade,  and  nothing  was  wanting  but  some  fashionable 
Curtius  to  plunge  first  into  the  void — some  adventu 
rous  Benton,  "  to  set  the  ball  in  motion." 

Wrapped  carefully  from  the  night-air  in  his  cloak 

and   belcher,  B sat,   looking   earnestly  into   the 

room,  and  to  his  excited  senses  there  seemed,  about 
all  this  supplement  to  the  summer's  gayety,  a  weird 
mysteriousness,  an  atmosphere  of  magic,  which  was 
observable,  he  thought,  evefi  in*  the   burning  of  the  I 
candles!     And  as  to  Johnson,  the  sable  leader  of  the  j 
band — "  God's-my-life,"  as  Bottom  says,  how  like  a! 
tormented  fiend  writhed  the  cremona  betwixt  his  chin 
and  white  waistcoat !     Such  music,  from  instruments 
so  vexed,   had  never  split  the   ears  of  the   Saratoga 
groundlings  since   the  rule  of   Saint   Dominick   (in 
whose  hands  even  wine  sparkled   to  song) — no,   not 
since  the  golden  age  of  the  Springs,  when  that  lord  of 
harmony  and  the  nabobs  of  lower  Broadway  made,  of 
Congress  hall,  a  paradise  for  the  unmarried  ?     Was 
Johnson  bewitched  ?     Was  Congress  hall  repossessed 

by  the  spirits  of  the  past  ?     If  ever  Mr.  B -,  sitting 

in  other  years  on  that  resounding  colonnade,  had  felt  \ 
the  magnetic  atmosphere  of  people  he  knew  to  Be  up 
stairs,  he  felt  it  now  !  If  ever  he  had  been  contented, 
knowing  that  certain  bright  creatures  would  presently 
glide  into  the  visual  radius  of  black  Johnson,  he  felt 
contented,  inexplicably,  from  the  same  cause  nmo — 
expecting,  as  if  such  music  could  only  be  their  herald, 
the  entrance  of  the  same  bright  creatures,  no  older, 
and  as  bright  after  years  of  matrimony.  And  now  and 

then  B pressed  his  hand  to  his  head — for  he  was 

not  quite  sure  that  he  might  not  be  a  little  wandering 
in  his  mind. 

But  suddenly  the  band  struck  up  a  march!     The 

first   bar  was  played   through,  and   B looked  at 

the  door,  sighing  that  this  sweet  hallucination — this 
waking  dream  of  other  days — was  now  to  be  scattered 
by  reality'  He  could  have  filliped  that  mercenary 
Ethiopian  i  n  the  nose  for  playing  such  music  to  such 
falling  off  from  the  past  as  he  now  looked  to  see 
enter. 

A  lady  crossed  the  threshold  on  a  gentleman's  arm. 

"  Ha  !  ha!"  said  B ,  trying  with  a  wild  effort  to 


laugh,    and    pinching   his   arm   into    a   blood-blister, 

"  come— this  is  too  good  !     Helen  K !  oh,  no  ! 

Not  quite  crazy  yet,  I  hope — not  so  far  gone  yet ! 

Yet  it  is!     I  swear  it  is!     And  not  changed  either ! 

j  Beautiful  as  ever,  by  all  that  is  wonderful !     Psha  ! 

I'll  not  be  mad  !     Rice  ! — are  you  there?    Why,  who 

are  these  coming  after   her?     Julia   L !     Anna 

K ,  and  my  friend  Fanny  !     The  D s  !     The 

M s!     Nay,  I'm  dreaming,  silly  fool  that  I  am! 

I'll  call  for  a  light!     Waiter!!     Where  the  devil's 
the  bell  ?" 

And  as  poor  B insisted  on  finding  himself  in 

I  bed,  reached  out  his  hand  to  find  the  bell-pull,  one  of 
|  the  waiters  of  Congress  hall  came  to  his  summons. 
j  The  gentleman  wanted  nothing,  and  the  waiter 
j  thought  he  had  cried  out  in  his  nap ;  and  rather 
i  embarrassed  to  explain  his  wants,  but  still  unconvinced 

I  of  his  freedom  from  dream-land,  B drew  his  hat 

over  his  eyes,  and  his  cloak  around  him,  and  screwed 
<  up  his  courage  to  look  again  into  the  enchanted  ball 
room. 

The  quadrilles  were  formed,  and  the  lady  at  the 
|  head  of  the  first  set  was  spreading  her  skirts  for  the 
i  ai 'ant- deux.  She  was  a  tall  woman,  superbly  hand 
some,  and  moved  with  the  grace  of  a  frigate  at  sea 
with  a  nine-knot  breeze.  Eyes  capable  of  taking  in 
lodgers  (hearts,  that  is  to  say)  of  any  and  every  calibre 
and  quality,  a  bust  fora  Cornelia,  a  shape  all  love  and 
lightness,  and  a  smile  like  a  temptation  of  Eblis — 
there  she  was — and  there  were  fifty  like  her — not  like 
her,  exactly,  either,  but  of  her  constellation — belles, 
every  one  of  them,  who  will  be  remembered  by  old 
men,  and  used  for  the  disparagement  of  degenerated 

younglings — splendid  women  of   Mr.   B 's  time, 

and  of  the  palmy  time  of  Congress  hall — 

"  The  past — the  past — the  past !" 

Out  on  your  staring  and  unsheltered  lantern  of 
brick — your  "  United  States  hotel,"  stiff,  modern,  and 
promiscuous!  Whoever  passed  a  comfortable  hour 
in  its  glaring  cross-lights,  or  breathed  a  gentle  senti 
ment  in  its  unsubdued  air  and  townish  open-to-dusti- 
ness  !  What  is  it  to  the  leafy  dimness,  the  cool  shad 
ows,  the  perpetual  and  pensive  dcmi-jour — what  to  the 
ten  thousand  associations — of  Congress  hall  !  Who 
has  not  lost  a  heart  (or  two)  on  the  boards  of  that 
primitive  wilderness  of  a  colonnade  !  Whose  first 
adorations,  whose  sighs,  hopes,  strategies,  and  flirta 
tions,  are  not  ground  into  that  warped  and  slipper- 
polished  floor,  like  heartache  and  avarice  into  the 
bricks  of  Wall  street!  Lord  bless  you,  madam! 
don't  desert  old  Congress  hall !  We  have  done  going 
to  the  Springs — (we) — and  wouldn't  go  there  again 
for  anything,  but  a  good  price  for  a  pang — (that  is, 
except  to  see  such  a  sight  as  we  are  describing) — but 
we  can  not  bear,  in  our  midsummer  flit  through  the 
Astor,  to  see  charming  girls  bound  for  Saratoga,  and 
hear  no  talk  of  Congress  hall  !  What  !  no  lounge 
on  those  proposal  sofas — no  pluck  at  the  bright  green 
leaves  of  those  luxuriant  creepers  while  listening  to 
"  the  veice  of  the  charmer" — no  dawdle  on  the  steps 
to  the  spring  (mamma  gone  on  before)— no  hunting 
for  that  glow-worm  in  the  shrubbery  by  the  music- 
room — no  swing — no  billiards— no  morning  gossips 
with  the  few  privileged  beaux  admitted  to  the  up 
stairs  entry,  ladies'  wing  ? 

"  I'd  sooner  be  set  quick  i'  the  earth. 
And  bowled  to  death  with  turnips," 

than  assist  or  mingle  in  such  ungrateful  forgetfulness 
of  pleasure-land  !  But  what  do  we  with  a  digression 
in  a  ghost-story  ? 

The  ball  went  on.  Champagne  of  the  "exploded" 
color  (pink)  was  freely  circulated  between  the  dances — 
(rosy  wine  suited  to  the  bright  days  when  all  things 
were  tinted  rose)— and  wit.  exploded,  too,  in  these 


100 


THE  GHOST-BALL  AT  CONGRESS  HALL. 


leaden  times,  went  round  with  the  wine;  and  as  a 

flass  of  the  bright  vintage  was  handed  up  to  old 
ohnson,  B  stretched  his  neck  over  the  window- 
sill  in  an  agony  of  expectation,  confident  that  the 
black  ghost,  if  ghost  he  were,  would  fail  to  recognise 
the  leaders  of  fashion,  as  he  was  wont  of  old,  and  to 
bow  respectfully  to  them  before  drinking  in  their  pres 
ence.  Oh,  murder !  not  he !  Down  went  his  black 
poll  to  the  music-stand,  and  up,  and  down  again,  and 


height's,  and  back  in  time  for  ball  and  supper;  and 
the  day  after  there  was  a  most  hilarious  and  memora 
ble  fishing-party  to  Saratoga  lake,  and  all  back  again 
in  high  force  for  the  ball  and  supper  ;  and  so  like  a 
long  gala-day,  like  a  short  summer  carnival,  all  frolic, 
sped  the  week  away.  Boniface,  by  the  third  day,  had 
rallied  his  recollections,  and  with  many  a  scrape  and 
compliment,  he  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  the 
belles  and  beaux  of  a  brighter  period  of  beauty  and 


at  every  dip,  the  white  roller  of  that  unctuous  eye  was     gallantry.     And  if  there  was  any  mystery  remaining 


brought  to  bear  upon  some  well-remembered  star  of 

the  ascendant !     He  saw  them   as  B did  !     He 

was  not  playing  to  an  unrecognised  company  of  late 
comers  to  Saratoga — anybodies  from  any  place!     He, 


in  the  old  functionary's  mind  as  to  the  identity  and 
miracle  of  their  presence  and  reunion,  it  was  on  the 
one  point  of  the  ladies'  unfaded  loveliness — for,  saving 
a  half  inch  aggregation  in  the  waist,  which  was  rather 


the   unimaginative    African,   believed    evidently  that   j  an  improvement  than  otherwise,  and  a  little  more  ful- 


they  were  there  in  flesh— Helen,  the  glorious,  and  all 
her  fair  troop  of  contemporaries  ! — and  that  with  them 
had  come  back  their  old  lovers,  the  gay  and  gallant 
Lotharios  of  the  time  of  Johnson's  first  blushing 
honors  of  renown  !  The  big  drops  of  agonized  horror 
and  incredulity  rolled  off  the  forehead  of  Mr.  B ! 

But  suddenly  the  waiters  radiated  to  the  side-doors, 
and  with  the  celestial  felicity  of  star-rising  and  mor 
ning-breaking,  a  waltz  was  found  playing  in  the  ears 
of  the  revellers  !  Perfect,  yet  when  it  did  begin  ! 
"Waltzed  every  brain  and  vein,  waltzed  every  swim 
ming  eye  within  the  reach  of  its  magic  vibrations  ! 
Gently  away  floated  couple  after  couple,  and  as  they 

circled  round  to  his  point  of  observation,  B could 

have  called  every  waltzer  by  name — but  his  heart  was 
in  his  throat,  but  his  eyeballs  were  hot  with  the  stony 
immovableness  of  his  long  gazing. 

Another  change  in  the  music  !  Spirits  of  bedevil- 
ment !  could  not  that  waltz  have  been  spared  !  Boni 
face  stood  waltzing  his  head  from  shoulder  to  shoulder 
— Rice  twirled  the  head-chambermaid  in  the  entry — 
the  black  and  white  boys  spun  round  on  the  colonnade 
— the  wall-flowers  in  the  ball-room  crowded  their 
chairs  to  the  wall — the  candles  flared  embracingly — 

ghosts  or  no  ghosts,  dream  or  hallucination,  B 

could  endure  no  more  !  He  flung  off  his  cloak  and 
hat,  and  jumped  in  at  the  window.  The  divine  Emily 
C  had  that  moment  risen  from  tying  her  shoe. 

With  a  nod  to  her  partner,  and  a  smile  to  herself, 

B encircled  her  round  waist,  and  away  he  flew 

like  Ariel,  light  on  the  toe,  but  his  face  pallid  and 
wild,  and  his  emaciated  legs  playing  like  sticks  in  his 
unfilled  trousers.  Twice  he  made  the  circuit  of  the 
room,  exciting  apparently  less  surprise  than  pleasure 
by  his  sudden  appearance  ;  then,  with  a  wavering  halt, 
and  his  hand  laid  tremulously  to  his  forehead,  he  flew 
at  the  hall-door  at  a 


ness  in  the  bust,  which  was  a  most  embellishing  dif 
ference,  the  ten  years  that  had  gone  over  them  had 
made  no  mark  on  the  lady  portion  of  his  guests  ;  and 
as  to  the  gentlemen — but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there. 
They  were  "men  of  mark,"  young  or  old,  and  their 
wear  and  tear  is,  as  Flute  says,  "  a  thing  of  naught." 
It  was  revealed  by  the  keeper  of  the  Pavilion,  after 
the  departure  of  the  late-come  revellers  of  Congress 
hall,  that  there  had  been  constant  and  secret  visita 
tions  by  the  belles  of  the  latter  sojourn,  to  the  numer 
ous  infantine  lodgers  of  the  former.  Such  a  troop 
of  babies  and  boys,  and  all  so  lovely,  had  seldom 
gladdened  even  the  eyes  of  angels,  out  of  the  cheru 
bic  choir  (let  alone  the  Saratoga  Pavilion),  and  though, 
in  their  white  dresses  and  rose-buds,  the  belles  afore 
spoken  of  looked  like  beautiful  elder  sisters  to  those 
motherless  younglings,  yet  when  they  came  in,  moth 
ers  confessed,  on  the  morning  of  departure,  openly 
to  superintend  the  preparations  for  travel,  they  had  so 
put  off  the  untroubled  maiden  look  from  their  coun 
tenances,  and  so  put  on  the  indescribable  growing- 
old-iness  of  married  life  in  their  dress,  that,  to  the 
eye  of  an  observer,  they  might  well  have  passed  for 
the  mothers  of  the  girls  they  had  themselves  seemed 
to  be,  the  day  before,  only. 

Who  devised,  planned,  and  brought  about,  this  prac 
tical   comment  on  thj2  wgedlessness  of  the  American 
haste  to  be  old,  we  are  not  at  liberty  to  mention.    The 
reader  will  have  surmised,  however,  that  it  was  some 
I  one  who  had  observed  the  more  enduring  quality  of 
i  beauty  in  other  lands,  and   on  returning  to  his  own, 
j  looked  in  vain  for  those  who,  by  every  law  of  nature, 
should  be  still   embellishing  the  society  of  which  he 
I  had  left  them  the  budding  flower  and  ornament.     To 
get  them  together  again,  only  with  their  contempora 
ries,  in  one  of  their  familiar  haunts  of  pleasure — to 


tangent,  and  rushing  through     suggest  the  exclusion  of  everything  but  youthful 


servants  and  spectators,  dashed  across  the  portico,  and 
disappeared  in  the  darkness  !  A  fortnight's  brain-fever 
deprived  him  of  the  opportunity  of  repeating  this  re 
markable  flourish,  and  his  subsequent  sanity  was  es 
tablished  through  some  critical  hazard. 

There  was  some  inquiry  at  supper  about  "  old 

B ,"  but  the  lady  who  waltzed  with  him  knew 

as  little  of  his  coming  and  going  as  the  managers; 
and,  by  one  belle,  who  had  been  at  some  trouble  in 
other  days  to  quench  his  ardor,  it  was  solemnly  be 
lieved  to  be  his  persevering  apparition. 

The  next  day  there  was  a  drive  and  dinner  at  Bar- 


I  in   dress,   amusement,  and   occupation — to    bring   to 
meet  them  their  old  admirers,  married  like  themselves, 
but  entering  the  field  once  more  for  their  smiles  against 
their  rejuvenescent  husbands — to  array  them  as  belles 
again,  and  see  whether  it  was  any  falling  off  in  beauty 
or  the  power  of  pleasing  which  had  driven  them  from 
j  their  prominent  places  in  social  life — this  was  the  ob- 
I  vious   best   way  of  doing   his   immediate   circles  of 
j  friends  the  service  his  feelings  exacted  of  him;  the 
j  only  way,  indeed,  of  convincing  these  bright  creatures 
that  they  had  far  anticipated  the  fading  hour  of  bloom 
j  and  youthfulness.     Pensez-y  ! 


BORN  TO  LOVE  PIGS  AND  CHICKENS. 


101 


BORN    TO   LOVE    PIGS    AND    CHICKENS, 


THE  guests  at  the  Astor  House  were  looking  mourn 
fully  out  of  the  drawing-room  windows,  on  a  certain 
rainy  day  of  an  October  passed  over  to  history.  No 
shopping — no  visiting!  The,  morning  must  be  passed 
in-doors.  And  it  was  some  consolation  to  those  who 
were  in  town  for  a  few  days  to  see  the  world,  that  their 
time  was  not  quite  lost,  for  the  assemblage  in  the  large 
drawing-room  was  numerous  and  gay.  A  very  dressy 
affair  is  the  drawing-room  of  the  Astor,  and  as  full  of 
eyes  as  a  peacock's  tail — (which,  by  the  way,  is  also  a 
very  dressy  affair).  Strangers  who  wish  to  see  and  be 
seen  (and  especially  "be  seen")  on  rainy  days,  as  well 
as  on  sunny  days,  in  their  visits  to  New  York,  should, 
as  the  phrase  goes,  "  patronize"  the  Astor.  As  if 
there  was  any  patronage  in  getting  the  worth  of  your 
money  ! 

Well — the  people  in  the  drawing-room  looked  a 
little  out  of  the  windows,   and  a  great  deal  at  each 
other.     Unfortunately,  it  is  only  among  angels  and 
underbred  persons  that  introductions  can  be  dispensed  ! 
with,  and  as  the  guests  of  that  day  at  the  Astor  House 
were  mostly  strangers  to  each  other,  conversation  was  ] 
very  fitful  and  guarded,  and  any  movement  whatever 
extremely  conspicuous.     There  were  four  very  silent  ; 
ladies  on  the  sofa,  two  very  silent  ladies  in  each  of  the  j  j 
windows,  silent  ladies  on  the  ottomans,  silent  ladies  in   | 
the  chairs  at  the  corners,  and  one  silent  lady,  very 
highly  dressed,  sitting  on  the   music-stool,  with  her 
back  to  the  piano.     There  was  here  and  there  a  gen 
tleman  in  the  room,  weather-bound  and  silent;  but 
we  have  only  to  do  with   one  of  these,  and  with  the 
last-mentioned  much-embellished  young  lady. 

"  Well,  I  can't  sit  on  this  soft  chair  all  day,  cousin 
Meg  !"  said  the  gentleman. 

"  'Sh  ! — call  me  Margaret,  if  you  must  speak  so 
loud,"  said  the  lady.  "And  what  would  you  do  out 
of  doors  this  rainy  day  ?  I'm  sure  it's  very  pleasant 
here." 

"  Not  for  me.     I'd  rather  be  thrashing  in  the  barn. 
But  there  must  be  some  'rainy-weather  work'  in  the  ' 
city  as  well  as  the  country.  There's  some  fun,  /  know, 
that's  kept  for  a  wet  day,  as  we  keep  corn-shelling  and 
grinding  the  tools." 
"  Dear  me!" 
.•Well— what  now?" 

"  Oh,  nothing  ! — but  I  do  wish  you  wouldn'febring 
the  stable  with  you  to  the  Astor  House." 

The  gentleman  slightly  elevated  his  eyebrows,  and 
took  a  leaf  of  music  from  the  piano,  and  commenced  | 
diligently  reading  the  mystic  dots  and  lines.  We  have 
ten   minutes  to  spare  before  the  entrance  of  another  ! 
person  upon  the  scene,  and  we  will  make  use  of  the  ] 
silence  to  conjure  up  for  you,  in  our  magic  mirror,  j 
the  semblance  of  the  two  whose  familiar  dialogue  we  \ 
have  just  jotted  down. 

Miss  Margaret  Pifflit  was  a  young  lady  who  had  a 
large  share  of  what  the  French  call  la  beaute  du  dia- 
ble — youth  and  freshness.     (Though,  why  the  devil 
should  have  the  credit  of  what  never  belonged  to  him, 
it  takes  a  Frenchman,  perhaps,  to  explain.)     To  look 
at,  she  was  certainly  a  human  being  in  very  high  per 
fection.     Her  cheeks  were  like  two  sound  apples;  her  { 
waist  was  as  round  as  a  stove-pipe ;  her  shoulders  had  i 
two  dimples  just  at  the  back,  that  looked  as  if  they  I 
defied  punching  to  make  them  any  deeper;  her  eyes  j 
looked  as  if  they  were  just  made,  they  were  so  bright  1 


and  new  ;  her  voice  sounded  like  "  C  sharp"  in  a  new 
piano  ;  and  her  teeth  were  like  a  fresh  break  in  a 
cocoa-nut.  She  was  inexorably,  unabatedly,  despe 
rately  healthy.  This  fact,  and  the  difficulty  of  uniting 
all  the  fashions  of  all  the  magazines  in  one  dress, 
were  her  two  principal  afflictions  in  this  world  of  care. 
She  had  an  ideal  model,  to  which  she  aspired  with 
constant  longings — a  model  resembling  in  figure  the 
high-born  creatures  whose  never-varied  face  is  seen 
in  all  the  plates  of  fashion,  yet,  if  possible,  paler  and 
more  disdainful.  If  Miss  Pifflit  could  have  bent  her 
short  wrist  with  the  curve  invariably  given  to  the  well- 
gloved  extremities  of  that  mysterious  and  nameless 
beauty  ;  if  she  could  but  have  sat  with  her  back  to 
her  friends,  and  thrown  her  head  languishingly  over 
her  shoulder  without  dislocating  her  neck ;  if  she 
could  but  have  protruded  from  the  flounce  of  her 
dress  a  foot  more  like  a  mincing  little  muscle-shell, 
and  less  like  a  jolly  fat  clam ;  in  brief,  if  she  could 
have  drawn  out  her  figure  like  the  enviable  joints  of  a 
spy-glass,  whittled  off  more  taperly  her  four  extremi 
ties,  sold  all  her  uproarious  and  indomitable  roses  for 
a  pot  of  carmine,  and  compelled  the  publishers  of  the 
magazines  to  refrain  from  the  distracting  multiplicity 
of  their  monthly  fashions — with  these  little  changes 
in  her  allotment,  Miss  Pifflit  would  havf  realized  all 
her  maiden  aspirations  up  to  the  present  hour. 

A  glimpse  will  give  you  an  idea  of  the  gentleman 
in  question.  He  was  not  much  more  than  he  looked 
to  be — a  compact,  athletic  young  man  of  twenty  one, 
with  clear,  honest  blue  eyes,  brown  face,  where  it  was 
not  shaded  by  the  rim  of  his  hat,  curling  brown  hair, 
and  an  expression  of  fearless  qualities,  dashed  just 
now  by  a  tinge  of  rustic  bashfulness.  His  dress  was 
a  little  more  expensive  and  gayer  than  was  necessary, 
and  he  wore  his  clothes  in  a  way  which  betrayed  Chat 
he  would  be  more  at  home  in  shirt-sleeves.  His  hands 
were  rough,  and  his  attitude  that  of  a  man  who  was 
accustomed  to  fling  himself  down  on  the  nearest 
bench,  or  swing  his  legs  from  the  top  rail  of  a  fence, 
or  the  box  of  a  wagon.  We  speak  with  caution  of 
his  rusticity,  however,  for  he  had  a  printed  card,  "  Mr. 
Ephraim  Bracely,"  and  he  was  a  subscriber  to  the 
"  Spirit  of  the  Times."  We  shall  find  time  to  say  a 
thing  or  two  about  him  as  we  get  on. 

"Eph."  Bracely  and  "Meg"  Pifflit  were  "enga 
ged."  With  the  young  lady  it  was,  as  the  French 
say,  faule  de  micux,  for  her  beau-ideal  (or,  in  plain 
English,  her  ideal  beau)  was  a  tall,  pale  young  gentle 
man,  with  white  gloves,  in  a  rapid  consumption.  She 
and  Eph.  were  second  cousins,  however,  and  as  she 
was  art  orphan,  and  had  lived  since  childhood  with  his 
father,  and,  moreover,  had  inherited  the  Pifflit  farm, 
which  adjoined  that  of  the  Bracelys,  and,  moreover, 
had  been  told  to  "  kiss  her  little  husband,  and  love 
him  always"  by  the  dying  breath  of  her  mother,  and 
'  (moreover  third)  had  been  "  let  be"  his  sweetheart  by 
the  unanimous  consent  of  the  neighborhood,  why,  it 
I  seemed  one  of  those  matches  made  in  Heaven,  and 
!  not  intended  to  be  travestied  on  earth.  It  was  under 
stood  that  they  were  to  be  married  as  soon  as  the 
young  man's  savings  should  enable  him  to  pull  down 
the  old  Pifflit  house  and  build  a  cottage,  and,  with  a 
fair  season,  that  might  be  done  in  another  year. 
Meantime,  Eph.  was  a  loyal  keeper  of  his  troth, 
though  never  having  the  trouble  to  win  the  young 


102 


BORN  TO  LOVE  PIGS  AND  CHICKENS, 


lady,  he  was  not  fully  aware  of  the  necessity  of  court 
ship,  whether  or  no  ;  and  was,  besides,  somewhat  un 
susceptible  of  the  charms  of  moonlight,  after  a  hard 
day's  work  at  haying  or  harvesting.  The  neighbors 
thought  it  proof  enough  of  his  love  that  he  never 
"  went  sparking"  elsewhere,  and  as  he  would  rather 
talk  of  his  gun  or  his  fishing-rod,  his  horse  or  his 
crop,  pigs,  politics,  or  anything  else,  than  of  love  or 
matrimony,  his  companions  took  his  engagement  with 
his  cousin  to  be  a  subject  upon  which  he  felt  too 
deeply  to  banter,  and  they  neither  invaded  his  domain 
by  attentions  to  his  sweetheart,  nor  suggested  thought 
by  allusions  to  her.  It  was  in  the  progress  of  this 
even  tenor  of  engagement,  that  some  law  business 
had  called  old  Farmer  Bracely  to  New  York,  and  the 
young  couple  had  managed  to  accompany  him.  And 
of  course  nothing  would  do  for  Miss  Piflh't  but  "  the 
Astor." 

And  now,  perhaps,  the  reader  is  ready  to  be  told 
whose  carriage  is  at  the  Vesey  street  door,  and 
who  sends  up  a  dripping  servant  to  inquire  for  Miss 
Pifflit. 

It  is  allotted  to  the  destiny  of  every  country-girl  to 
have  one  fashionable  female  friend  in  the  city — some 
body  to  correspond  with,  somebody  to  quote,  some 
body  to  write  her  the  particulars  of  the  last  elopement, 
somebody  to  send  her  patterns  of  collars,  and  the  rise 
and  fall  of  tournures,  and  such  other  things  as  are  not 
entered  into  by  the  monthly  magazines.  How  these 
apparently  unlikely  acquaintances  are  formed,  is  as 
much  a  mystery  as  the  eternal  youth  of  post-boys, 
and  the  eternal  duration  of  donkeys.  Far  be  it  from 
me  to  pry  irreverently  into  those  pokerish  corners  of  j 
the  machinery  of  the  world.  I  go  no  farther  than  ' 
the  fact,  that  Miss  Julia  Hampson  was  an  acquaintance 
of  Miss  Pifflit's. 

Everybody  knows  "  Hampson  and  Co." 
Miss  Hampson  was  a  good  deal  what  the  Fates  had 
tried  to  make  her.  If  she  had  not  been  admirably 
well  dressed,  it  would  have  been  by  violent  opposition 
to  the  united  zeal  and  talent  of  dressmakers  and  mil 
liners.  These  important  vicegerents  of  the  Hand  that 
reserves  to  itself  the  dressing  of  the  butterfly  and 
lily,  make  distinctions  in  the" exercise  of  their  voca 
tion.  Wo  be  to  an  unloveable  woman,  if  she  be  not 
endowed  with  taste  supreme.  She  may  buy  all  the 
stuffs  of  France,  and  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow, 
but  she  will  never  get  from  those  keen  judges  of  fit 
ness  the  loving  hint,  the  admiring  and  selective  per 
suasion,  with  which  they  delight  to  influence  the 
embellishment  of  sweetness  and  loveliness.  They 
who  talk  of  "  anything's  looking  well  on  a  pretty 
woman,"  have  not  reflected  on  the  lesser  providence 
of  dressmakers  and  milliners.  Woman  is  never  mer 
cenary  but  in  monstrous  exceptions,  and  no  trades 
woman  of  the  fashion  will  sell  taste  or  counsel;  and, 
in  the  superior  style  of  all  charming  women,  you  see, 
not  the  influence  of  manners  upon  dress,  but  the  af 
fectionate  tribute  of  these  dispensers  of  elegance  to 
the  qualities  they  admire.  Let  him  who  doubts,  go 
shopping  with  his  dressy  old  aunt  to-day,  and  to-mor 
row  with  his  dear  little  cousin. 

Miss  Hampson,  to  whom  the  supplies  of  elegance 
came  as  naturally  as  bread  and  butter,  and  occasioned 
as  little  speculation  as  to  the  whence  or  how,  was  as 
unconsciously  elegant,  of  course,  as  a  well-dressed 
lily.  She  was  abstractly  a  very  beautiful  girl,  though 
in  a  very  delicate  and  unconspicuous  style  ;  and  by 
dint  of  absolute  fitness  in  dressing,  the  merit  of  her 
beauty,  by  common  observers  at  least,  would  be  half 
given  to  her  fashionable  air  and  unexceptionable  toilet. 
The  damsel  and  her  choice  array,  indeed,  seemed 
the  harmonious  work  of  the  same  maker.  How  much 
was  nature's  gift,  and  how  much  was  bought  in  Broad 
way,  was  probably  never  duly  understood  by  even  her 
most  discriminate  admirer. 


But  we  have  kept  Miss  Hampson  too  long  upon  the 
stairs. 

The  two  young  ladies  met  with  a  kiss,  in  which  (to 
the  surprise  of  those  who  had  previously  observed 
Miss  Mifflit)  there  was  no  smack  of  the  latest  fashion. 

"My  dear  Julia!" 

"  My  dear  Margerine!"  (This  was  a  romantic  va 
riation  of  Meg's,  which  she  had  forced  upon  her 
intimate  friends  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet.) 

Eph.  twitched,  remindingly,  the  jupon  of  his  cousin, 
and  she  introduced  him  with  the  formula  which  she 
had  found  in  one  of  Miss  Austin's  novels. 

"  Oh,  but  there  was  a  mock  respectfulness  in  that 
deep  courtesy,"  thought  Eph.  (and  so  there  was — for 
Miss  Hampson  took  an  irresistible  cue  from  the  in 
flated  ceremoniousness  of  the  introduction). 

Eph.  made  a  bow  as  cold  and  stiff  as  a  frozen  horse- 
blanket.  And  if  he  could  have  commanded  the 
blood  in  his  face,  it  would  have  been  as  dignified  and 
resentful  as  the  eloquence  of  Red  Jacket — but  that 
rustic  blush,  up  to  his  hair,  was  like  a  mask  dropped 
over  his  features. 

"A  bashful  country-boy,"  thought  Miss  Hampson, 
as  she  looked  compassionately  upon  his  redhot  fore 
head,  and  forthwith  dismissed  him  entirely  from  her 
thoughts. 

With  a  consciousness  that  he  had  better  leave  the 
room,  and  walk  off  his  mortification  under  an  um 
brella,  Eph.  took  his  seat,  and  silently  listened  to  the 
conversation  of  the  young  ladies.  Miss  Hampson  had 
come  to  pass  the  morning  with  her  friend,  and  she 
took  off  her  bonnet,  and  showered  down  upon  her 
dazzling  neck  a  profusion  of  the  most  adorable  brown 
ringlets.  Spite  of  his  angry  humiliation,  the  young 
farmer  felt  a  thrill  run  through  his  veins  as  the  heavy 
curls  fell  indolently  about  her  shoulders.  He  had 
never  before  looked  upon  a  woman  with  emotion.  He 
hated  her — oh,  yes  !  for  she  had  given  him  a  look 
that  could  never  be  forgiven — but  for  somebody,  she 
must  be  the  angel  of  the  world.  Eph.  would  have 
given  all  his  sheep  and  horses,  cows,  crops,  and  hay 
stacks,  to  have  seen  the  man  she  would  fancy  to  be 
her  equal.  He  could  not  give  even  a  guess  at  the 
height  of  that  conscious  superiority  from  which  she 
individually  looked  down  upon  him;  but  it  would 
have  satisfied  a  thirst  which  almost  made  him  scream, 
to  measure  himself  by  a  man  with  whom  she  could 
be  familiar.  Where  was  his  inferiority?  What  was 
it?  Why  had  he  been  blind  toil  till  now?  Was 
there  no  surgeon's  knife,  no  caustic,  that  could  carve 
out,  or  cut  away,  burn  or  scarify,  the  vulgarities  she 
looked  upon  so  contemptuously  ?  But  the  devil  take 
her  superciliousness,  nevertheless! 

It  was  a  bitter  morning  to  Eph.  Bracely,  but  still  it 
went  like  a  dream.  The  hptel  parlor  was  no  longer 
a  stupid  place.  His  cousin  Meg  had  gained  a  con 
sequence  in  his  eyes,  for  she  was  the  object  of  caress 
from  this  superior  creature — she  was  the  link  which 
kept  her  within  his  observation.  He  was  too  full  of 
other  feelings  just  now  to  do  more  than  acknowledge  the 
superiority  of  this  girl  to  his  cousin.  He  felt  it  in 
his  after  thoughts,  and  his  destiny  then,  for  the  first 
time,  seemed  crossed  and  inadequate  to  his  wishes. 
******* 

(We  hereby  draw  upon  your  imagination  for  six 
months,  courteous  reader.  Please  allow  the  teller  to 
show  you  into  the  middle  of  the  following  July.) 

Bracely  farm,  ten  o'clock  of  a  glorious  summer 
morning — Miss  Pifflit  extended  upon  a  sofa  in  despair. 
But  let  us  go  back  a  little. 

A  week  before,  a  letter  had  been  received  from 
Miss  Hampson,  who,  to  the  delight  and  surprise  of 
her  friend  Margerine,  had  taken  the  whim  to  pass  a 
month  with  her.  She  was  at  Rockaway,  and  was 
sick  and  tired  of  waltzing  and  the  sea.  Had  Farmer 
Bracely  a  spare  corner  for  a  poor  girl  ? 


BORN  TO  LOVE  PIGS  AND  CHICKENS. 


103 


But  Miss  Pifflit's  "sober  second  thought"  was  utter 
consternation.  How  to  lodge  fitly  the  elegant  Julia 
Hampson?  No  French  bed  in  the  house,  no  bou 
doir,  no  ottomans,  no  pastilles,  no  baths,  no  Psyche  to 
dress  by.  What  vulgar  wretches  they  would  seem  to 
her.  What  insupportable  horror  she  would  feel  at 
the  dreadful  inelegance  of  the  farm.  Meg  was  pale 
with  terror  and  dismay  as  she  went  into  the  details  of 
anticipation. 

Something  must  be  done,  however.  A  sleepless 
night  of  reflection  and  contrivance  sufficed  to  give 
some  shape  to  the  capabilities  of  the  case,  and  by 
daylight  the  next  morning  the  whole  house  was  in 
commotion.  Meg  had  fortunately  a  large  bump  of 
constructiveness,  very  much  enlarged  by  her  habitual 
dilemmas-toilet.  A  boudoir  must  be  constructed. 
Fanner  Bracely  slept  in  the  dried  apple-room,  on 
the  lower  floor,  and  he  was  no  sooner  out  of  his 
bed  than  his  bag  and  baggage  were  tumbled  up  stairs, 
his  gun  and  Sunday  whip  were  taken  down  from  their 
nails,  and  the  floor  scoured,  and  the  ceiling  white 
washed.  Eph.  was  by  this  time  returned  from  the 
village  with  all  the  chintz  that  could  be  bought,  and  a 
paper  of  tacks,  and  some  new  straw  carpeting;  and  by 
ten  o'clock  that  night  the  four  walls  of  the  apartment 
were  covered  with  the  gayly-flowered  material,  the 
carpet  was  nailed  down,  and  old  Farmer  Bracely 
thought  it  a  mighty  nice,  cool-looking  place.  Eph. 
was  a  bit  of  a  carpenter,  and  he  soon  knocked  togeth 
er  some  boxes,  which,  when  covered  with  chintz,  and 
stuffed  with  wool,  looked  very  like  ottomans;  and, 
with  a  handsome  cloth  on  the  round-table,  geraniums 
in  the  windows,  and  a  chintz  curtain  to  subdue  the 
light,  it  was  not  far  from  a  very  charming  boudoir, 
and  Meg  began  to  breathe  more  freely. 

But  Eph.  had  heard  this  news  with  the  blood  hot  in 
his  temples.  Was  that  proud  woman  coming  to  look 
again  upon  him  with  contempt,  and  here,  too,  where 
the  rusticity,  which  he  presumed  to  be  the  object  of 
her  scorn,  would  be  a  thousand  times  more  flagrant 
and  visible?  And  yet,  with  the  entreaty  on  his  lip 
that  his  cousin  would  refuse  to  receive  her,  his  heart 
had  checked  the  utterance — for  an  irresistible  desire 
sprung  suddenly  within  him  to  see  her,  even  at  the 
bitter  cost  of  tenfold  his  former  mortification. 

Yet,  as  the  preparations  for  receiving  Miss  Hamp 
son  went  on,  other  thoughts  took  possession  of  his 
mind.  Eph.  was  not  a  man,  indeed,  to  come  off  sec 
ond  best  in  the  long  pull  of  wrestling  with  a  weak 
ness.  His  pride  began  to  show  its  colors.  He  re 
membered  his  independence  as  a  farmer,  dependant 
on  no  man,  and  a  little  comparison  between  his  pur 
suits,  and  life,  such  as  he  knew  it  to  be,  in  a  city,  soon 
put  him,  in  his  own  consciousness  at  least,  on  a  par 
with  Miss  Hampson's  connexions.  This  point  once 
attained,  Eph.  cleared  his  brow,  and  went  whistling 
about  the  farm  as  usual — receiving  without  reply, 
however,  a  suggestion  of  his  cousin  Meg's,  that  he 
had  better  burn  his  old  straw  hat,  for,  in  a  fit  of  ab 
sence,  he  might  possibly  put  it  on  while  Miss  Hamp 
son  was  there. 

Well,  it  was  ten  o'clock  on  the  morning  after 
Miss  Hampson's  arrival  at  Bracely  farm,  and,  as  we 
said  before,  Miss  Pifllit  was  in  despair.  Presuming 
that  her  friend  would  be  fatigued  with  her  journey, 
she  had  determined  not  to  wake  her,  but  to  order 
breakfast  in  the  boudoir  at  eleven.  Farmer  Bracely 
and  Eph.  must  have  their  breakfast  at  seven,  however, 
and  what  was  the  dismay  of  Meg,  who  was  pouring 
out  their  coffee  as  usual,  to  see  the  elegant  Julia  rush 
into  the  first  kitchen,  courtesy  very  sweetly  to  the  old 
man,  pull  up  a  chair  to  the  table,  apologise  for  being 
late,  and  end  this  extraordinary  scene  by  producing 
two  newly-hatched  chickens  from  her  bosom!  She 
had  been  up  since  sunrise,  and  out  at  the  barn,  down 
by  the  river,  and  up  in  the  haymow,  and  was  perfectly 


enchanted  with  everything,  especially  the  dear  little 
pigs  and  chickens  ! 

"A  very  sweet  young  lady!"  thought  old  Farmer 
Bracely. 

"Very  well — but  hang  your  condescension!"  thought 
Eph..  distrustfully. 

"Mercy  on  me  ! — to  like  pigs  and  chickens!"  men 
tally  ejaculated  the  disturbed  and  bewildred  Miss  Pif- 
flit. 

But  with  her  two  chicks  pressed  to  her  breast 
with  one  hand,  Miss  Hampson  managed  her  coffee 
and  bread  and  butter  with  the  other,  and  chattered 
away  like  a  child  let  out  of  school.  The  air  was  so 
delicious,  and  the  hay  smelt  so  sweet,  and  the  trees  in 
the  meadow  were  so  beautiful,  and  there  were  no  stiff 
sidewalks,  and  no  brick  houses,  and  no  iron  railings, 
and  so  many  dear  speckled  hens,  and  funny  little 
chickens,  and  kind-looking  old  cows,  and  colts,  and 
calves,  and  ducks,  and  turkeys — it  was  delicious — it 
was  enchanting — it  was  worth  a  thousand  Saratogas 
and  Rockaways.  How  anybody  could  prefer  the  city 
to  the  country,  was  to  Miss  Hampson  matter  of  in 
credulous  wonder. 

"Will  you  come  into  the  boudoir?"  asked  Miss 
Piffiit,  with  a  languishing  air,  as  her  friend  Julia  rose 
from  breakfast. 

"Boudoir!"  exclaimed  the  city  damsel,  to  the  in 
finite  delight  of  old  Bracely,  "no,  dear!  I'd  rather  go 
out  to  the  barn!  Are  you  going  anywhere  with  the 
|  oxen  to-day,  sir?"  she  added,  going  up  to  the  gray- 
headed  farmer  caressingly,  "  I  should  so  like  to  ride 
in  that  great  cart!" 

Eph.  was  a  little  suspicious  of  all  this  unexpected 
agreeableness,  but  he  was  naturally  too  courteous  not 
to  give  way  to  a  lady's  whims.  He  put  on  his  old 
straw  hat,  and  tied  his  handkerchief  over  his  shoulder 
(not  to  imitate  the  broad  riband  of  a  royal  order,  but 
|  to  wipe  the  sweat  off  handily  while  mowing),  and  of 
fering  Miss  Hampson  a  rake  which  stood  outside  the 
door,  he  begged  her  to  be  ready  when  he  came  by 
with  the  team.  He  and  his  father  were  bound  to  the 
far  meadow,  where  they  were  cutting  hay,  and  would 
like  her  assistance  in  raking. 

It  was  a  "specimen"  morning,  as  the  magazines 
say,  for  the  air  was  temperate,  and  the  whole  country 
was  laden  with  the  smell  of  the  new  hay,  which  some 
how  or  other,  as  everybody  knows,  never  hinders  or 
overpowers  the  perfume  of  the  flowers.  Oh,  that 
winding  green  lane  between  the  bushes  was  like  an 
avenue  to  paradise.  The  old  cart  jolted  along 
through  the  ruts,  and  Miss  Hampson,  standing  up 
and  holding  on  to  old  Farmer  Bracely,  watched  the 
great  oxen  crowding  their  sides  together,  and  looked 
|  oft' over  the  fields,  and  exclaimed,  as  she  saw  glimpses 
of  the  river  between  the  trees,  and  seemed  veritably 
and  unaffectedly  enchanted.  The  old  farmer,  at  least, 
had  no  doubt  of  her  sincerity,  and  he  watched  her, 
and  listened  to  her,  with  a  broad  honest  smile  of  ad 
miration  on  his  weather-browned  countenance. 

The  oxen  were  turned  up  to  the  fence,  while  the 
dew  dried  off  the  hay,  and  Eph.  and  his  father  turned 
to  mewing,  leaving  "Miss  Hampson  to  ramble  about 
over  the  meadow,  and  gather  flowers  by  the  river-side. 
In  the  course  of  an  hour,  they  began  to  rake  up,  and 
she  came  to  offer  her  promised  assistance,  and  stoutly 
|  followed  Eph.  up  and  down  several  of  the  long  swaths, 
till!  her  face  glowed  under  her  sunbonnet  as  it  never 
had  glowed  with  waltzing.  Heated  and  tired  at  last, 
she  made  herself  a  seat  with  the  new  hay  under  a 
large  elm,  and,  with  her  back  to  the  tree,  watched  the 
labors  of  her  companions. 

Eph.  was  a  well-built  and  manly  figure,  and  all  he 
did  in  the  way  of  his  vocation,  he  did  with  a  fine  dis 
play  of  muscular  power,  and  (a  sculptor  would  have 
thought)  no  little  grace.  Julia  watched  him  as  he 
stepped  along  after  his  rake  on  the  elastic  sward,  anl 


104 


THE  WIDOW  BY  BREVET. 


she  thought,  for  the  first  time,  what  a  very  handsome 
man  was  young  Bracely,  and  how  much  more  finely 
a  man  looked  when  raking  hay,  than  a  dandy  when 
waltzing.  And  for  an  hour  she  sat  watching  his  mo 
tion,  admiring  the  strength  with  which  he  pitched  up 
the  hay,  and  the  grace  and  ease  of  all  his  movements 
and- postures;  and,  after  a  while,  she  began  to  feel 
drowsy  with  fatigue,  and  pulling  up  the  hay  into  a  fra 
grant  pillow,  she  lay  down  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  the  forenoon,  and  the  old 
farmer,  who,  of  late  years,  had  fallen  into  the  habit 
of  taking  a  short  nap  before  dinner,  came  to  the  big  j 
elm  to  pick  up  his  waistcoat  and  go  home.     As  he  ap-  j 
proached  the  tree,  he  stopped,  and  beckoned  to  his  son. 

Eph.  came  up  and  stood  at  a  little  distance,  looking 
at  the  lovely  picture  before  him.  With  one  delicate 
hand  under  her  cheek,  and  a  smile  of  angelic  content 
and  enjoyment  on  her  finely  cut  lips,  Julia  Hampson 
slept  soundly  in  the  shade.  One  small  foot  escaped 
from  her  dress,  and  one  shoulder  of  faultless  polish 
and  whiteness  showed  between  her  kerchief  and  her 
sleeve.  Her  slight  waist  bent  to  the  swell  of  the  hay, 
throwing  her  delicate  and  well-moulded  bust  into 
high  relief;  and  all  over  her  neck,  and  in  large  clus 
ters  on  the  tumbled  hay,  lay  those  glossy  brown  ring 
lets,  admirably  beautiful  and  luxuriant. 

And  as  Eph.  looked  on  that  dangerous  picture  of 
loveliness,  the  passion,  already  lying  perdu  in  his 
bosom,  sprung  to  the  throne  of  heart  and  reason. 

(We  have  not  room  to  do  more  than  hint  at  the 
consequences  of  this  visit  of  Miss  Hampson  to  the 
country.  It  would  require  the  third  volume  of  a 
novel  to  describe  all  the  emotions  of  that  month  at 
Bracely  farm,  and  bring  the  reader,  point  by  point, 
gingerly  and  softly,  to  the  close.  We  must  touch 
here  and  there  a  point  only,  giving  the  reader's  im 
agination  some  gleaning  to  do  after  we  have  been  over 
the  ground.) 


Eph.  Bracely's  awakened  pride  served  him  the  good 
turn  of  making  him  appear  simply  in  his  natural  char 
acter  during  the  whole  of  Miss  Hampson's  visit.  By 
the  old  man's  advice,  however,  he  devoted  himself  to 
the  amusement  of  the  ladies  after  the  haying  was 
over;  and  what  with  fishing,  and  riding,  and  scenery- 
hunting  in  the  neighborhood,  the  young  people  were 
together  from  morning  till  night.  Miss  Piffiit  came 
down  unwillingly  to  plain  Meg,  in  her  attendance  on 
her  friend  in  her  rustic  occupations,  and  Miss  Hamp 
son  saw  as  little  as  possible  of  the  inside  of  the  bou 
doir.  The  barn,  and  the  troops  of  chickens,  and  all 
the  out-door  belongings  of  the  farm,  interested  her 
daily,  and  with  no  diminution  of  her  zeal.  She 
seemed,  indeed,  to  have  found  her  natural  sphere  in 
the  simple  and  affectionate  life  which  her  friend  Mar- 
gerine  held  in  such  superfine  contempt;  and  Eph., 
who  was  the  natural  mate  to  such  a  spirit,  and  him 
self,  in  his  own  home,  most  unconsciously  worthy  of 
love  and  admiration,  gave  himself  up  irresistibly  to 
his  new  passion. 

And  this  new  passion  became  apparent,  at  last,  to 
the  incredulous  eyes  of  his  cousin.  And  that  it  was 
timidly,  but  fondly  returned  by  her  elegant  and  high 
bred  friend,  was  also  very  apparent  to  Miss  Pifflit. 
And  after  a  few  jealous  struggles,  and  a  night  or  two 
of  weeping,  she  gave  up  to  it  tranquilly — for,  a  city 
life  and  a  city  husband,  truth  to  say,  had  long  been 
her  secret  longing  and  secret  hope,  and  she  never  had 
fairly  looked  in  the  face  a  burial  in  the  country  with 
the  "pigs  and  chickens." 

She  is  not  married  yet,  Meg  Pifflit — but  the  rich 
merchant,  Mr.  Hampson,  wrecked  completely  with 
the  disastrous  times,  has  found  a  kindly  and  pleasant 
asylum  for  his  old  age  with  his  daughter.  Mrs.  Brace 
ly.  And  a  better  or  lovelier  farmer's  wife  than  Julia, 
or  a  happier  farmer  than  Eph.,  can  scarce  be  founJ 
in  the  valley  of  the  Susquehannah. 


THE   WIDOW   BY   BREVET, 


LET  me  introduce  the  courteous  reader  to  two  la 
dies. 

Miss  Picklin,  a  tall  young  lady  of  twenty-one,  near 
enough  to  good-looking  to  permit  of  a  delusion  on  the 
subject  (of  which,  however,  she  had  an  entire  monop 
oly),  with  cheeks  always  red  in  a  small  spot,  lips  not 
so  red  as  the  cheeks,  and  rather  thin,  sharpish  nose, 
and  waist  very  slender;  and  last  (not  least  important), 
a  very  long  neck,  scalded  on  either  side  into  a  resem 
blance  to  a  scroll  of  shrivelled  parchment,  which  might 
or  might  not  be  considered  as  a  mis-fortune — serving 
her  as  a  title-deed  to  twenty  thousand  dollars.     The  ' 
scald  was  inflicted,  and  the  fortune  left  in  consequence,  > 
by  a  maiden  aunt  who,  in  the  babyhood  of  Miss  Pick-  [ 
lin,  attempted  to  cure  the  child's  sore  throat  by  an  ap-  j 
plication  of  cabbage-leaves  steeped  in  hot  vinegar. 

Miss  Euphemia  Picklin,  commonly  called  Phemie 
—a  good-humored  girl,  rather  inclined  to  be  fat,  but  j 
gifted  with  several  points  of  beauty  of  which  she  was  | 
not  at  all  aware,  very  much  a  pet  among  her  female 
friends,  and  admitting,  with  perfect  sincerity  and  sub 
mission,  her  sister's  exclusive  right  to  the  admiration 
of  the  gentlemen  of  their  acquaintance. 

Captain  Isaiah  Picklin,  the  father  of  these  ladies, 
was  a  merchant  of  Salem,  an  importer  of  figs  and  opi 
um,  and  once  master  of  the  brig  "Simple  Susan," 
which  still  plied  between  his  warehouse  and  Constan 
tinople-— nails  and  codfish  the  cargo  outward.  I  have 


not  Miss  Picklin's  permission  to  mention  the  precise 
date  of  the  events  I  am  about  to  record,  and  leaving 
that  point  alone  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader,  I 
shall  set  down  the  other  particulars  and  impediments 
in  her  "course  of  true  love"  with  historital  fidelity. 

Ever  since  she  had  been  of  sufficient  age  to  turn  her 
attention  exclusively  to  matrimony,  Miss  Picklin  had 
nourished  a  presentiment  that  her  destiny  was  exotic; 
that  the  soil  of  Salem  was  too  poor,  and  the  indigenous 
lovers  too  mean;  and  that,  potted  in  her  twenty  thou 
sand  dollars,  she  was  a  choice  production,  set  aside  for 
flowering  in  a  foreign  clime,  and  destined  to  be  trans 
planted  by  a  foreign  lover.  With  this  secret  in  her 
bosom,  she  had  refused  one  or  two  gentlemen  of  mid 
dle  age,  recommended  by  her  father,  beside  sundry 
score  of  young  gentlemen  of  slender  revenues  in  her 
own  set  of  acquaintances,  till,  if  there  had  been  any 
thing  beside  poetry  in  Shakspere's  assertion  that  it  is — 

"  Broom  groves 
Whose  shadow  the  dismissed  bachelor  loves," 

the  neighboring  "brush" barrens"  of  Saugus  would 
have  sold  in  lots  at  a  premium.  It  was  possibly  from 
the  want  of  nightingales,  to  whose  complaining  notes 
the  gentleman  of  Verona  "turned  his  distresses,"  that 
the  discarded  of  Salem  preferred  the  consolations  of 
Phemie  Picklin. 

News  to  the  Picklins  !    Hassan  Keni,  the  son  of  old 


THE  WIDOW  BY  BREVET. 


105 


Abdoul  Keui,  was  coming  out  in  the  "  Simple  Susan  !" 
A  Turk — a  live  Turk — a  young  Turk,  and  the  son  of 
her  father's  rich  correspondeut  in  Turkey  !  "  Ah  me  !" 
thought  Miss  Picklin. 

The  captain  himself  was  rather  taken  aback.  He 
had  known  old  Abdoul  for  many  years,  had  traded  and  ! 
smoked  with  him  in  the  cafes  of  Galata,  had  gone  out  ! 
with  him  on  Sundays  to  lounge  on  the  tombstones  at  j 
Scutari,  and  had  never  thought  twice  about  his  yellow  j 
gown  and  red  trowsers  ;  but  what  the  deuce  would  be 


Miss  Picklin's  disappointment  had  to  be  slept  upon, 
for  she  had  made  great  outlay  of  imagination  upon  the 
pomp  and  circumstance  of  wedding  a  white  Othello  in 
the  eyes  of  wondering  Salem;  but  Phemie's  surprise 
took  but  five  minutes  to  grow  into  a  positive  pleasure; 
and  never  suspecting,  at  any  time,  that  she  was  visible 
to  the  naked  eye  dining  the  eclipsing  presence  of  her 
sister,  she  sat  with  a  very  admiring  smile  upon  her 
lips,  and  her  soft  eyes  fixed  earnestly  on  the  stranger, 
till  she  had  made  out  a  full  inventory  of  his  features, 


thought  of  them  in  Salem  ?  True,  it  was  his  son ;  proportions,  manners,  and  other  stuff  available  in 
but  a  Turk's  clothes  descend  from  father  to  son  i  dream-land.  What  might  be  Hassan's  impression  of 
through  three  generations;  he  knew  that,  from  re- j  the  young  ladies,  could  not  be  gathered  from  his  man- 
membering  this  very  boy  all  but  smothered  in  a  sort  of  i  |  ner ;  for,  in  the  first  place,  there  was  the  reserve  which 


saffron  blanket,  with  sleeves  like  pillowcases — his  first 
assumption   of  the  toga  virilis  (not  that  old  Picklin 
knew  Latin,  but  such  was  "his  sentiment  better  ex 
pressed").     Then  he  had   never   been   asked  to  the  j 
house  of  the  Stamboul  merchant,  not  introduced  to 
his  wives  nor  his  daughters  (indeed,  he  had  forgotten 
that  old  Keui  was  near  cutting  his  throat  for  asking  | 
after  them) — but  of  course  it  was  very  different  in  Sa-  : 
lem.    Young  Keui  must  be  the  Picklin  guest,  fed  and  ; 
lodged,  and  the  girls  would  want  to  give  him  a  tea-  j 
party.     Would  he  sit  on  a  chair,  or  want  cushions  on  ; 
the  floor  ?     Would  he  come  to  dinner  with  his  breast 
bare,  and  leave  his  boots  outside  ?     Would  he  eat  rice  \ 
pudding  with  his  fingers  ?     Would  he  think  it  inde 
cent  if  the  girls  didn't  wear  linen  cloths,  Turkey  fash-  | 
ion,  over  their  mouths  and  noses  ?     Would  he  bring 
his  pipes  ?     Would   he   fall   on  his  face  and  say  his  ; 
prayers  four  times  a  day,  wherever  he  should  be  (with 
a  clean  place  handy)  ?     What  would   the  neighbors  j 
say  ?     The  captain  worked  himself  into  a  violent  per 
spiration  with  merely  thinking  of  all  this. 

The  Salemites  have  a  famous  museum,  and  know 
"what  manner  of  thing  is  your  crocodile;"  but  a  live 
Turk  consigned  to  Captain  Picklin  !  It  set  the  town 
in  a  fever  ! 

It  would  leave  an  indelicate  opening  for  a  conjec 
ture  as  to  Miss  Picklin's  present  age,  were  I  to  state 
whether  or  not  the  arrival  of  the  "Simple  Susan"  was 
reported  by  telegraph.  She  ran  in  with  a  fair  wind 
one  Sunday  morning,  and  was  immediately  boarded  by 
the  harbor-master  and  Captain  Picklin;  and  there,  true 
to  the  prophetic  boding  of  old  Isaiah,  the  young  Turk 
sat  cross-legged  on  the  quarter-deck,  in  a  white  tur 
ban  and  scarlet  et  ceteras,  smoking  his  father's  identical 
pipe — no  other,  the  captain  would  have  taken  his  oath  ! 
Up  rose  Hassan,  when  informed  who  was  his  visiter, 
and  taking  old  Picklin's  hand,  put  it  to  his  forehead. 
The  weather-stained  sea-captain  had  bleached  in  the 
counting-house,  and  he  had  not,  at  first  sight  remem 
bered  the  old  friend  of  his  father.  HR  passed  the  pipe 
into  Isaiah's  hand  and  begged  him  to  keep  it  as  a  me 
mento  of  Abdoul,  for  his  father  had  died  at  the,  last 
Ramazan.  Hassan  had  come  out  to  see  the  world, 
and  secure  a  continuance  of  codfish  and  good-will  from 
the  house  of  Picklin,  and  the  merchant  got  astride  the 
tiller  of  his  old  craft,  and  smoked  this  news  through 
his  amber-mouthed  legacy,  while  the  youth  went  be 
low  to  get  ready  to  go  ashore. 

The  reader  of  course  would  prefer  to  share  the  first 
impressions  of  the  ladies  as  to  the  young  Mussulman's 
personal  appearance,  and  I  pass  at  once,  therefore,  to 
their  disappointment,  surprise,  mortification,  and  vex 
ation;  when,  as  the  bells  were  ringing  for  church,  the 
front  door  opened,  their  father  entered,  and  in  followed 
a  young  gentleman  in  frockcoat«and  trowsers  !  Yes,  i 
and  in  his  hand  a  hat — a  black  hat — and  on  his  feet  no  ; 
yellow  boots,  but  calfskin,  mundane  and  common  calf 
skin,  and  with  no  shaved  head,  and  no  twisted  shawl 
around  his  waist ;  nothing  to  be  seen  but  a  very  hand 
some  young  man  indeed,  with  teeth  like  a  fresh  slice 
of  cocoa-nut  meat,  and  a  very  deliberate  pronunciation 
to  his  bad  English. 


belonged  to  him  as  a  Turk,  and,  in  the  second  place, 
there  was  a  violation  of  all  oriental  notions  of  modesty 
in  their  exposing  their  chins  to  the  masculine  obser 
vation;  and  though  he  could  endure  the  exposure,  it 
was  of  course  with  that  diffidence  of  gaze  which  ac 
companies  the  consciousness  of  improper  objects — 
adding  to  his  demeanor  another  shade  of  timidity. 

Miss  Picklin's  shoulders  were  not  invaded  quite  to 
the  limits  of  terra  cognita  by  the  cabbage-leaves  which 
had  exercised  such  an  influence  on  her  destiny;  and 
as  the  scalds  somewhat  resembled  two  maps  of  South 
America  (with  Patagonia  under  each  ear),  she  usu 
ally,  in  full  dress,  gave  a  clear  view  of  the  surrounding 
ocean — wisely  thinking  it  better  to  have  the  geogra 
phy  of  her  disfigurement  well  understood,  than,  by 
covering  a  small  extremity  (as  it  were  the  isthmus  of 
Darien),  to  leave  an  undiscovered  North  America  to 
the  imagination.  She  appeared  accordingly  at  dinner 
in  a  costume  not  likely  to  diminish  the  modest  embar 
rassment  of  Mr.  Keui  (as  she  chose  to  call  him) — ex 
tremely  decollete,  in  a  pink  silk  dress  with  short  sleeves, 
and  in  a  turban  with  a  gold  fringe — the  latter,  of 
course,  out  of  compliment  to  his  country.  "Money 
is  power,"  even  in  family  circles,  and  it  was  only  Miss 
Picklin  who  exercised  the  privilege  of  full  dress  at 
a  mid-day  dinner.  Phemie  came  to  table  dressed  as 
at  breakfast,  and  if  she  felt  at  all  envious  of  her  sister's 
pink  gown  and  elbows  to  match,  it  did  not  appear  in 
her  pleasant  face  or  sisterly  attention.  The  captain 
would  allow  anything,  and  do  almost  anything,  for  his 
rich  daughter;  but  as  to  dining  with  his  coat  on,  in  hot 
weather,  company  or  no  company,  he  would  rather — 

"  be  set  quick  i'  the  earth, 
And  bowled  to  death  with  turnips" — 

though  that  is  not  the  way  he  expressed  it.  The  parti 
carre,  therefore  (for  there  was  no  Mrs.  Picklin),  was, 
in  the  matter  of  costume,  rather  incongruous,  but,  as 
the  Turk  took  it  for  granted  that  it  was  all  according 
to  the  custom  of  the  country,  the  carving  was  achieved 
by  the  shirt-sleeved  captain,  and  the  pudding  "  helped" 
by  his  bare-armed  daughter,  with  no  particular  com 
motion  in  the  elements.  Earthquakes  do  not  invaria 
bly  follow  violations  of  etiquette — particularly  where 
nobody  is  offended. 

After  the  first  day,  things  took  their  natural  course 
— as  near  as  they  were  able.  Hassan  was  not  very 
quick  at  conversation,  always  taking  at  least  five  min 
utes  to  put  together  for  delivery  a  sentence  of  Eng 
lish,  but  his  laugh  did  not  hang  fire,  nor  did  his  nods 
and  smiles  ;  and  where  ladies  are  voluble  (as  ladies 
sometimes  are),  this  paucity  of  ammunition  on  the 
gentleman's  part  is  no  prelude  to  discomfiture.  Then 
Phemie  had  a  very  fair  smattering  of  Italian,  and  that 
being  the  business  language  of  the  Levant,  Hassan 
took  refuge  in  it  whenever  brought  to  a  stand-still  in 
English— a  refuge,  by  the  way,  of  which  he  seemed 
inclined  to  avaif  himself  oftener  than  was  consistent 
with  Miss  Picklin's  exclusive  property  in  his  atten 
tion.  Rebellious  though  Hassan  might  secretly  have 
been  to  this  authority  over  himself,  Phemie  was  no  ac- 
complice,  natural  modesty  combining  with  the  long 


106 


THE  WIDOW  BY  BREVET. 


habit  of  subserviency  to  make  her  even  anticipate  the 
exactions  of  the  heiress;  and  so  Miss  Picklin  had 
"Mr.  Keui"  principally  to  herself,  promenading  him 
through  the  streets  of  Salem,  and  bestowing  her 
sweetness  upon  him  from  his  morning  entrance  to  his 
evening  exit;  Phemie  relieving  guard  very  cheerfully, 
while  her  sister  dressed  for  dinner.  It  was  possibly 
from  being  permitted  to  converse  in  Italian  during  this 
half  hour,  that  Hassan  made  it  the  only  part  of  the 
day  in  which  he  talked  of  himself  and  his  house  on 
the  Bosphorus,  but  that  will  not  account  also  for  Phe- 
mie's  sighing  while  she  listened — never  having  sighed 
before  in  her  life,  not  even  while  the  same  voice  was 
talking  English  to  her  sister. 

Without  going  into  a  description  of  the  Picklin  tea- 
party,  at  which  Hassan  was  induced  to  figure  in  his 
oriental  costume,  while  Miss  Picklin  sat  by  him  on  a 
cushion,  turbaned  and  (probably)  cross-legged,  a  la 
Sultana,  and  without  recording  other  signs  satisfac 
tory  to  the  Salemites,  that  the  young  Turk  had  fallen 
to  the  scalded  heiress — 

"  As  does  the  ospray  to  the  fish,  that  takes  it, 
By  sovereignty  of  nature"  - 

I  must  come  plump  to  the  fact  that,  on  the  Monday 
following  (one  week  after  his  arrival),  Hassan  left  Sa 
lem,  ^accompanied  by  Miss  Picklin.  As  he  had 
asked  for  no  private  interview  in  the  best  parlor,  and 
had  made  his  final  business  arrangements  with  the 
captain,  so  that  he  could  take  passage  from  New  York 
without  returning,  some  people  were  inclined  to  fancy 
that  Miss  Picklin's  demonstrations  with  regard  to  him 
had  been  a  little  premature.  And  "some  people" 
chose  to  smile.  But  it  was  reserved  for  Miss  Picklin 
to  look  round  in  church,  in  about  one  year  from  this 
event,  and  have  her  triumph  over  "some  people;" 
for  she  was  about  to  sail  for  Constantinople — "sent 
for,"  as  the  captain  rudely  expressed  it.  But  I  must 
explain. 

The  "Simple  Susan"  came  in,  heavily  freighted 
with  a  consignment  from  the  house  of  Keui  to  Picklin 
&  Co.,  and  a  letter  from  the  American  consul  at  Con 
stantinople  wrapped  in  the  invoice.  With  the  careful 
and  ornate  wording  of  an  official  epistle,  it  stated  that 
Effendi  Hassan  Keui  had  called  on  the  consul,  and 
partly  from  the  mistrust  of  his  ability  to  express  him 
self  in  English  on  so  delicate  a  subject,  but  more  par 
ticularly  for  the  sake  of  approaching  the  object  of  his 
affections  with  proper  deference  and  ceremony,  he  had 
requested  that  officer  to  prepare  a  document  convey 
ing  a  proposal  of  marriage  to  the  daughter  of  Captain 
Picklin.  The  incomplete  slate  of  his  mercantile  ar 
rangements,  while  at  Salem  the  previous  year,  would 
account  for  his  silence  on  the  subject  at  that  time,  but 
he  trusted  that  his  preference  had  been  sufficiently 
manifest  to  the  lady  of  his  heart ;  and  as  his  prosper 
ity  in  business  depended  on  his  remaining  at  Constan 
tinople,  enriching  himself  only  for  her  sake,  he  was 
sure  that  the  singular  request  appended  to  his  offer 
would  be  taken  as  a  mark  of  his  prudence  rather  than 
as  a  presumption.  The  cabin  of  the  "  Simple  Susan," 
as  Captain  Picklin  knew,  was  engaged  on  her  next  pas 
sage  to  Constantinople  by  a  party  of  missionaries,  male 
and  female,  and  the  request  was  to  the  intent  that,  in 
case  of  an  acceptance  of  his  offer,  the  fair  daughter  of 
the  owner  would  come  out,  under  their  sufficient  pro 
tection,  to  be  wedded,  if  she  should  so  please,  on  the 
day  of  her  arrival  in  the  "Golden  Horn.1' 

As  Miss  Picklin  had  preserved  a  mysterious  silence 
on  the  subject  of  "  Mr.  Keui's"  attentions  since  his 
departure,  and  as  a  lady  with  twenty  thousand  dollars 
in  her  own  right  is,  of  course,  quite  independent  of 
parental  control,  the  captain,  after  running  his  eye 
hastily  through  the  document,  called  to  the  boy  who 
was  weighing  out  a  quintal  of  codfish,  and  bid  him 
wrap  the  letter  in  a  brown  paper  and  run  with  it  to 


Miss  Picklin — taking  it  for  granted  that  she  knew 
more  about  the  matter  than  he  did,  and  would  explain 
it  all,  when  he  came  home  to  dinner. 

In  thinking  the  matter  over,  on  his  way  home,  it 
occurred  to  old  Picklin  that  it  was  worded  as  if  he  had 
but  one  daughter.  At  any  rate,  he  was  quite  sure 
that  neither  of  his  daughters  was  particularly  specified, 
either  by  name  or  age.  No  doubt  it  was  all  right, 
however.  The  girls  understood  it. 

"So,  it's  you,  miss!"  he  said,  as  Miss  Picklin  look 
ed  round  from  the  turban  she  was  trying  on  before 
the  glass. 

"  Certainly,  pa  !  who  else  should  it  be?" 

And  there  ended  the  captain's  doubts,  for  he  never 
again  got  sight  of  the  letter,  and  the  turmoil  of  prep 
aration  for  Miss  Picklin's  voyage,  made  the  house 
anything  but  a  place  for  getting  answers  to  impertinent 
questions.  Phemie,  whom  the  news  had  made  silent 
and  thoughtful,  let  drop  a  hint  or  two  that  she  would 
like  to  see  the  letter  ;  but  a  mysterious  air,  and  "  La  ' 
child,  you  wouldn't  understand  it,"  was  check  enough 
for  her  timid  curiosity,  and  she  plied  her  needle  upon 
her  sister's  wedding  dress  with  patient  submission. 

The  preparations  for  the  voyage  went  on  swimming 
ly.  The  missionaries  were  written  to,  and  willingly 
consented  to  chaperon  Miss  Picklin  over  the  seas, 
provided  her  union  with  a  pagan  was  to  be  sanctified 
with  a  Christian  ceremonial.  Miss  Picklin  replied 
with  virtuous  promptitude  that  the  cake  for  the  wed 
ding  was  already  soldered  up  in  a  tin  case,  and  that 
she  was  to  be  married  immediately  on  her  arrival, 
under  an  awning  on  the  brig's  deck,  and  she  hoped 
that  four  of  the  missionaries'  wives  would  oblige  her 
by  standing  up  as  her  bridesmaids.  Many  square 
feet  of  codfish  were  unladen  from  the  "  Simple  Susan" 
to  make  room  for  boxes  and  bags,  and  one  large  case 
was  finally  shipped,  the  contents  of  which  had  been 
shopped  for  by  ladies  with  families — no  book  of  orien 
tal  travels  making  any  allusion  to  the  sale  of  such 
articles  in  Constantinople,  though,  in  the  natural 
course  of  things,  they  must  be  wanted  as  much  in 
Turkey  as  in  Salem. 

The  brig  was  finally  cleared  and  lay  off  in  the  stream, 
and  on  the  evening  before  the  embarkation  the  mis 
sionaries  arrived  and  were  invited  to  a  tea-party  at  the 
Picklins.  Miss  Picklin  had  got  up  a  little  surprise 
for  her  friends  with  which  to  close  the  party — a 
"  walking  tableau"  as  she  termed  it,  in  which  she 
should  suddenly  make  her  apparition  at  one  door, 
pass  through  the  room,  and  go  out  at  the  other, 
dressed  as  a  sultana,  with  a  muslin  kirtle  and  satin 
trowsers.  She  disappeared  accordingly  half  an  hour 
before  the  breaking  up ;  and,  conversation  rather 
languishing  in  her  absence,  the  eldest  of  the  mission 
aries  rose  to  conclude  the  evening  with  a  prayer,  in 
the  midst  of  which  Miss  Picklin  passed  through  the 
room  unperceived — the  faces  of  the  company  being 
turned  to  the  wall. 

The  next  morning  at  daylight  the  "  Simple  Susan" 
put  to  sea  with  a  fair  wind,  and  at  the  usual  hour  for 
opening  the  store  of  Picklin  and  Co.,  she  had  drop 
ped  below  the  horizon.  Phemie  sat  upon  the  end  of 
the  wharf  and  watched  her  till  she  was  out  of  sight, 
and  the  captain  walked  up  and  down  between  two 
puncheons  of  rum  which  stood  at  the  distance  of  a 
quarter-deck's  length  from  each  other,  and  both  father 
and  daughter  were  silent.  The  captain  had  a  confused 
thought  or  two  besides  the  grief  of  parting,  and  Phemie 
had  feelings  quite  as  confused,  which  were  not  all 
made  up  of  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  her  sister.  Perhaps 
the  reader  will  be  at  the  trouble  of  spelling  out  their 
riddles  while  I  try  to  let  him  down  softly  to  the  catas 
trophe  of  my  story. 

Without  confessing  to  any  ailment  whatever,  the 
plump  Phemie  paled  and  thinned  from  the  day  of  her 
sister's  departure.  Her  spirits,  too,  seemed  to  keep 


THE  WIDOW  BY  BREVET. 


107 


her  flesh  and   color  company,  and  at  the  end  of  a 
month  the  captain  was  told  by  one  of  the  good  dames 
of  Salem  that   he  had  better  ask   a  physician  what 
ailed  her.     The  doctor  could  make  nothing  out  of  it 
except  that  she  might  be  fretting  for  the  loss  of  her 
sister,  and  he  recommended  a  change  of  scene  and 
climate.     That  day  Captain  Brown,  an  old  mate  of 
Isaiah's,  dropped  in  to  eat  a  family  dinner  and  say 
good-by,  as  he  was  about  sailing  in  the  new  schooner 
Nancy  for  the  Black  sea — his  wife  for  his  only  passen 
ger.     Of  course  he  would  be  obliged  to  drop  anchor  . 
at   Constantinople    to   wait   for  a  fair  wind  up  the   I 
Bosphorus,  and  part  of  his  errand  was  to  offer  to  take  l| 
letters  and  nicknackeries  to  Mrs.  Keui.     Old  Picklin 
put  the  two  things  together,  and  over  their  glass  of 
wine  he  proposed  to  Brown  to  take  Phemie  with  Mrs. 
Brown  to  Constantinople,  leave  them  both  there  on  a 
visit  to  Mrs.  Keui,  till  the  return  of  the  Nancy  from 
the  Black  sea,  and  then  re-embark  them  for  Salem. 
Phemie  came  into  the  room  just  as  they  were  touch 
ing  glasses  on  the  agreement,  and  when  the  trip  was 
proposed  to  her  she  first  colored  violently,  then  grew 
pale  and  burst  into  tears  ;  but  consented  to  go.     And, 
with  such  preparations  as  she  could  make  that  even 
ing,  she  was  quite  ready  at  the  appointed  hour,  and 
was  off  with  the  land-breeze  the  next  morning,  taking  i 
leave  of  nobody  but  her  father.     And  this  time  the 
old  man  wiped  his  eyes  very  often  before  the  depart-  j 
ing  vessel  was  "hull  down,"  and  was  heartily  sorry  he  jj 
had  let  Phemie  go  without  a  great  many  presents  and 
a  great  many  more  kisses.     ******* 
A  fine,  breezy  morning  at  Constantinople  ! 
Rapidly  down  the  Bosphorus  shot  the  caique  of 
Hassan  Keui,  bearing  its  master  from   his  country- 
house  at  Dolma-batchi  to  his  warehouses  at  Galata. 
Just  before  the  sharp  prow  rounded  away  toward  the 
Golden  Horn,  the  merchant  motioned  to  the  caikjis 
to  rest  upon  their  oars,  and,  standing  erect   in  the 
slender  craft,  he  strained  his  gaze  long  and  with  anxi 
ous  earnestness  toward  the  sea  of  Marmora.     Not  a 
sail  was  to  be  seen  coming  from  the  west,  except  a 
man-of-war  with  a  crescent  flag  at  the  peak,  lying  off 
toward  Scutari  from  Seraglio  point,  and  with  a  sigh 
that  carried  the   cloud   off  his  brow,   Hassan   gayly 
squatted  once  more  to  his  cushions,  and  the  caique 
sped  merrily  on.     In  and  out,  among  the  vessels  at 
anchor,  the  airy  bark  threaded  her  way  with  the  dex 
terous  swiftness  of  a  bird,  when  suddenly  a  cable  rose 
beneath  her  and  lifted  her  half  out  of  the  water.     A 
vessel  newly-arrived  was  hauling  in  to  a  close  anchor 
age,  and  they  had  crossed  her  hawser  as  it  rose  to  the 
surface.     Pitched  headlong  into  the  lap  of  the  nearest 
caikji,  the  Turk's  snowy  turban  fell  into  the  water  and 
was  carried  by  the  eddy  under  the  stern  of  the  vessel 
rounding  to,  and  as  the  caique  was  driven  backward 
to  regain  it,  the  bareheaded  owner  sank  back  aghast — 
SIMPLE  SUSAN  OF  SALEM  staring  him  in  the  fflce  in 
golden  capitals. 

"  Oh!  Mr.  Keui  !  how  do  you  do  !"  cried  a  well- 
remembered  voice,  as  he  raised  himself  to  fend  off 
by  the  rudder  of  the  brig.  And  there  she  stood 
within  two  feet  of  his  lips — Miss  Picklin  in  her  brida 
veil,  waiting  below  in  expectant  modesty,  and  though 
surprised  by  his  peep  into  the  cabin  windows,  excusing 
it  as  a  natural  impatience  in  a  bridegroom  coming  to 
his  bride. 

The  captain  of  the  Susan,  meantime,  had  looked 
over  the  tafferel  and  recognised  his  old  passenger,  and 
Hassan,  who  would  have  given  a  cargo  of  opium  for 
an  hour  to  compose  himself,  mounted  the  ladder 
which  was  thrown  out  to  him,  and  stepped  from  the 
gangway  into  Miss  Picklin's  arms  !  She  had  rushed 
up  to  receive  him,  dressed  in  her  muslin  kirtle  and 
satin  trousers,  though,  with  her  dramatic  sense  of 
propriety,  she  had  intended  to  remain  below  till  sum 
moned  to  the  bridal.  The  captain,  of  course,  kept 


back  from  delicacy,  but  the  missionaries  stood  in  a 
cluster  gazing  on  the  happy  meeting,  and  the  sailors 
looked  over  their  shoulders  as  they  heaved  at  the 
windlass.  As  Miss  Picklin  afterward  remarked,  "it 
would  have  been  a  tableau  viiant  if  the  deck  had  not 
been  so  very  dirty  !" 

Hassan  wiped  his  eyes,  for  he  had  replaced  his  wet 
turban  on  his  head,  but  what  with  his  escape  from 
drowning,  and  what  with  his  surprise  and  embarrass 
ment  (for  he  had  a  difficult  part  to  play,  as  the.reader 
will  presently  understand),  he  had  lost  all  memory 
of  his  little  stock  of  English.  Miss  Picklin  drew  him 
gently  by  the  hand  to  the  quarter-deck,  where,  under 
an  awning  fringed  with  curtains  partly  drawn,  stood  a 
table  with  a  loaf  of  wedding-cake  upon  it,  and  a  bottle 
of  wine  and  a  bible.  She  nodded  to  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Griffin,  who  took  hold  of  a  chair  and  turned  it  round, 
and  placing  it  against  his  legs  with  the  back  toward 
him,  looked  steadfastly  at  the  happy  couple. 

"  Good  morning — good  night— your  s\slcr—a*petla  ! 
per  amor1  di  Dio .'"  cried  the  bewildered  Hassan, 
giving  utterance  to  all  the  English  he  could  re 
member,  and  seizing  the  bride  by  the  arm. 

"  These  ladies  are  my  bridesmaids,"  said  Miss 
Picklin,  pointing  to  the  missionaries'  wives  who  stood 
by  in  their  bonnets  and  shawls.  "  I  dare  say  he  ex 
pected  my  sister  would  come  as  my  bridesmaid  !" 
she  added,  turning  to  Mr.  Griffin  to  explain  the  out 
break  as  she  understood  it. 

Hassan  beat  his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  walked 
twice  up  and  down  the  quarterdeck,  looked  around 
over  the  Golden  Horn  as  if  in  search  of  an  interpreter 
to  his  feelings,  and  finally  walked  up  to  Miss  Picklin 
with  a  look  of  calm  resignation,  and  addressed  to  her 
and  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Griffin  a  speech  of  three  minutes, 
in  Italian.  At  the  close  of  it  he  made  a  very  cere 
monious  salaam,  and  offered  his  hand  to  the  bride  ; 
and,  as  no  one  present  understood  a  syllable  of  what 
he  had  intended  to  convey  in  his  address,  it  was  re 
ceived  as  probably  a  welcome  to  Turkey,  or  perhaps 
a  formal  repetition  of  his  offer  of  heart  and  hand.  At 
any  rate,  Miss  Picklin  took  it  to  be  high  time  to  blush 
and  take  off  her  glove,  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Griffin  then 
bent  across  the  back  of  the  chair,  joined  their  hands 
and  went  through  the  ceremony,  ring  and  all.  The 
ladies  came  up,  one  after  another,  and  kissed  the 
bride,  and  the  gentlemen  shook  hands  with  Hassan, 
who  received  their  good  wishes  with  a  curious  look 
of  unhappy  resignation,  and  after  cutting  the  cake  and 
permitting  the  bride  to  retire  for  a  moineiit  to  calm 
her  feelings  and  put  on  her  bonnet,  the  bridegroom 
made  rather  a  peremptory  movement  of  departure, 
and  the  happy  couple  went  off  in  the  caique  toward 
Dolma-batchi  amid  much  waving  of  handkerchiefs 
from  the  missionaries,  and  hurrahs  from  the  Salem 
hands  of  the  Simple  Susan. 

And  now,  before  giving  the  reader  a  translation  of 
the  speech  of  Hassan  before  the  wedding,  we  must 
go  back  to  some  little  events  which  had  taken  place 
one  month  previously  at  Constantinople. 

The  Nancy  arrived  off  Seraglio  Point  after  a  very 
.,  remarkable   passage,  having  still  on  her  quarter  the 
1 1  northwest  breeze  which  had  stuck  to  her  like  a  blood 
hound  ever  since  leaving  the  harbor  of  Salem.     She 
had  brought  it  with  her  to  Constantinople  indeed,  lor 
twenty  or  thirty  vessels  which  had  been  long  waiting 
i  a  favorable  wind  to  encounter  the  adverse  current  of 
I  the  Bosphorus,  were  loosing  sail  and  getting  under 
i  way  and  the  pilot,  knowing  that  the  destination  of  the 
i  Nancy  was  also  to  the  Black  sea,  strongly  dissuaded 
;  Captain   Brown  from  dropping  anchor  in  the  horn, 
'  with  a  chance  of  losing  the  good  luck,  and  lying,  per 
haps  a  month,  wind-bound  in  harbor.     Understanding 
that  the  captain's  only  object  in  stopping  was  to  leave 
the  two  ladies  with  Keui  the  opium-merchant,  th 
pilot,  who  knew  hiAesidence  at  Dolma-batchi,  made 


108 


THOSE  UNGRATEFUL  BLIDGIMSES. 


signal  for  a  caique,  and  kept  up  the  Bosphorus. 
Arriving  opposite  the  little  village  of  which  Has 
san's  house  was  one  of  the  chief  ornaments,  the  la 
dies  were  lowered  into  the  caique  and  sent  ashore — 
expecting  of  course  to  be  received  with  open  arms 
by  Mrs.  Keui — and  then,  spreading  all  her  canvass, 
the  swift  little  schooner  sped  on  her  way  to  Trebi- 
sond. 

Hassan  sat  in  the  little  pavilion  of  his  house  which 
looked  out  on  the  Bosphorus,  eating  his  pillau,  for  it 
was  the  noon  of  a  holytlay,  and  he  had  not  been  that 
morning  to  Galata.  Hecognising  at  once  the  sweet 
face  of  Phemie  as  the  caique  came  near  the  shore, 
he  flew  to  meet  her,  supposing  that  the  "  Simple 
Susan"  had  arrived,  and  that  the  lady  of  his  love 
had  chosen  to  come  and  seek  him.  The  reader 
will  understand  of  course  that  there  was  no  "  Mrs. 
Keui." 

And  now  to  shorten  my  story. 

Mrs.  Brown  and  Phemie  were  in  Hassan's  own  house, 
with  no  other  acquaintance  or  protector  on  that  side 
of  the  world,  and  there  was  no  possibility  of  escaping 
a  true  explanation.  The  mistake  was  explained,  and 
explained  to  Brown's  satisfaction.  Phemie  was  the 
"daughter"  of  Captain  Picklin,  to  whom  the  offer  was 
transmitted,  and  as,  by  blessed  luck,  the  Nancy  had 
outsailed  the  Simple  Susan,  Providence  seemed  to 
have  chosen  to  set  right  for  once,  the  traverse  of  true 
love.  The  English  embassy  was  at  Burgurlu,  only 
six  miles  above,  on  the  Bosphorus,  and  Hassan  and 
his  mother  and  sisters,  and  Mrs.  Brown  and  Phemie 
were  soon  on  their  way  thither  in  swift  caiques,  and 
the  happy  couple  were  wedded  by  the  English  chaplain. 
The  arrival  of  the  Simple  Susan  was  of  course  looked 
for,  by  both  Hassan  and  his  bride,  with  no  little  dis 
may.  She  had  met  with  contrary  winds  on  the 
Atlantic,  and  had  been  caught  in  the  Archipelago  by 
a  Levanter,  and  from  the  damage  of  the  last  she  had 
been  obliged  to  come  to  anchor  off  the  little  island  of 
Paros  and  repair.  This  had  been  a  job  of  six  weeks, 


and  meantime  the  Nancy  had  given  them  the  go-by, 
and  reached  Constantinople. 

Hassan  was  daily  on  the  look-out  for  the  brig  in  his 
trips  to  town,  and  on  the  morning  of  her  arrival,  his 
mind  being  put  at  ease  for  the  day  by  his  glance 
toward  the  seaof  Marmora,  the  stumbling  so  suddenly 
and  so  unprepared  on  the  object  of  his  dread,  com 
pletely  bewildered  and  unnerved  him.  Through  all 
his  confusion,  however,  and  all  the  awkwardness  of 
his  situation,  there  ran  a  feeling  of  self-condemnation, 
as  well  as  pity  for  Miss  Picklin  ;  and  this  had  driven 
him  to  the  catastrophe  described  above.  He  felt  that 
he  owed  her  some  reparation,  and  as  the  religion 
which  he  was  educated  did  not  forbid  a  plurality  of 
wives,  and  there  was  no  knowing  but  possibly  she 
might  be  inclined  to  "  do  in  Turkey  as  Turkeys  do," 
he  felt  it  incumbent  on  himself  to  state  the  fact  of 
his  previous  marriage,  and  then  offer  her  the  privilege 
of  becoming  Mrs.  Keui  No.  2,  if  she  chose  to  accept. 
As  he  had  no  English  at  his  command,  he  stated  his 
dilemma  and  made  his  offer  in  the  best  language  he 
had — Italian — and  with  the  results  the  reader  has  been 
made  acquainted. 

Of  the  return  passage  of  Miss  Picklin,  formerly 
Mrs.  Keui,  under  the  charge  of  Captain  and  Mrs. 
Brown,  in  the  schooner  Nancy,  I  have  never  learned 
the  particulars.  She  arrived  at  Salem  in  very  good 
health,  however,  and  has  since  been  distinguished 
principally  by  her  sympathy  for  widows — based  on 
what,  I  can  not  very  positively  say.  She  resides  at 
present  in  Salem  with  her  father,  Captain  Picklin, 
who  is  still  the  consignee  of  the  house  of  Keui,  having 
made  one  voyage  out  to  see  the  children  of  his 
daughter  Phemie  and  strengthen  the  mercantile  con 
nexion.  His  old  age  is  creeping  on  him,  undistinguish 
ed  by  anything  except  the  little  monomania  of  read 
ing  the  letters  from  his  son-in-law  at  least  a  hundred 
times,  and  then  wafering  them  up  over  the  fireplace 
of  his  counting-room — in  doubt,  apparently,  whether 
he  rightly  understands  the  contents. 


THOSE    UNGRATEFUL    BLIDGIMSES, 

"For,  look  you,  he  hath  as  many  friends  as  enemies;  which  friends,  sir  (as  it  were),  durst  not  (look  you,  sir)    show 
themselves  (as  we  term  it)  his  friends,  while  he's  in  directitude." — Coriolanus. 

"  Hermione. — Our  praises  are  our  wages."—  Winter's  Tale. 


F ,  the  portrait-painter,  was  a  considerable  ally  j 

of  mine  at  one  time.     His  success  in  his  art  brought 
him  into   contact   with   many  people,  and    he   made  | 
friends  as  a  fastidious  lady  buys  shoes — trying  on  a  I 
great  many  that  were  destined  to  be  thrown  aside.     It  I 
was  the  prompting,  no  doubt,  of  a  generous  quality — 
that  of  believing  all  people  perfect  till  he  discovered 
their  faults — but  as  he  cut  loose  without  ceremony 
from  those  whose  faults  were  not  to  his  mind,  and  as 
ill-fitting  people  are  not  as  patient  of  rejection  as  ill- 
fitting  shoes,  the  quality  did  not  pass  for  its  full  value, 
and  his  abusers  were  "  thick  as  leaves  in  Vallambro- 
sa."     The  friends   who  "  wore   his   bleeding  roses," 
however  (and  of  these  he  had  his  share),  fought  his 
battles  quite  at  their  own  charge.     What  with  plenty  I 
of  pride,  and  as  plentiful  a  lack  of  approbativeness, 
F took  abuse  as  a  duck's  back  takes  rain— buoy 
ant  in  the  shower  as  in  the  sunshine. 

"  Well,  F !"  I  said,  as  I  occupied  his  big  chair 

oue  morning  while  he  was  at  wo^k,  "  there  was  great 
skirmishing  about  you  last  night  at  the  tea-party !" 


"  No  ! — really  ?     Who  was  the  enemy  ?" 

"Two  ladies,  who  said  they  travelled  with  you 
through  Italy,  and  knew  all  about  you — the  Blid- 
gimses." 

"Oh,  the  dear  old  Blidgimses — Crinny  and  Nin 
ny — the  ungrateful  monsters  !  Did  I  ever  tell  you 
of  my  nursing  those  two  old  girls  through  the  chol 
era?" 

"No.  But  before  you  go  off  with  a  long  story, 
tell  me  how  you  can  stand  such  abominable  back 
biting?  It  isn't  once  in  a  way,  merely! — you  are 
their  whole  stock  in  trade,  and  they  vilify  you  in  ev 
ery  house  they  set  foot  in.  The  mildest  part  of  it  is 
criminal  slander,  my  good  fellow  !  Why  not  do  the 
world  a  service,  and  show  that  slander  is  actionable, 
though  it  is  committed  in  good  society  ?" 

"  Pshaw  !     What  does  it  amount  to  ? 
'  The  eagle  suffers  little  birds  to  sing, 
And  is  not  careful  what  they  mean  thereby,' 
and  in  this  particular  instance,  the  jury  would  prob 
ably  give  the  damages  the  other  way — for  if  thev 


THOSE  UNGRATEFUL  BLIDGIMSES. 


109 


hammer  at  me  till  doomsday,  I  have  had  my  fun  out 
of  them — my  quid  pro  quo!" 

"  Well,  preface  your  story  by  telling  me  where 
you  met  them.  I  never  knew  by  what  perverse  thread 
you  were  drawn  together." 

"A  thread  that  might  have  drawn  me  into  much 
more  desperate  extremity — a  letter  from  the  most  lov 
able  of  women,  charging  me  to  become  the  trusty 
squire  of  these  errant  damsels  wherever  I  should  en 
counter  them.  1  was  then  studying  in  Italy.  They 
came  to  Florence,  where  I  chanced  to  be,  and  were 
handed  over  to  me  without  dog,  cat,  or  waiting-maid, 


to  Jacomo,  the  waiter,  that  Signorina  Kafrina's  high 
summons  concerned  only  an  overcharge  of  a  penny 
in  the  eggs  !" 

"  And  what  said  Jacomo  ?" 

"  Jacomo  was  incapable  of  an  incivility,  and  begged 
pardon  before  stating  that  the  usual  practice  of  the 
house  was  to  charge  half  a  dollar  a  day  for  board  and 
lodging,  including  a  private  parlor  and  bedroom,  three 
meals  and  a  bottle  of  wine.  The  ladies,  however, 
had  applied  through  an  English  gentleman  (who 
chanced  to  call  on  them,  and  who  spoke  Italian),  to 
have  reductions  made  on  their  dispensing  with  two 


j-m*tiu,       ijrivc    icuuuuima    iiiaua    un    tucir    ui8|.>c:ijoiijg 

by  a  man  who  seemed  ominously  glad   to   be   rid  of  ij  dishes  of  meat  out  of  three,  drinking  no  wine,  and 
them.     As  it  was  the  ruralizing  season,  and   all  the  Ij  wanting  no  nuts  and   raisins.     Their   main   extrava 


world  was  flocking  to  the  baths  of  Lucca,  close  by, 
they  went  there  till  I  could  get  ready  to  undertake 
them — which  I  did,  with  the  devotion  of  a  courier  in 
a  new  place,  one  fig-desiring  evening  of  June." 

"  Was  there  a  delivery  of  the  great  seal  ?"  I  asked, 

rather  amused  at  F 's  circumstantial  mention  of 

his  introitus  to  office. 

"  Something  very  like  it,  indeed.  I  had  not  fairly- 
got  the  blood  out  of  my  face,  after  making  my  sa 
laam,  when  Miss  Crinny  Blidgims  fished  up  from 
some  deep  place  she  had  about  her,  a  memorandum- 
book,  with  a  well-thumbed  brown  paper  cover,  and 
gliding  across  the  room,  placed  it  in  my  hands  as  peo 
ple  on  the  stage  present  pocket-books — with  a  sort 
of  dust-flapping  parabola.  Now  if  I  have  any  partic 
ular  antipathy,  it  is  to  the  smell  of  old  flannel,  and  as 
this  equivocal-looking  object  descended  before  my 
nose — faith!  But  I  took  it.  It  was  the  account- 
book  of  the  eatables  and  drinkables  furnished  to  the 
ladies  in  their  travels,  the  prices  of  eggs,  bread,  figs, 


gance   was   in  eggs,  which  they  ate  several   times  a 
day  between  meals,  and  wished  to  have  cooked  and 
served  up  at  the  price  per  dozen  in  the  market.     On 
this  they  had  held  conclave  below  stairs,  and  the  re 
sult  had  not  been  communicated,  because  there  was 
no  common  language  ;  but  Jacomo  wished,  through 
j  me,  respectfully  to  represent,  that  the  reductions  from 
i  the  half  dollar  a  day  should   be  made  as  requested, 
I  but  that  the  eggs  could  not  be  bought,  cooked,  and 
!  served  up  (with  salt  and  bread,  and  a  clean  napkin), 
for  just  their  price  in  the  market.     And  on  this  point 
the  ladies  were  obstinate.     And  to  settle  this  difficulty 
i  between  the  high  contracting  parties,  cost  an  argu- 
!  ment  of  a  couple  of  hours,  my  first  performance  as 
translator  in  the  service  of  the  Blidgimses.     Thence 
forward,  I  was  as   necessary  to  Crinny  and   Ninny — 
(these  were  their  familiar  diminutives  foi  Corinna  and 
Katrina)— as  necessary  to  Crinny  as  the  gift  of  speech, 
j  and  to  Ninny  as  the  wig  and  abbo  put  together.     Obe- 
|  dient  to  the  mandate  of  the  fair  hand  which  had  con- 


et  cetera,  and  I  was  to  begin  iny  duties  by  having  up  j  signed  me  to  them,  I  gave  myself  up  to  their  service, 

the  head  waiter  of  the  lodging-house,  and  holding  in-     even   keeping  in   my    pocket    their   frowsy   grocery- 

quisition  on  his  charges.     The  Blidgimses  spoke  no 

Italian,  and  no  servant  in   the   house  spoke   English, 

and  they  were  bursting  for  a  translator  to  tell  him  that 

the  eggs  were  over-charged,  and  that  he  must  deduct 

threepence  a  day  for  wine,  for  they  never  touched  it!" 

"  '  What  do  the  ladies  wish  ?'  inquired  the  dumb 
founded  waiter,  in  civil  Tuscan. 

"'What  does  he  say?  what  does  he  say?' cried 
Miss  Corinna,  in  resounding  nasal. 


'  Tell  the  impudent  fellow  what  eggs  are  in  Dutch- 
ess  county  !'  peppered  out  Miss  Katrina,  very  sharply. 

"  Of  course  I  translated  with  a  discretion.  There 
was  rather  an  incongruity  between  the  looks  of  the 
damsels  and  what  they  were  to  be  represented  as  say 
ing — Katrina  Blidgims  living  altogether  in  a  blue  op 
era-hat  with  a  white  feather." 

I  interrupted  F to  say  that  the  blue  hat  was 

immortal,  for  it  was  worn  at  the  tea-party  of  the  night 
before. 

"  I  had  enough  of  the  blue  hat  and  its  bandbo*  be 
fore  we  parted.  It  was  the  one  lifetime  extravagance 
of  the  old  maid,  perpetrated  in  Paris,  and  as  it  cov 
ered  the  back  seam  of  a  wig  (a  subsequent  discovery 


;pmg 

book — though  not   without   some   private   outlay   in 
I  burnt  vinegar.     What  penance   a  man  will  undergo 
for  a  pretty  woman  who  cares  nothing  about  him !" 

"  But  what  could  have  started  such  a  helpless  pair 
I  of  old  quizzes  upon  their  travels  ?" 

"  I  wondered  myself  till  I  knew  them  better. 
Crinny  Blidgims  had  a  tongue  of  the  liveliness  of  an 
eel's  tail.  It  would  have  wagged  after  she  was  skinned 
and  roasted.  She  had,  beside,  a  kind  of  pinchbeck 
smartness,  and  these  two  gifts,  and  perhaps  the  name 
of  Corinna,  had  inspired  her  with  the  idea  that  she 
was  an  improvisalrice.  So,  how  could  she  die  without 
going  to  Italy  ?" 

"  And  Ninny  went  for  company?" 

"  Oh,  Miss  Ninny  Blidgims  had  a  passion  too  ! 
She  had  come  out  to  see  Paris.  She  had  heard  that, 
in  Paris,  people  could  renew  their  youth,  and  she 
thought  she  had  done  it,  with  her  abbo.  She  thought, 
too,  that  she  must  have  manners  to  correspond.  So, 
while  travelling  in  her  old  bonnet,  she  blurted  out  her 
bad  grammer  as  she  had  done  for  fifty  years,  but  in 
her  blue  hat  she  simpered  and  frisked  to  the  best  of 
her  recollection.  Silly  as  that  old  girl  was,  however, 


of  mine),  she  was  never  without  it,  except  when  bon-  |   she  had  the  most  pellucid  set  of  ideas  on  the  prices 


gr 
ideas 


neted  to  go  out.  She  came  to  breakfast  in  it,  mended 
her  stockings  in  it,  went  to  parties  in  it.  I  fancy  it 
took  some  trouble  to  adjust  it  to  the  wig,  and  she  de- 


of  things  to  eat.  There  was  no  humbugging  her  on 
that  subject,  even  in  a  foreign  language.  She  filled 
her  pockets  with  apples,  usually,  in  our  walks  ;  and 


voted  to  it  the  usual  dressing-hours  of  morning  and  i   the  translating  between  her  and  a  street-huckster,  she 


dinner;    for  in  private  she  wore  a  handkerchief  ove 
it,  pinned  under  her  chin,  which  had  only  to  be  whip 


in  her  abbo  and  the  apple-woman  in  Italian  rags,  w 
vexatious  to  endure,  but  very  funny  to  rememjer.     1 


,  ,  -  , 

ped  off  when  company  was  announced,  and  this,  per-  j   have  thought  of  painting  it,  but,   to  under 
haps,  is   one   of   the   secrets  of  its  immaculate,  yet  '    picture,  the  spectator  must  make  the  acquaintance  of 

Miss  Fanny  Blidgims—  rather  a  pill  fora  connoisseur! 
But  by  this  time  you  are  ready  to  approfond,  as  the 
French  aptly  say,  the  depths  of  my  subsequent  dis- 


She  called  it  her  abbo  ." 


threadbare  preservation. 

"Her  what?" 

"  You  have  heard  of  the  famous  Herbault,  the 
man-milliner,  of  Paris?  The  bonnet  was  his  pro 
duction,  and  called  after  him  with  great  propriety. 
In  Italy,  where  people  dress  according  to  their  con- 


dition  in  life,  this  perpetual  abbo  was  something  a  la\ 
princesse,  and  hence  my  embarrassment  in  explaining  II 


"  I  had  been  abouka  month  at  Lucca,  when  it  was 
suddenly  proposed  b*  Crinny  that  we  should  take  a 


110 


THOSE  UNGRATEFUL  BLIDGIMSES. 


vetturino  together,  and  go  to  Venice.  Ninny  and  she 
had  come  down  to  dinner  with  a  sudden  disgust  for 
the  baths — owing,  perhaps,  to  the  distinction  they  had 
received  as  the  only  strangers  in  the  place  who  were 
not  invited  to  the  ball  of  a  certain  prince,  our  next-door 
neighbor.  The  Blidgimses  and  their  economies,  in 
fact,  had  become  the  joke  of  the  season,  and,  as  the 
interpreter  in  the  egg-trades,  I  was  mixed  up  in  the 
omelette,  and  as  glad  to  escape  from  my  notoriety  as 
they.  So  I  set  about  looking  up  the  conveyance  with 
some  alacrity. 

"By  the  mass,  it  was  evidently  a  great  saving  of 
distance  to  cross  the  mountains  to  Modena.  and  of 
course  a  great  saving  of  expense,  as  vetturinos  are 
paid  by  the  mile  ;  but  the  guide-books  stated  that  the 
read  was  rough,  and  the  inns  abominable,  and  recom 
mended  to  all  who  cared  for  comfort  to  make  a  circum 
bendibus  by  the  way  of  Florence  and  Bologna. 
Ninny  declared  she  could  live  on  bread  and  apples, 
however,  and  Crinny  delighted  in  mountain  air — in 
short,  economy  carried  it,  and  after  three  days'  chaf 
fering  with  the  owner  of  a  rattletrap  vettura,  we  set  off 
up  the  banks  of  the  Lima  without  the  blessing  of 
Jacorno,  the  head  waiter. 

"  We  soon  left  the  bright  little  river,  and  struck 
into  the  mountains,  and  as  the  carriage  crept  on  very 
slowly,  I  relieved  the  horses  of  my  weight  and  walked 
on.  The  ladies  did  the  same  thing  whenever  they 
came  in  sight  of  an  orchard,  and  for  the  first  day 
Ninny  munched  the  unripe  apples  and  seemed  getting 
along  very  comfortably.  The  first  night's  lodging 
was  execrable,  but  as  the  driver  assured  us  it  was  the 
best  on  the  route,  we  saved  our  tempers  for  the  worst, 
and  the  next  day  began  to  penetrate  a  country  that 
looked  deserted  of  man,  and  curst  with  uninhabitable 
sterility.  Its  effect  upon  my  spirits,  as  I  walked  on 
alone,  was  as  depressing  as  the  news  of  some  trying 
misfortune,  and  I  was  giving  it  credit  for  one  redeem 
ing  quality — that  of  an  opiate  to  a  tongue  like  Crinny 
Blidgims's — when  both  the  ladies  began  to  show  symp 
toms  of  illness.  It  was  not  long  after  noon,  and  we 
were  in  the  midst  of  a  waste  upland,  the  road  bending 
over  the  horizon  before  and  behind  us,  and  neither 
shed  nor  shelter,  bush,  wall,  or  tree,  within  reach  of 
the  eye.  The  only  habitation  we  had  seen  since  morn 
ing  was  a  wretched  hovel  where  the  horses  were  fed 
at  noon,  and  the  albergo,  where  we  should  pass  the 
night,  was  distant  several  hours — a  long  up-hill 
stretch,  on  which  the  pace  of  the  horses  could  not 
possibly  be  mended.  The  ladies  were  bent  double  in 
the  carriage,  and  said  they  could  not  possibly  go  on. 
Going  back  was  out  of  the  question.  The  readiest 
service  I  could  proffer  was  to  leave  them  and  hurry 
on  to  the  inn,  to  prepare  for  their  reception. 

"  Fortunately  our  team  was  unicorn-rigged — one 
horse  in  advance  of  a  pair.  I  took  off  the  leader,  and 
galloped  away. 

"  Well,  the  cholera  was  still  lingering  in  Italy,  and 
stomachs  must  be  cholera-proof  to  stand  a  perpetual 
diet  of  green  apples,  even  with  no  epidemic  in  the  air. 
So  I  had 'a  very  clear  idea  of  the  remedies  that  would 
be  required  on  their  arrival. 

"  At  a  hand-gallop  I  reached  the  albergo  in  a  couple 
of  hours.  It  was  a  large  stone  barrack,  intended,  no 
doubt,  as  was  the  road  we  had  travelled,  for  military 
uses.  A  thick  stone  wall  surrounded  it,  and  it  stood 
in  the  midst,  in  a  pool  of  mud.  From  the  last  emi 
nence  before  arriving,  not  another  object  could  be 
descried  within  a  horizon  of  twenty  miles  diameter, 
and  a  whitish  soil  of  baked  clay,  browned  here  and 
there  by  a  bit  of  scanty  herbage,  was  foreground  and 
middle  and  background  to  the  pleasant  picture.  The 
site  of  the  barrack  had  probably  been  determined  by 
the  only  spring  within  many  miles,  and  by  the  dryness 
without  and  the  mud  within  the  walls,  it  was  contrived 
foi  a  monopoly  by  the  besieged.  * 


"I  cantered  in  at  the  unhinged  gate,  and  roared 
out  '  casa  !'  '  cameriere  !'  '  botega  !'  till  I  was  fright 
ened  at  my  own  voice. 

"  No  answer.  I  threw  my  bridle  over  a  projection 
of  the  stone  steps,  and  mounted,  from  an  empty 
stable  which  occupied  the  ground  floor  (Italian 
fashion),  to  the  second  story,  which  seemed  equally 
uninhabited.  Here  were  tables,  however,  and  wooden 
settees,  and  dirty  platters — the  first  signs  of  life.  On 
the  hearth  was  an  iron  pot  and  a  pair  of  tongs,  and 
with  these  two  musical  instruments  I  played  a  tune 
which  I  was  sure  would  find  ears,  if  ears  there  were 
on  the  premises.  And  presently  a  heavy  foot  was 
heard  on  the  stair  above,  and  with  a  sonorous  yawn 
descended  mine  host — dirty  and  stolid — a  goodly  pat 
tern  of  the  '  fat  weed  on  Lethe's  wharf,'  as  you  would 
meet  in  a  century.  He  had  been  taking  his  siesta, 
and  his  wife  had  had  a  colpo  di  sole,  and  was  confined 
helplessly  to  her  bed.  The  man  John  was  out  tend 
ing  sheep,  and  he,  the  host,  was  vicariously,  cook, 
waiter,  and  chambermaid.  What  might  be  the  pleas 
ure  of  il  signore  ? 

"  My  pleasure  was,  first,  to  see  the  fire  kindled  and 
the  pot  put  over,  and  then  to  fall  into  a  brown 
study. 

"  Two  fine  ladies  with  the  cholera — two  days'  jour 
ney  from  a  physician — a  fat  old  Italian  landlord  for 
nurse  and  sole  counsellor — nobody  who  could  under 
stand  a  word  they  uttered,  except  myself,  and  not  a 
drug  nor  a  ministering  petticoat  within  available 
limits  !  Then  the  doors  of  the  chambers  were  with 
out  latches  or  hinges,  and  the  little  bed  in  each  great 
room  was  the  one  article  of  furniture,  and  the  house 
was  so  still  in  the  midst  of  that  great  waste,  that  all 
sounds  and  movements  whatever,  must  be  of  common 
cognisance  !  Should  I  be  discharging  my  duty  to 
ladies  under  my  care  to  leave  them  to  this  dirty  old 
man  ?  Should  I  offer  my  own  attendance  as  constant 
nurse,  and  would  the  service  be  accepted  ?  How,  in 
the  name  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  were  these  delicate 
damsels  to  be  '  done  for'  ? 

"  As  a  matter  of  economy  in  dominos,  as  well  as  10 
have  something  Italian  to  bring  home,  I  had  bought  at 
Naples  the  costume  of  a  sister  of  charity,  and  in  it  I 
had  done  all  my  masquerading  for  three  carnivals.  It 
was  among  my  baggage,  and  it  occurred  to  me 
whether  I  had  not  better  take  the  landlord  into  my 
confidence,  and  bribe  him  to  wait  upon  the  ladies,  dis-  -» 
guised  in  coif  and  petticoat.  No — for  he  had  a  mus 
tache,  and  spoke  nothing  but  Italian.  Should  1  do  it 
myself? 

"I  paced  up  and  down  the  stone  floor  in  an  agony 
of  dilemma. 

"  In  the  course  of  half  an  hour  I  had  made  up  my 
mind.  I  called  to  Boniface,  who  was  watching  the 
boiling  pot,  and  made  a  clean  breast  to  him  of  my 
impending  distresses,  aiding  his  comprehension  by 
such  eye-water  as  landlords  require.  He  readily  un 
dertook  the  necessary  lies,  brought  out  his  store  of 
brandy,  added  a  second  bed  to  one  of  the  apartments, 
and  promised  faithfully  to  bear  my  sex  in  mind,  and 
treat  me  with  the  reverence  due  my  cross  and  rosary. 
I  then  tore  out  a  leaf  of  the  grocery  book,  and  wrote 
with  my  pencil  a  note  to  this  effect,  to  be  delivered  to 
the  ladies  on  their  arrival : — 

"'DEAR  Miss  BLIDGIMS  :  Feeling  quite  indispo 
sed  myself,  and  being  firmly  persuaded  that  we  are 
three  cases  of  cholera,  I  have  taken  advantage  of  a 
return  calesino  to  hurry  on  to  Modena  for  medical 
advice.  The  vehicle  I  take,  brought  hither  a  sister  of 
charity,  who  assures  me  she  will  wait  on  you,  even  in 
the  most  malignant  stage  of  your  disease.  She  is 
collecting  funds  for  an  hospital,  and  will  receive  com 
pensation  for  her  services  in  the  form  of  a  donation  to 
this  object.  I  shnll  send  you  a  physician  by  express 


THOSE  UNGRATEFUL  BLIDGIMSES. 


Ill 


from  Modena,  where  it  is  still  possible  we  may  meet. 
With  prayers,  &c.,  &c. 

"  '  \Tours  very  devotedly,  "  '  F. 

"  '  P.  S.  Sister  Benedetra  understands  French  when 
spoken,  though  she  speaks  only  Italian.' 

"  The  delivery  of  this  was  subject,  of  course,  to 
the  condition  of  the  ladies  when  they  should  arrive, 
though  I  had  a  presentiment  they  were  in  for  a  serious 
business. 

"And,  true  to  my  boding,  they  did  arrive,  exceed 
ingly  ill.  An  hour  earlier  than  I  had  looked  for  him, 
the  vetturino  came  up  with  foaming  horses  at  a  tug 
ging  trot,  frightened  half  out  of  his  senses.  The 
ladies  were  dying,  he  swore  by  all  the  saints,  before  he 
dismounted.  He  tore  open  the  carriage  door,  shouted 
for  il  signore  and  the  landlord,  and  had  carried  both 
the  groaning  girls  up  stairs  in  his  arms,  before  fat 
Boniface,  who  had  been  killing  a  sheep  in  the  stable, 
could  wash  his  hands  and  come  out  to  him.  To  his 
violent  indignation,  the  landlord's  first  care  was  to 
unstrap  the  baggage  and  take  off  my  portmanteau, 
condescending  to  give  him  neither  why  nor  wherefore, 
and  as  it  mounted  the  stairs  on  the  broad  shoulders  of 
my  faithful  ally,  it  was  followed  by  a  string  of  oaths 
such  as  can  rattle  off  from  nothing  but  the  voluble 
tongue  of  an  Italian. 

"  I  immediately  despatched  the  note  by  the  host, 
requesting  him  to  come  back  and  '  do  my  dress,'  and 
in  half  an  hour  sister  Beuedetta's  troublesome  toilet 
was  achieved,  and  my  old  Abigail  walked  around  me, 
rubbing  his  hands,  and  swore  I  was  a  '  meraviqlia  di 
belleza.'  The  lower  part  of  my  face  was  covered  by 
the  linen  coif,  and  the  forehead  was  almost  completely 
concealed  ia  the  plain  put-away  of  a  '  false  front ;' 
and,  unless  the  Blidgimses  had  reconnoitred  my  nose 
and  eyes  very  carefully,  I  was  sure  of  my  disguise. 
The  improvements  in  my  figure  were,  unluckily, 
fixtures  in  the  dress,  for  it  was  very  hot ;  but  by  the 
landlord's  account  they  were  very  becoming.  Do  you 
believe  the  old  dog  tried  to  kiss  me  ? 

"  The    groans   of    Ninny,    meantime,     resounded 
through  the  house,  for,  as  I  expected,  she  had  the 
worst  of  it.     Her  exclamations  of  pain  were  broken 
up,  I  could  also  hear,  by  sentences  in  a  sort  of  spiteful 
monotone,  answered  in  regular  '  humphs  !'  by  Crin-  j 
ny — Crinny  never  talking  except  to  astonish,  and  being 
as  habitually  crisp  to  her  half-witted  sister  as  she  was  j 
fluent  to  those  who  were  capable  of  surprise.     Fear-  j 
ing  that  some  disapprobation  of  myself  might  find  its  ! 
way  to   Ninny's   lips,   and  for  several  other  reasons 


which  occurred  to  me,  I  thought  it  best  to  give  the  •  back  the  lost  chevelure  ! 


ladies  another  half  hour  to  themselves,  and  by  way  of 
testing  my  incognito,  bustled  about  in  the  presence  of 
the  vetturiuo,  warming  oil  and  mixing  brandies-and- 
water,  and  getting  used  to  the  suffocation  of  my  petti 
coats — for  you  have  no  idea  how  intolerably  hot  they 
are,  with  trowsers  under. 

"  Quite  assured,  at  last,  I  knocked  at  the  door. 

"'That's  his  nun!'  said  Ninny,  after  listening  an 


as  they  relaxed  their  postures  a  little,  I  got  one  foot  at 
a  time  hung  over  to  me  from  the  side  of  the  bed  into 
the  pail  of  hot  water,  and  set  them  to  rubbing  them 
selves  with  the  warm  oil,  while  I  vigorously  bathed 
their  extremities.  Crinny,  as  I  very  well  knew,  had 
but  fivc-and-twenty  words  of  French,  just  sufficient  to 
hint  at  her  wants,  and  Ninny  spoke  only  such  English 
as  Heaven  pleased,  so  I  played  the  ministering  angel 
in  safe  silence — listening  to  my  praises,  however,  for  I 
handled  Ninny's  irregular  doigls  du  pied  with  a  ten 
derness  that  pleased  her. 

"Well— you  know  what  the  cholera  is.  I  knew 
that  at  the  Hotel  Dieu  at  Paris,  women  who  had  not 
been  intemperate  were  oftenest  cured  by  whiskey 
punches,  and  as  brandy  toddies  were  the  nearest  ap 
proach  of  which  the  resources  of  the  place  admitted, 
I  plied  my  patients  with  brandy  toddy.  In  the  weak 
state  of  their  stomachs,  it  produced,  of  course,  a  de 
lirious  intoxication,  and  as  I  began  very  early  in  the 
morning,  there  were  no  lucid  intervals  in  which  my 
incognito  might  be  endangered.  My  ministrations 
were,  consequently,  very  much  facilitated,  and  after 
the  second  day  (when  I  really  thought  the  poor  girls 
would  die),  we  fell  into  a  very  regular  course  of  hos 
pital  life,  and  for  one,  I  found  it  very  entertaining. 
Quite  impressed  with  the  idea  that  sister  Bellidettor 
(as  Ninny  called  me)  understood  not  a  word  of  Eng 
lish,  they  discoursed  to  please  themselves,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  get  a  book,  to  excuse,  even  to  their  tipsy 
comprehension,  my  outbreaks  of  laughter.  Crinny 
spouted  poetry  and  sobbed  about  Washington  Irving, 
who,  she  thought,  should  have  been  her  lover,  and 
Ninny  sat  up  in  bed,  and,  with  a  small  glass  she  had 
in  the  back  of  a  hair-brush,  tried  on  her  abbo  at  every 
possible  angle,  always  ending  by  making  signs  to  sister 


ig  by  m 
mb  her 


Beilidettor  to  come  and  comb  her  hair!  There  was  a 
long,  slender,  mustache  remaining  on  the  back  of  the 
bald  crown,  and  after  putting  this  into  my  hand,  with 
the  hair-brush,  she  sat  with  a  smile  of  delight  till  she 
found  my  brushing  did  not  come  round  to  the  front! 

"'Why  don't  you  brush  this  lock?'  she  cried, 
'this — and  this — and  this!'  making  passes  from  her 
shining  skull  down  to  her  waist,  as  if,  in  every  one,  she 
had  a  handful  of  hair  !  And  so,  for  an  hour  together, 
I  threaded  these  imaginary  locks,  beginning  where 
they  were  rooted  'long  time  ago,'  and  passing  the 
brush  off  to  the  length  of  my  arm — the  cranium, 
when  I  had  done,  looking  like  a  balloon  of  shot  silk, 
its  smooth  surface  was  so  purpled  with  the  friction  of 
the  bristles.  Poor  Ninny  !  She  has  great  temptation 
to  tipple,  I  think — that  is,  '  if  Macassar  won't  bring 


About  the   fifth  day,   the  ladies  began   to  show 
sians  of  convalescence,   and  it  became   necessary  to 
reduce   their   potations.     Of   course  they  grew  less 
entertaining,  and  1  was  obliged  to  be  much  more  on 
my    guard.     Crinny    fell  from   her    inspiration,    and 
jj  Ninny  from  her  complacency,  and  they  came  down  to 
jl  their  previous  condition  of  damaged  spinsters,  prim 
land  peevish.     'Needs  must'  that  I  should  'play  out 
;|the  play.'  however,   and   I  abated  none  of  my  petits 
Come  in! — that  is  to  say,  cntrct!'  feebly  mm-     .wjns  for  their  comfort,  laying  out  very  large  anticipa 


mured  Crinny. 

"  They  were  both  in  bed,  rolled  up  like  pocket- 
handkerchiefs  ;  but  Ninny  had  found  strength  to  band 
box  her  wig  and  abbo,  and  array  herself  in  a  nightcap 
with  an  exceedingly  broad  frill.  But  I  must  not 
trench  upon  the  'secrets  of  the  prison-house.'  You 
are  a  bachelor,  and  the  Blidgimses  are  still  in  a' world 
of  hope.' 


tions  of  their  grateful  acknowledgments  for  my  dra 
matic  chivalry,  devotion,  and  delicacy  !" 

»  Well— they  are  ungrateful !"  said  I,  interrupting 

;|  F for  the  first  time  in  his  story. 

"  Now,  are  not  they  ?  They  should  at  least,  since 
!  they  deny  me  my  honors,  pay  me  for  my  services  as 
1  inaid-of-all-work,  nurse,  hair- 


-dresser,  and  apothecary  ! 

Well, "if  I  hear  of  their  abusing  me  again,  I'll  send  in 

1'walked  in  and  leaned  over  each  of  them,  and  jj  niy  bills.     Wouldn't  you?     But,  to  wind  up  this  long 
whispered  a  benedicite,  felt   their  pulses,   and  madeligtoiy. 
signs  that  I  understood  their  complaints  and  they  need  !      »  (  thought  that  perhaps  there  might  be  some  little 


not  trouble  themselves  to  explain  ;  and  forthwith  I  c 
menced  operations  by  giving  them  their  grog  (which ; 
they  swallowed  without  making  faces,  by-the-by),  and,  i 


circumstances  connected  with  my  attentions  which 
would  look  best  at  a  distance,  and  that  it  would  be 
more  delicate  to  go  on  and  take  leave  at  Modena  as 


112 


THOSE  UNGRATEFUL  BLIDGIMSES. 


sister  Benedetta,  and  rejoin  them  the  next  morning  in 
hose  and  doublet  as  before — reserving  to  some  future 
period  the  clearing  up  of  my  apparently  recreant  de 
sertion.  On  the  seventh  morning,  therefore,  I  in 
structed  old  Giuseppe,  the  landlord,  to  send  in  his  bill 
to  the  ladies  while  I  was  dressing,  and  give  notice  to 
the  vetturino  that  he  was  to  take  the  holy  sister  to 
Modena  in  the  place  of  il  signore,  who  had  gone  on 
before. 

"  Crinny  and  Ninny  were  their  own  reciprocal 
dressing-maids,  but  Crinny's  fingers  had  weakened  by 
sickness  much  more  than  her  sister's  waist  had  dimin 
ished,  and,  in  the  midst  of  shaving,  in  my  own  room, 
I  was  called  to  '  finish  doing'  Ninny,  who  backed  up 
to  me  with  her  mouth  full  of  pins,  and  the  breath,  for 
the  time  being,  quite  expelled  from  her  body.  As  I 
was  straining,  very  red  in  the  face,  at  the  critical  hook, 
Giuseppe  knocked  at  the  door,  with  the  bill,  and  the 
lack  of  an  interpreter  to  dispute  the  charges,  brought 
up  the  memory  of  the  supposed  '  absquatulator'  with 
no  very  grateful  odor.  Before  I  could  finish  Miss 
Ninny  and  get  out  of  the  room,  I  heard  myself 
charged  with  more  abominations,  mental  and  personal, 
than  the  monster  that  would  have  made  the  fortune  of 
Trinculo.  Crinny  counted  down  half  the  money,  and 
attempted,  by  very  expressive  signs,  to  impress  upon 
Giuseppe  that  it  was  enough  ;  but  the  oily  palm  of 
the  old  publican  was  patiently  held  out  for  more,  and 
she  at  last  paid  the  full  demand,  fairly  crying  with  vex 
ation.  • 

"  Quite  sick  of  the  new  and  divers  functions  to 
which  I  had  been  serving  an  apprenticeship  in  my 
black  petticoat,  I  took  my  place  in  the  vettura,  and 
dropped  veil,  to  be  sulky  in  one  lump  as  far  as  Mode-  j 
na.  I  would  willingly  have  stopped  my  ears,  but  after 
wearing  out  their  indignation  at  the  unabated  charges 
of  old  Giuseppe,  the  ladies  took  up  the  subject  of  the 
expected  donation  to  the  charity-fund  of  sister  Bene 
detta,  and  their  expedients  to  get  rid  of  it  occupied 
(very  amusingly  to  me)  the  greater  part  of  a  day's 
travel.  They  made  up  their  minds  at  last,  that  half  a 
dollar  would  be  as  much  as  I  could  expect  for  my 
week's  attendance,  and  Crinny  requested  that  she 
should  not  be  interrupted  while  she  thought  out  the 
French  for  saying  as  much  when  we  should  come  to 
the  parting. 

"  I  was  sitting  quietly  in  the  corner  of  the  vetlura, 
the  next  day,  felicitating  myself  on  the  success  of  my 
masquerade,  when  we  suddenly  came  to  a  halt  at  the 


gate  of  Modena,  and  the  doganiere  put  his  mustache 
in  at  the  window,  with  'passaporti,  signore  !' 

"Murder!  thought  I — here's  a  difficulty  I  never 
provided  for! 

"  The  ladies  handed  out  their  papers,  and  I  thrust 
my -hand  through  the  slit  in  the  side  of  my  dress  and 
pulled  mine  from  my  pocket.  As  of  course  you 
know,  it  is  the  business  of  this  gatekeeper  to  compare 
every  traveller  with  the  description  given  of  him  in 
his  passport.  He  read  those  of  the  Blidgimses  and 
looked  at  them — all  right.  I  sat  still  while  he  opened 
mine,  thinking  it  possible  he  might  not  care  to  read 
the  description  of  a  sister  of  charity.  But  to  my  dis 
may  he  did — and  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  again 
into  the  carriage. 

" '  Aspetta,  carol'1  said  I,  for  I  saw  it  was  of  no  use. 
I  gathered  up  my  bombazine  and  stepped  out  into  the 
road.  There  were  a  dozen  soldiers  and  two  or  three 
loungers  sitting  on  a  long  bench  in  the  shade  of  the  gate 
way.  The  officer  read  through  the  description  once 
more,  and  then  turned  to  me  with  the  look  of  a  func 
tionary  who  has  detected  a  culprit.  I  began  to  pull  up 
my  petticoat.  The  soldiers  took  their  pipes  out  of  their 
mouths  and  uttered  the  Italian  'keck'  of  surprise. 
When  I  had  got  as  far  as  the  knee,  however,  I  came 
to  the  rolled-up  trowsers,  and  the  officer  joined  in  the 
sudden  uproar  of  laughter.  I  pulled  my  black  petti 
coat  over  my  head,  and  stood  in  my  waistcoat  and 
shirt-sleeves,  and  bowed  to  the  merry  official.  The 
Blidgimses,  to  my  surprise,  uttered  no  exclamation, 
but  I  had  forgotten  my  coif.  When  that  was  unpin 
ned,  and  my  whiskers  came  to  light,  their  screams 
became  alarming.  The  vetturino  ran  for  water,  the 
soldiers  started  to  their  feet,  and  in  the  midst  of  the 
excitement,  I  ordered  down  my  baggage  and  resumed 
my  coat  and  cap,  and  repacked  under  lock  and  key 
the  sister  Benedetta.  And  not  quite  ready  to  en 
counter  the  Blidgimses,  I  walked  on  to  the  hotel  and 
left  the  vetturino  to  bring  on  the  ladies  at  his  leisure. 

'Of  course  I  had  no  control  over  accidents,  and 
this  exposure  was  unlucky  ;  but  if  I  had  had  time  to 
let  myself  down  softly  on  the  subject,  don't  you  see  it 
would  have  been  quite  a  different  sort  of  an  affair  ?  I 
parted  company  from  the  old  girls  at  Modena,  how 
ever,  and  they  were  obliged  to  hire  a  man-servant  who 
spoke  English  and  Italian,  and  probably  the  expense 
of  that  was  added  to  my  iniquities.  Anyhow,  abusing 
me  this  way  is  very  ungrateful  of  these  Blidgimses. 
Now,  isn't  it  ?" 


DASHES     AT     LIFE 


WITH  A  FEEE  PENCIL. 


PART    II 


INKLINGS    OF    ADVENTURE. 


PREFACE. 


THE  following  passages  are  extracts  from  the 
prefaces  to  the  English  editions  of  the  two  works 
included  in  this  book—"  Inklings  of  Adventure" 
and  "  Loiterings  of  Travel :" — 

It  will  be  seen,  by  many  marks  in  the  narratives 
which  follow,  that  they  are  not  the  work  of  ima 
gination.  The  dramas  of  real  life  are  seldom  well 
wound  up,  and  the  imperfectness  of  plot  which 
might  be  objected  to  them  as  tales,  will  prove  to 
the  observant  reader  that  they  are  drawn  more 
from  memory  than  fancy.  It  is  because  they  are 
thus  imperfect  in  dramatic  accomplishment,  that  I 
have  called  them  by  the  name  under  which  they 
have  been  introduced.  They  are  rather  intima 
tions  of  what  seemed  to  lead  to  a  romantic  termi 
nation  than  complete  romances — in  short,  they  are 
Inklings  of  Adventure.  The  adventures  were  jotted 
down — the  events  recorded — the  poems  indited, 
and  the  letters  despatched,  while  the  thought  was 
freshly  born,  or  the  incident  freshly  heard  or  re 
membered — at  the  first  place  which  afforded  the 
leisure — in  short,  during  Loiterings  of  Travel. 


For  the  living  portraitures  of  the  book  J  have  a 
word  to  say.  That  sketches  of  the  whim  of  the 
hour,  its  manners,  fashions,  and  those  ephemeral 
trifles,  which,  slight  as  they  are,  constitute  in  a 
great  measure  its  "  form  and  pressure" — that  these, 
and  familiar  traits  of  persons  distinguished  in  our 
time,  are  popular  and  amusing,  I  have  the  most 
weighty  reasons  certainly  to  know.  They  sell 
""Are  they  innocent  ?"  is  the  next  question.  And 
to  this  I  know  no  more  discreet  answer  than  that 
mine  have  offended  nobody  but  the  critics.  It  has 
been  said  that  sketches  of  contemporary  society 
require  little  talent,  and  belong  to  an  inferior  or 
der  of  literature.  Perhaps.  Yet  they  must  be  wel 
done  to  attract  notice  at  all ;  and  if  true  and  graphic 


they  are  not  only  excellent  material  for  future 
biographers,  but  to  all  who  live  out  of  the  magic 
circles  of  fashion  and  genius,  they  are  more  than 
amusing — they  are  instructive.  To  such  persons, 
living  authors,  orators,  and  statesmen,  are  as  much 
characters  of  history,  and  society  in  cities  is  as 
much  a  subject  of  philosophic  curiosity,  as  if  a 
century  had  intervened.  The  critic  who  finds 
these  matters  "  stale  and  unprofitable,"  lives  in  the 
circles  described,  and  the  pictures  drawn  at  his 
elbow  lack  to  his  eye  the  effect  of  distance  ;  but 
the  same  critic  would  delight  in  a  familiar  sketch 
of  a  supper  with  "  my  lord  of  Leicester"  in  Eliz 
abeth's  time,  of  an  evening  with  Raleigh  and 
Spenser,  or  perhaps  he  would  be  amused  with  a 
description  by  an  eye-witness  of  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots,  riding  home  to  Holyrood  with  her  train  of 
admiring  nobles.  I  have  not  named  in  the  same 
sentence  the  ever-deplored  blank  in  our  knowledge 
of  Shakspere's  person  and  manners.  What 
would  not  a  trait  by  the  most  unskilful  hand  be 
worth  now — if  it  were  nothing  but  how  he  gave 
the  good-morrow  to  Ben  Jonson  in  Eastcheap  ? 

How  far  sketches  of  the  living  are  a  breach  of 
courtesy  committed  by  the  author  toward  the  per 
sons  described,  depends,  of  course,  on  the  temper 
in  which  they  are  done.  To  select  a  subject  for 
complimentary  description  is  to  pay  the  most  un 
doubted  tribute  to  celebrity,  and,  as  far  as  I  have 
observed,  most  distinguished  persons  sympathize 
with  the  public  interest  in  them  and  their  belong 
ings,  and  are  willing  to  have  their  portraits  drawn, 
either  with  pen  or  pencil,  by  as  many  as  offer 
them  the  compliment.  It  would  be  ungracious  to 
the  admiring  world  if  they  were  not. 

The  outer  man  is  a  debtor  for  the  homage  paid 
to  the  soul  which  inhabits  him,  and  he  is  bound, 
like  a  porter  at  the  gate,  to  satisfy  all  reasonable 


PREFACE. 


curiosity  as  to  the  habits  of  the  nobler  and  invis 
ible  tenant.  He  owes  his  peculiarities  to  the 
world. 


For  myself,  I  am  free  to  confess  that  no  age 
interests  me  like  the  present ;  that  no  pictures  of 
society  since  the  world  began,  are  half  so  enter 
taining  to  me  as  those  of  English  society  in  our 
day ;  and  that,  whatever  comparison  the  living 
great  men  of  England  may  sustain  with  those  of 
other  days,  there  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind  that  Eng 
lish  social  life,  at  the  present  moment,  is  at  a  high 
er  pitch  of  refinement  and  cultivation  than  it  was 
ever  here  or  elsewhere  since  the  world  began — 
consequently  it,  and  all  who  form  and  figure  in  it, 
are  dignified  and  legitimate  subjects  of  curiosity 
and  speculation.  The  Count  Mirabel  and  Lady 
Bellair  of  D'Israeli's  last  romance,  are,  to  my 
mind,  the  cleverest  portraits,  as  well  as  the  most 
entertaining  characters,  of  modern  novel-writing  ; 
and  D'Israeli,  by  the  way,  is  the  only  English  au 
thor  who  seems  to  have  the  power  of  enlarging 
his  horizon,  and  getting  a  perspective  view  of  the 
times  he  lives  in.  His  novels  are  far  more  popu 
lar  in  America  than  in  England,  because  the  At 


lantic  is  to  us  a  century.  We  picture  to  ourselves 
England  and  Victoria  as  we  picture  to  ourselves 
England  and  Elizabeth.  We  relish  an  anecdote 
of  Sheridan  Knowles  as  we  should  one  of  Ford 
or  Marlowe.  This  immense  ocean  between  us  is 
like  the  distance  of  time ;  and  while  all  that  is 
minute  and  bewildering  is  lost  to  us,  the  greater 
lights  of  the  age  and  the  prominent  features  of  so* 
ciety  stand  out  apart,  and  we  judge  of  them  like 
posterity.  Much  as  I  have  myself  lived  in  Eng 
land,  I  have  never  been  able  to  remove  this  long 
perspective  from  between  my  eye  and  the  great  men 
of  whom  I  read  and  thought  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Atlantic.  When  I  find  myself  in  the  same 
room  with  the  hero  of  Waterloo,  my  blood  creeps 
as  if  I  had  seen  Cromwell  or  Marlborough ;  and 
I  sit  down  afterward  to  describe  how  he  looked, 
with  the  eagerness  with  which  I  should  commu 
nicate  to  my  friends  some  disinterred  description 
of  these  renowned  heroes  by  a  contemporary 
writer.  If  Cornelius  Agrippa  were  redivivus,  in 
short,  and  would  show  rne  his  magic  mirror,  I 
should  as  soon  call  up  Moore  as  Dryden — Words 
worth  or  Wilson  as  soon  as  Pope  or  Crichton. 


INKLINGS   OF   ADVENTURE. 


PEDLAR  KARL, 

"  Which  manner  of  digression,  however  some  dislike  as  frivo 
lous  and  impertinent,  yet  I  am  of  Beroaldus  his  opinion,  such  di 
gressions  do  mightily  delight  and  refresh  a  weary  reader ;  they  are 
like  sawce  to  a  bad  stomach,  and  I  therefore  do  most  willingly  use 
them."— BURTON. 

"  Bienheureuses  les  imparfaites  ;  a  elles  appartient  le  royaume 
de  1'amour." — L'Evangilc  des  Femmes. 

I  AM  not  sure  whether  Lebanon  Springs,  the  scene 
of  a  romantic  story  I  am  about  to  tell,  belong  to  New 
York  or  Massachusetts.  It  is  not  very  important,  to 
be  sure,  in  a  country  where  people  take  Vermont  and 
Patagonia  to  be  neighboring  states,  but  I  have  a  natu 
ral  looseness  in  geography  which  I  take  pains  to  mor 
tify  by  exposure.  Very  odd  that  I  should  not  remem 
ber  more  of  the  spot  where  I  took  my  first  lessons  in 
philandering  ! — where  I  first  saw  you,  brightest  and 
most  beautiful  A.  D.  (not  Anno  Domini),  in  your  white 
morning-frocks  and  black  French  aprons  ! 

Lebanon  Springs  are  the  rage  about  once  in  three 
years.     I  must  let  you  into  the  secret  of  these  things, 
gentle  reader,  for  perhaps  I  am  the  only  individual 
existing  who  has  penetrated  the  mysteries  of  the  four 
dynasties  of  American  fashion.     In  the  fourteen  mil 
lions  of  inhabitants   in  the  United  States,  there  are  j 
precisely  four  authenticated   and   undisputed   aristo-  ' 
cratic  families.     There  is  one  in  Boston,  one  in  New  I 
York,  one  in  Philadelphia,  and  one  in  Baltimore.     By  ! 
a  blessed  Providence  they  are  not  all  in  one  state,  or 
we  should  have  a  civil  war  and  a  monarchy  in*no  time. 
With  two  hundred  miles'  interval  between  them,  they 
agree  passably,  and  generally  meet  at  one  or  another 
of  the  three  watering-places  of  Saratoga,  Ballston,  or  \ 
Lebanon.     Their  meeting  is  as  mysterious  as  the  pro 
cess  of  crystallization,  for  it  is  not  by  agreement.   You 
must  explain  it  by  some  theory   of  homoeopathy  or 
magnetism.     As  it  is  not  known  till  the  moment  they  , 
arrive,  there  is  of  course  great  excitement  among  the  : 
hotel-keepers  in  these  different  parts  of  the  country, 
and  a  village  that  has  ten  thousand  transient  inhabit 
ants  one  summer,  has,  for  the  next,  scarcely  as  many  I 
score.     The  vast  and  solitary  temples  of  Paestum  are 
gay  in  comparison  with  these  halls  of  disappointment.  ! 

As  I  make  a  point  of  dawdling  away  July  and  Au-  ' 
gust  in  this  locomotive  metropolis  of  pleasure,  and 
rather  prefer  Lebanon,  it  is  always  agreeable  to  me  to 
hear  that  the  nucleus  is  formed  in  that  valley  of  hem 
locks.     Not  for  its  scenery,  for  really,  my  dear  east- 


ern-hemispherian  !  you  that  are  accustomed  to  what 
is  called  nature  in  England  (to  wit,  a  soft  park,  with  a 
gray  ruin  in  the  midst),  have  little  idea  how  wearily 
upon  heart  and  mind  presses  a  waste  wilderness  of 
mere  forest  and  water,  without  stone  or  story.  Trees 
in  England  have  characters  and  tongues  ;  if  you  see  a 
fine  one,  you  know  whose  father  planted  it,  and  for 
whose  pleasure  it  was  designed,  and  about  what  sum 
the  man  must  possess  to  afford  to  let  it  stand.  They 
are  statistics,  as  it  were — so  many  trees,  ergo  so  many 
owners  so  rich.  In  America,  on  the  contrary,  trees 
grow  and  waters  run,  as  the  stars  shine,  quite  unmean 
ingly  ;  there  may  be  ten  thousand  princely  elms,  and 
not  a  man  within  a  hundred  miles  worth  five  pounds 
five.  You  ask,  in  England,  who  has  the  privilege  of 
this  water  ?  or  you  say  of  an  oak,  that  it  stood  in  such 
a  man's  time  :  but  with  us,  water  is  an  element  un 
claimed  and  unrcnted,  and  a  tree  dabbles  in  the  clouds 
as  they  go  over,  and  is  like  a  great  idiot,  without  soul 
or  responsibility. 

If  Lebanon  had  a  history,  however,  it  would  have 
been  a  spot  for  a  pilgrimage,  for  its  natural  beauty. 
It  is  shaped  like  a  lotus,  with  one  leaf  laid  back  by 
the  wind.  It  is  a  great  green  cup,  with  a  scoop  for  a 
drinking-place.  As  you  walk  in  the  long  porticoes  of 
the  hotel,  the  dark  forest  mounts  up  before  you  like  a 
leafy  wall,  and  the  clouds  seem  just  to  clear  the  pine- 
tops,  and  the  eagles  sail  across  from  horizon  to  hori 
zon,  without  lifting  their  wings,  as  if  you  saw  them 
from  the  bottom  of  a  well.  People  born  there  think 
the  world  about  two  miles  square,  and  hilly. 

The  principal  charm  of  Lebanon  to  me  is  the  vil 
lage  of  "  shakers,"  lying  in  a  valley  about  three  miles 
off.  As  Glaucus  wondered  at  the  inert  tortoise  of 
Pompeii,  and  loved  it  for  its  antipodal  contrast  to  him 
self,"  so  do  I  affection  (a  French  verb  that  I  beg  leave 
to  introduce  'to  the  English  language)  the  shaking 
quakers.  That  two  thousand  men  could  be  found  in 
the  New  World,  who  would  embrace  a  religion  en 
joining  a  frozen  and  unsympathetic  intercourse  with 
the  diviner  sex,  and  that  an  equal  number  of  females 
could  be  induced  to  live  in  the  same  community,  with 
out  locks  or  walls,  in  the  cold  and  rigid  observance 
of  a  creed  of  celibacy,  is  to  me  an  inexplicable  and 
grave  wonder.  My  delight  is  to  get  into  my  stanhope 
after  breakfast,  and  drive  over  and  spend  the  forenoot 
in  contemplating  them  at  their  work  in  the  fields 
They  have  a  peculiar  and  most  expressive  phvsiogno 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE, 


my ;  the  women  are  pale,  or  of  a  wintry  redness  in 
the  cheek,  and  are  all  attenuated  and  spare.  Gravity, 
deep  and  habitual,  broods  in  every  line  of  their  thin 
faces.  They  go  out  to  their  labor  in  company  with 
those  serious  men,  and  are  never  seen  to  smile  ;  their 
eyes  are  all  hard  and  stony,  their  gait  is  precise  and 
stiff,  their  voices  are  of  a  croaking  hoarseness,  and  na 
ture  seems  dead  in  them.  I  would  bake  you  such  men 
and  women  in  a  brick-kiln. 

Do  they  think  the  world  is  coming  to  an  end  ?  Are 
there  to  be  no  more  children  ?  Is  Cupid  to  be  thrown 
out  of  business,  like  a  coach  proprietor  on  a  railroad  ? 
What  can  the  shakers  mean,  I  should  be  pleased  to 
know  ? 

The  oddity  is  that  most  of  them  are  young.  Men 
of  from  twenty  to  thirty,  and  women  from  sixteen  to 
twenty-five,  and  often,  spite  of  their  unbecoming  dress, 
good-looking  and  shapely,  meet  you  at  every  step.  In 
dustrious,  frugal,  and  self-denying,  they  certainly  are, 
and  there  is  every  appearance  that  their  tenets  of 
difficult  abstinence  are  kept  to  the  letter.  There  is 
little  temptation  beyond  principle  to  remain,  and  they 
are  free  to  go  and  come  as  they  list,  yet  there  they 
live  on  in  peace  and  unrepining  industry,  and  a  more 
thriving  community  does  not  exist  in  the  republic. 
Many  a  time  have  I  driven  over  on  a  Sunday,  and 
watched  those  solemn  virgins  dropping  in  one  after 
another  to  the  church  ;  and  when  the  fine-limbed  and 
russet-faced  brotherhood  were  swimming  round  the 
floor  in  their  fanatical  dance,  I  have  watched  their 
countenances  for  some  look  of  preference,  some  be 
trayal  of  an  ill  suppressed  impulse,  till  my  eyes  ached 
again.  I  have  selected  the  youngest  and  fairest,  and 
have  not  lost  sight  of  her  for  two  hours,  and  she 
might  have  been  made  of  cheese-parings  for  any  trace 
of  emotion.  There  is  food  for  speculation  in  it.  Can 
we  do  without  matrimony  ?  Can  we  "strike,"  and  be 
independent  of  these  dear  delightful  tyrants,  for  whom 
we  "  live  and  move  and  have  our  being  ?"  Will  it 
ever  be  no  blot  on  our  escutcheon  to  have  attained 
thirty-five  as  an  unfructifying  unit  ?  Is  that  fearful 
campaign,  with  all  its  embarrassments  and  awkward 
nesses,  and  inquisitions  into  your  money  and  morals, 
its  bullyings  and  backings-out — is  it  inevitable  ? 

Lebanon  has  one  other  charm.  Within  a  morning 
drive  of  the  springs  lies  the  fairest  village  it  has  ever 
been  my  lot  to  see.  It  is  English  in  its  character, 
except  that  there  is  really  nothing  in  this  country 
so  perfect  of  its  kind.  There  are  many  towns  in  the 
United  States  more  picturesquely  situated,  but  this, 
before  I  had  been  abroad,  always  seemed  to  me  the 
very  ideal  of  English  rural  scenery,  and  the  kind  of 
place  to  set  apart  for  either  love  or  death — for  one's 
honeymoon  or  burial — the  two  periods  of  life  which 
I  have  always  hoped  would  find  me  in  the  loveliest 
spot  of  nature.  Stock  bridge  lies  in  a  broad  sunny 
valley,  with  mountains  at  exactly  the  right  distance, 
and  a  river  in  its  bosom  that  is  as  delicate  in  its  wind 
ings,  and  as  suited  to  the  charms  it  wanders  among, 
as  a  vein  in  the  transparent  neck  of  beauty.  I  am 
not  going  into  a  regular  description,  but  I  have  car 
ried  myself  back  to  Lebanon  ;  and  the  remembrance 
of  the  leafy  mornings  of  summer  in  which  I  have 
driven  to  that  fair  earthly  paradise,  and  loitered  under 
its  elms,  imagining  myself  amid  the  scenes  of  song 
and  story  in  distant  England,  has  a  charm  for  me  now. 
I  have  seen  the  mother-land  ;  I  have  rambled  through 
park,  woodland,  and  village,  wherever  the  name  was 
old  and  the  scene  lovely,  and  it  pleases  me  to  go  back 
to  my  dreaming  days  and  compare  the  reality  with  the 
anticipation.  Most  small  towns  in  America  have  traces 
of  newness  about  them.  The  stumps  of  a  clearing,  or 
freshly-boarded  barns — something  that  is  the  antipodes 
of  romance — meets  your  eye  from  every  aspect.  Stock- 
bridge,  on  the  contrary,  is  an  old  town,  and  the  houses 


are  of  a  rural  structure;  the  fields  look  soft  and  genial, 
the  grass  is  swardlike,  the  bridges  picturesque,  the 
hedges  old,  and  the  elms,  nowhere  so  many  and  so 
luxuriant,  are  full-grown  and  majestic.  The  village 
is  embowered  in  foliage. 

Greatest  attraction  of  all,  the  authoress  of  "  Redwood" 
and  "  Hope  Leslie,"  a  novelist  of  whom  America  has 
the  good  sense  to  be  proud,  is  the  Miss  Mitford  of  Stock- 
bridge.  A  man,  though  a  distinguished  one,  may  have 
little  influence  on  the  town  he  lives  in,  but  a  remarka 
ble  woman  is  the  invariable  cynosure  of's  community, 
and  irradiates  it  all.  I  think  I  could  divine  the  presence 
of  one  almost  by  the  growing  of  the  trees  and  flowers. 
"  Our  Village"  does  not  look  like  other  villages. 

II. 

You  will  have  forgotten  that  I  had  a  story  to  tell. 

dear  reader.  I  was  at  Lebanon  in  the  summer  of 

(perhaps  you  don't  care  about  knowing  exactly  when 
it  was,  and  in  that  case  I  would  rather  keep  shy  of 
dates.  I  please  myself  with  the  idea  that  time  gets  on 
faster  than  I).  The  Springs  were  thronged.  The 
president's  lady  was  there  (this  was  under  our  admin 
istration,  the  Adams'),  and  all  the  four  cliques  spoken 
of  above  were  amicably  united — each  other's  beaux 
dancing  with  each  other's  belles,  and  so  on.  If  I  were 
writing  merely  for  American  eyes,  I  should  digress 
once  more  to  describe  the  distinctive  characters  of  the 
south,  north,  and  central  representations  of  beauty; 
but  it  would  scarcely  interest  the  general  reader.  I 
may  say,  in  passing,  that  the  Boston  belles  were  a 
VAnglaise,  rosy  and  riantes  ;  the  New-Yorkers,  like 
Parisians,  cool,  dangerous,  and  dressy  ;  and  the  Balti- 
moreans  (and  so  south),  like  lonians  or  Romans,  in 
dolent,  passionate,  lovely,  and  languishing.  Men, 
women,  and  pine-apples,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  flour 
ish  with  a  more  kindly  growth  in  the  fervid  latitudes. 

The  campaign  went  on,  and  a  pleasant  campaign  it 
was — for  the  parties  concerned  had  the  management 
of  their  own  affairs  ;  that  is,  they  who  had  hearts  to 
sell  made  the  bargain  for  themselves  (this  was  the 
greater  number),  and  they  who  disposed  of  this  com 
modity  gratis,  though  necessarily  young  and  ignorant 
of  the  world,  made  the  transfer  in  the  same  manner,  in 
person.  This  is  your  true  republic.  The  trading  in 
ffections  by  reference — the  applying  to  an  old  and 
selfish  heart  for  the  purchase  of  a  young  and  ingenu 
ous  one — the  swearing  to  your  rents,  and  not  to  your 
faithful  passion — to  your  settlements,  and  not  your 
constancy — the  cold  distance  between  yourself  and 
the  young  creature  who  is  to  lie  in  your  bosom,  till 
the  purchase-money  is  secured — and  the  hasty  mar 
riage  and  sudden  abandonment  of  a  nature  thus 
chilled  and  put  on  its  guard,  to  a  freedom  with  one 
almost  a  stranger,  that  can  not  but  seem  licentious, 
and  can  not  but  break  down  that  sense  of  propriety  in 
which  modesty  is  most  strongly  intrenched — this 
seems  to  me  the  one  evil  of  your  old  worm-eaten  mon 
archies  this  side  the  water,  which  touches  the  essen 
tial  happiness  of  the  well-bred  individual.  Taxation 
and  oppression  are  but  things  he  reads  of  in  the  morn- 
ng  paper. 

This  freedom  of  intercourse  between  unmarried 
people  has  a  single  disadvantage — one  gets  so  desper 
ately  soon  to  the  end  of  the  chapter  !  There  shall  be 
wo  hundred  young  ladies  at  the  Springs  in  a  given 
season,  and,  by  the  difference  in  taste  so  wisely  ar 
ranged  by  Providence,  there  will  scarcely  be,  of  course, 
more  than  four  in  that  number  whom  any  one  gentle 
man  at  all  difficult  will  find  within  the  range  of  his 
beau  ideal.  With  these  four  he  may  converse  freely 
twelve  hours  in  the  day — more,  if  he  particularly  de 
sires  it.  They  may  ride  together,  drive  together,  ram- 
ale  together,  sing  together,  be  together  from  morning 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


till  night,  and  at  the  end  of  a  month  passed  in  this  way, 
if  he  escape  a  committal,  as  is  possible,  he  will  know 
all  that  are  agreeable,  in  one  large  circle,  at  least,  as  well 
as  he  knows  his  sisters — a  state  of  things  that  is  very 
likely  to  end  in  his  going  abroad  soon,  from  a  mere 
dearth  of  amusement.  I  have  imagined,  however, 
the  case  of  an  unmarrying  idle  man,  a  character  too 
rare  as  yet  in  America  to  affect  the  general  question. 
People  marry  as  they  die  in  that  country — when  their 
time  come.  We  must  all  marry  is  as  much  an  axiom 
as  we  must  all  rffl,  and  eke  as  melancholy. 

Shall  we  go  on  with  the  story  ?  I  had  escaped  for 
two  blessed  weeks,  and  was  congratulating  the  sus 
ceptible  gentleman  under  my  waistcoat-pocket  that  we 
should  never  be  in  love  with  less  than  the  whole  sex 

again,  when  a  German  Baron  Von  — • arrived  at 

the  Springs  with  a  lame  daughter.  She  was  eighteen, 
transparently  fair,  and,  at  first  sight,  so  shrinkingly 
dependant,  so  delicate,  so  childlike,  that  attention  to 
her  assumed  the  form  almost  of  pity,  and  sprang  as 
naturally  and  unsuspectingly  from  the  heart.  The 
only  womanly  trait  about  her  was  her  voice,  which 
was  so  deeply  soft  and  full,  so  earnest  and  yet  so  gen 
tle,  so  touched  with  subdued  pathos  and  yet  so  melan 
choly  calm,  that  if  she  spoke  after  a  long  silence,  I 
turned  to  her  involuntarily  with  the  feeling  that  she 
was  not  the  same — as  if  some  impassioned  and  elo 
quent  woman  had  taken  unaware  the  place  of  the 
simple  and  petted  child. 

I  am  inclined  to  think  there  is  a  particular  tender 
ness  in  the  human  breast  for  lame  women.  Any 
other  deformity  in  the  gentler  sex  is  monstrous  ;  but 
lameness  (the  devil's  defect)  is  "the  devil."  I  picture 
to  myself,  to  my  own  eye,  now — pacing  those  rickety 
colonnades  at  Lebanon  with  the  gentle  Meeta  hanging 
he;ivily,  and  with  the  dependance  inseparable  from 
her  infirmity,  on  my  arm,  while  the  moon  (which  was 
the  moon  of  the  Rhine  to  her,  full  of  thrilling  and  un 
earthly  influences)  rode  solemnly  up  above  the  moun 
tain-tops.  And  that  strange  voice  filling  like  a  flute 
with  sweetness  as  the  night  advanced,  and  that  irregu 
lar  pressure  of  the  small  wrist  in  her  forgotten  lame 
ness,  and  my  own  (I  thought)  almost  paternal  feeling 
as  she  leaned  more  and  more  heavily,  and  turned  her 
delicate  and  fair  face  confidingly  up  to  mine,  and  that 
dangerous  mixture  altogether  of  childlikeness  and 
womanly  passion,  of  dependance  and  superiority,  of 
reserve  on  the  one  subject  of  love,  and  absolute  confi 
dence  on  every  other — if  I  had  not  a  story  to  tell,  I 
could  prate  of  those  June  nights  and  their  witcheries 
till  you  would  think 

"  Tutti  gli  alberi  del  mondo 
Fossero  penne," 

and  myself  "  bitten  by  the  dipsas." 

We  were  walking  one  night  late  in  the  gallery  run 
ning  around  the  second  story  of  the  hotel.  There  was 
a  ball  on  the  floor  below,  and  the  music,  deadened 
somewhat  by  the  crowded  room,  came  up  softened  and 
mellowed  to  the  dark  and  solitary  colonnade,  and  added 
to  other  influences  in  putting  a  certain  lodger  in  my 
bosom  beyond  my  temporary  control.  I  told  Meeta 
that  I  loved  her. 

The  building  stands  against  the  side  of  a  steep  moun 
tain  high  up  above  the  valley,  and  the  pines  and  hem 
locks  at  that  time  hung  in  their  primeval  blackness 
almost  over  the  roof.  As  the  most  difficult  and  em 
barrassed  sentence  of  which  I  had  ever  been  delivered 
died  on  my  lips,  and  Meeta,  lightening  her  weight  on 
my  arm,  walked  in  apparently  offended  silence  by  my 
side,  a  deep-toned  guitar  was  suddenly  struck  in  the 
woods,  and  a  clear,  manly  voice  broke  forth  in  a  song. 
It  produced  an  instant  and  startling  effect  on  my  com 
panion.  With  the  first  word  she  quickly  withdrew 
her  arm  ;  and,  after  a  moment's  pause,  listening  with 


her  hands  raised  in  an  attitude  of  the  most  intense  ea 
gerness,  she  sprang  to  the  extremity  of  the  balustrade, 
and  gazed  breathlessly  into  the  dark  depths  of  the  for 
est.  The  voice  ceased,  and  she  started  back,  and  laid 
her  hand  hastily  upon  my  arm. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  hurried  feeling  ; 
"  if  you  are  generous,  stay  here  and  await  me  !"  and  in 
another  moment  she  sprang  along  the  bridge  connect 
ing  the  gallery  with  the  rising  ground  in  the  rear,  and 
was  lost  in  the  shadows  of  the  hemlocks. 

"  I  have  made  a  declaration,"  thought  I,  "just  five 
minutes  too  soon." 

I  paced  up  and  down  the  now  too  lonely  colonnade, 
and  picked  up  the  fragments  of  my  dream  with  what 
philosophy  I  might.  By  the  time  Meeta  returned — 
perhaps  a  half  hour,  perhaps  an  age,  as  you  measure 
by  her  feelings  or  mine — I  had  hatched  up  a  very  pret 
ty  and  heroical  magnanimity.  She  would  have  spoken, 
but  was  breathless. 

"  Explain  nothing,"  I  said,  taking  her  arm  within 
mine,  "  and  let  us  mutually  forget.  If  I  can  serve  you 
better  than  by  silence,  command  me  entirely.  I  live 
but  for  your  happiness — even,"  I  added  after  a  pause, 
"  though  it  spring  from  another." 

We  were  at  her  chamber-door.  She  pressed  my 
hand  with  a  strength  of  which  I  did  not  think  those 
small,  slight  fingers  capable,  and  vanished,  leaving  me, 
I  am  free  to  confess,  less  resigned  than  you  would  sup 
pose  from  my  last  speech.  I  had  done  the  dramatic 
thing,  thanks  to  much  reading  of  you,  dear  Barry 
Cornwall !  but  it  was  not  in  a  play.  I  remained  killed 
after  the  audience  was  gone. 

III. 

The  next  day  a  new  character  appeared  on  the 
stage. 

"Such  a  handsome  pedlar  !"  said  magnificent  Hel 
en  —  —  to  me,  as  I  gave  my  horse  to  the  groom  after 
a  ride  in  search  of  hellebore,  and  joined  the  prome 
nade  at  the  well  :  "  and  what  do  you  think  ?  he  sells 
only  by  rnffle  !  It's  so  nice!  All  sorts  of  Berlin  iron 
ornaments,  and  everything  German  and  sweet ;  and 
the  pedlar's  smile's  worth  more  than  the  prizes  ;  and 
such  a  mustache  !  See  !  there  he  is  ! — and  now,  if 

j  he  has  sold  all  his  tickets — will  you  come,  Master 
Gravity  ?" 

"  I  hear  a  voice  you  can  not  hear,"  thought  I,  as  I 

'  gave  the  beauty  my  arm,  and  joined  a  crowd  of  people 
gathered  about  a  pedlar's  box  in  the  centre  of  the 
parterre. 

The  itinerant  vender  spread  his  wares  in  the  midst 
of  the  gay  assemblage,  and  the  raffle  went  on.  He 
was  excessively  handsome.  A  head  of  the  sweet  gen 
tleness  of  Raphael's,  with  locks  flowing  to  his  shoul 
ders  in  the  fashion  of  German  students,  a  soft  brown 
mustache  curving  on  a  short  Phidian  upper  lip,  a 

i  large  blue  eye  expressive  of  enthusiasm  rather  than 

'  passion,  and  features  altogether  purely  intellectual- 
formed  a  portrait  of  which  even  jealousy  might  con 
sole  itself.  Through  all  the  disadvantages  of  a  dress 
suited  to  his  apparent  vocation,  an  eye  the  least  on 
the  alert  for  a  disguise  would  have  penetrated  his  in 
a  moment.  The  gay  and  thoughtless  crowd  about 
him,  not  accustomed  to  impostors  who  were  more  than 
they  pretended  to  be,  trusted  him  for  a  pedlar,  but 
treated  him  with  a  respect  far  above  his  station  insen 
sibly. 

Whatever  his  object  was,  so  it  were  honorable,  I 
inly  determined  to  give  him  all  the  assistance  in  my 
power.  A  single  glance  at  the  face  of  Meeta,  who 
joined  the  circle  as  the  prizes  were  drawn— a  face  so 
changed  since  yesterday,  so  flushed  with  hope  and 
pleasure,  and  yet  so  saddened  by  doubt  and  fear,  the 
small  lips  compressed,  the  soft  black  eye  kindled  aqd 


8 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE, 


restless,  and  the  red  leaf  on  her  cheek  deepened  to  a 
feverish  beauty — left  me  no  shadow  of  hesitation.  I 
exchanged  a  look  with  her  that  I  intended  should  say 
as  much. 

IV. 

I  know  nothing  that  gives  one  such  an  elevated  idea 
of  human  nature  (in  one's  own  person)  as  helping 
another  man  to  a  woman  one  loves.  Oh  last  days  of 
minority  or  thereabout !  oh  primal  manhood !  oh 
golden  time,  when  we  have  let  go  all  but  the  enthu 
siasm  of  the  boy,  and  seized  hold  of  all  but  the  sel 
fishness  of  the  man  !  oh  blessed  interregnum  of  the 
evil  and  stronger  genius  !  why  can  we  not  bottle  up 
thy  hours  like  the  wine  of  a  better  vintage,  and  enjoy 
them  in  the  parched  world-weariness  of  age  ?  In  the 
tardy  honeymoon  of  a  bachelor  (as  mine  will  be,  if  it 
come  ever,  alas  !)  with  what  joy  of  paradise  should  we 
bring  up  from  the  cellars  of  the  past  a  hamper  of  that 
sunny  Hippocrene  ! 

Pedlar  Karl  and  "the  gentleman  in  No.  10"  would 
have  been  suspected  in  any  other  country  of  conspira 
cy.  (How  odd,  that  the  highest  crime  of  a  monarchy 
— the  attempt  to  supplant  the  existing  ruler — becomes 
in  a  republic  a  creditable  profession  !  You  are  a  trai 
tor  here,  a  politician  there  !)  We  sat  together  from 
midnight  onward,  discoursing  in  low  voices  over  sherry 
and  sandwiches ;  and  in  that  crowded  Babylon,  his 
entrances  and  exits  required  a  very  conspirator-like 
management.  Known  as  my  friend,  his  trade  and  his 
disguise  were  up.  As  a  pedlar,  wandering  about 
where  he  listed  when  not  employed  over  his  wares,  his 
interviews  with  Mecta  were  easily  contrived,  and  his 
lover's  watch,  gazing  on  her  through  the  long  hours 
of  the  ball  from  the  crowd  of  villagers  at  the  windows, 
hovering  about  her  walks,  and  feeding  his  heart  on 
the  many,  many  chance  looks  of  fondness  given  him 
every  hour  in  that  out-of-doors  society,  kept  him  com 
paratively  happy. 

"  The  baron  looked  hard  at  you  to-day,"  said  I,  as 
he  closed  the  door  in  my  little  room,  and  sat  down  on 
the  bed. 

"  Yes  ;  he  takes  an  interest  in  me  as  a  countryman, 
but  he  does  not  know  me.  He  is  a  dull  observer,  and 
hr.s  seen  me  but  once  in  Germany." 

"  How,  then,  have  you  known  Meeta  so  long  ?" 

"  I  accompanied  her  brother  home  from  the  uni 
versity,  when  the  baron  was  away,  and  for  a  long  month 
we  were  seldom  parted.  Riding,  boating  on  the  Rhine, 
watching  the  sunset  from  the  bartizan  of  the  old  castle- 
towers,  reading  in  the  old  library,  rambling  in  the  park 
and  forest — it  was  a  heaven,  my  friend,  than  which  I 
can  conceive  none  brighter." 

"And  her  brother?" 

"  Alas  !  changed  !  We  were  both  boys  then,  and  a 
brother  is  slow  to  believe  his  sister's  beauty  dangerous. 
He  was  the  first  to  shut  the  doors  against  me,  when 
he  heard  that  the  poor  student  had  dared  to  love  his 
highborn  Meeta." 

Karl  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  brooded 
for  a  while  in  silence  on  the  remembrances  he  had 
awakened. 

"  Do  you  think  the  baron  came  to  America  pur 
posely  to  avoid  you  ?" 

"  Partly,  I  have  no  doubt,  for  I  entered  the  castle 
one  night  in  my  despair,  when  I  had  been  forbidden 
entrance,  and  he  found  me  at  her  feet  in  the  old  cor 
ridor.  It  was  the  only  time  he  ever  saw  me,  if,  in 
deed,  he  saw  me  at  all  in  the  darkness  :  and  he  imme 
diately  hastened  his  preparations  for  a  long-contem 
plated  journey.,  1  knew  not  whither." 

"  Did  you  follow  him  soon  ?" 

"  No,  for  my  heart  was  crushed  at  first,  and  I  de 
spaired.  The  possibility  of  following  them  in  my 


wretched  poverty  did  not  even  occur  to  me  for 
months." 

"  How  did  you  track  them  hither,  of  all  places  in 
the  world  ?" 

"  I  sought  them  first  in  Italy.  It  is  easy  on  the 
continent  to  find  out  where  persons  are  not,  and  after 
two  years'  wanderings,  I  heard  of  them  in  Paris. 
They  had  just  sailed  for  America.  I  followed  ;  but 
in  a  country  where  there  are  no  passports,  and  no 
espionage,  it  is  difficult  to  trace  the  yaveller.  It  was 
probable  only  that  they  would  be  at  a^lace  of  general 
resort,  and  I  came  here  with  no  assurance  but  hope. 
Thanks  to  God,  the  first  sight  that  greeted  my  eyes 
was  my  dear  Meeta,  whose  irregular  step,  as  she 
walked  back  and  forth  with  you  in  the  gallery,  enabled 
me  to  recognise  her  in  the  darkness." 

Who  shall  say  the  days  of  romance  are  over  ?  The 
plot  is  not  brought  to  the  catastrophe,  but  we  hope  it 
is  near. 


V. 


My  aunt,  Isabella  Slingsby  (now  in  heaven,  with 
the  "eleven  thousand  virgins,"  God  rest  her  soul!), 
was  at  this  time,  as  at  all  others,  under  my  respecta 
ble  charge.  She  would  have  said  I  was  under  hers — 
but  it  amounts  to  the  same  thing — we  lived  together 
in  peace  and  harmony.  She  said  what  she  pleased, 
for  I  loved  her — and  I  did  what  I  pleased,  for  she 
loved  me.  When  Karl  told  me  that  Meeta's  principal 
obkjction  to  an  elopement  was  the  want  of  a  matron, 
I  snut  the  teeth  of  my  resolution,  as  they  say  in  Per 
sia,  and  inwardly  vowed  my  unconscious  aunt  to  this 
exigency.  You  should  have  seen  Miss  Isabella  Slings 
by  to  know  what  a  desperate  man  may  be  brought  to 
resolve  on. 

On  a  certain  day,  Count  Von  Raffle-off  (as  my  witty 
friend  and  ally,  Tom  Fane,  was  pleased  to  call  the 
handsome  pedlar)  departed  with  his  pack  and  the 
hearts  of  all  the  dressing-maids  and  some  of  their  mis 
tresses,  on  his  way  to  New  York.  I  drove  down  the 
road  to  take  my  leave  of  him  out  of  sight,  and  give 
him  my  last  instructions. 

How  to  attack  my  aunt  was  a  subject  about  which 
I  had  many  unsatisfactory  thoughts.  If  there  was  one 
thing  she  disapproved  of  more  than  another,  it  was  an 
elopement ;  and  with  what  face  to  propose  to  her  to 
run  away  with  a  baron's  only  daughter,  and  leave  her 
in  the  hands  of  a  pedlar,  taking  upon  herself,  as  she 
must,  the  whole  sin  and  odium,  was  an  enigma,!  ate, 
drank,  and  slept  upon,  in  vain.  One  thing  at  last  be 
came  very  clear — she  would  do  it  for  nobody  but  me. 
Sequitur,  I  must  play  the  lover  myself. 

I  commenced  with  a  fit  of  illness.  What  was  the 
matter  ?  For  two  days  I  was  invisible.  Dear  Isabella  ! 
it  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  drawn  seriously  on  thy 
fallow  sympathies,  and,  how  freely  they  flowed  at  my 
affected  sorrows,  I  shame  to  remember !  Did  ever 
woman  so  weep  ?  Did  ever  woman  so  take  antipathy 
to  man  as  she  to  that  innocent  old  baron  for  his  sup 
posed  refusal  of  his  daughter  to  Philip  Slingsby  ?  This 
revival  of  the  remembrance  shall  not  be  in  vain.  The 
mignonette  and  roses  planted  above  thy  grave,  dearest 
aunt,  shall  be  weeded  anew  ! 

.  Oh  that  long  week  of  management  and  hypocrisy  ! 
The  day  came  at  last. 

"Aunt  Bel!" 

"What,  Philip,  dear?" 

"  I  think  I  feel  better  to-day."  -•'v* '  ; 

"Yes?" 

"Yes.  What  say  you  to  a  drive?  There  is  the 
stanhope." 

"  My  dear  Phil,  don't  mention  that  horrid  stanhope. 
I  am  sure,  if  you  valued  my  life — " 

"  Precisely,  aunt — (I  had  taken  care  to  give  her  a 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


good  fright  the  day  before) — but  Tom  Fane  has  offered 
me  his  ponies  and  Jersey  wagon,  and  that,  you  know, 
is  the  most  quiet  thing  in  the  world,  and  holds  four. 
So,  perhaps ehein  ! you'll ask  Meeta?" 

"  Um  !  Why,  you  see,  Philip — " 

I  saw  at  once,  that,  if  it  got  to  an  argument,  I  was 


steep  mountain  for  ?  Well !  the  flowers  are  charming 
in  these  high  regions  ! 

"  Don't  you  see  my  reason  for  coming,  then,  aunt 
Bella?" 

"  Was  it  for  that,  dear  Philip  ?"  said  she,  putting 
the  wild  flowers  affectionately  into  her  bosom,  where 


perdu.     Miss  Slingsby,  though  a  sincere  Christian,   j  they  bloomed  like  broidery  on  saffron  tapestry  ;  "how 
never  could  keep  her  temper  when  she  tried  to  reason.  |;  considerate  of  you  !"    And  she  drew  her  shawl  around 


I  knelt  down  on  her  footstool,  smoothed  away  the  false 


hair  on  her  for^ead;  a 
nating  endearrrwp:  of  i 


and  kissed  her.     It  was  a  fasci- 


nine,  that  I  only  resorted  to  on 


great  emergencies.  The  hermit  tooth  in  my  aunt's 
mouth  became  gradually  visible,  heralding  what  in 
youth  had  been  a  smile  ;  and,  as  I  assisted  her  in  roll 
ing  up  her  embroidery,  she  looked  on  me  with  an  un 
suspecting  affection  that  touched  my  heart.  I  made 
a  silent  vow  that  if  she  survived  the  scrape  into  which 
she  was  being  inveigled,  I  would  be  to  her  and  her 
dog  Whimsiculo  (the  latter  my  foe  and  my  aversion) 
the  soul  of  exemplary  kindness  for  the  remainder  of 
their  natural  lives. 

this  vow  was  kept.  My  aunt  blessed  me  shortly  before 
she  was  called  to  "  walk  in  white"  (she  had  hitherto 
walked  in  yellow),  and  as  it  would  have  been  unnatu 
ral  in  Whimsiculo  to  survive  her,  I  considered  his 
"  natural  life"  as  ended  with  hers,  and  had  him  peace 
fully  strangled  on  the  same  day.  He  lies  at  her  feet, 
as  usual,  a  delicate  attention  of  which  (I  trust  in  Swe- 
denborg)  her  spirit  is  aware. 


her,  and  was  at  peace  with  all  the  world.  So  easily 
j  are  the  old  made  happy  by  the  young  !  Reader,  I 
;  scent  a  moral  in  the  air ! 


We  were  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  If  I  was  sane,  my 
j  aunt  was  probably  thinking,  I  should  turn  here,  and 
!  go  back.  To  descend  the  other  side,  and  reascend 
and  descend  again  to  the  Springs,  was  hardly  a  sort  of 
•  thing  one  would  do  for  pleasure. 

"  Here's  a  good  place  to  turn,  Philip,"  said  she,  as 
we  entered  a  smooth  broad  hollow  on  the  top  of  the 
mountain. 

I  dashed  through  it  as  if  the  ponies  were  shod  with 

I  lay  the  unction  to  my  soul  that  jj  talaria.     My  aunt  said  nothing,  and  luckily  the  road 
'   was  very  narrow  for  a  mile,  and  she  had  a  horror  of  a 
short  turn.     A  new  thought  struck  me. 

"  Did  you  ever  know,  aunt,  that  there  was  a  way 
back  around  the  foot  of  the  mountain  ?" 
"  Dear,  no  ;  how  delightful !     Is  it  far  ?" 
"A  couple  of  hours  or  so  ;   but  I  can  do  it  in  less. 
We'll  try  ;"  and  I  gave  the  sure-footed  Canadians  the 
hip,  and  scampered  down  the  hills  rts  if  the  rock  of 


With  the  exception  of  "  Tom  Thumb"  and  "  Rat 
tler,"  who  were  of  the  same  double-jointed  family,  of 


y.ot 
p^r 


l  Sisyphus  had  been  rolling  after  us. 

j  We  were  soon  over  the  mountain-range,  and  the 

interminable  wind  and  bottom,  there  was  never  p^r-  l|  road  grew  better  and  more  level.  Oh,  how  fast  pat- 
haps  such  a  pair  of  goers  as  Tom  Fane's  ponies.  My  !j  tered  those  little  hoofs,  and  how  full  of  spirit,  and 


aunt  had  a  lurking  hope,  I   believe,  that  the  baron 


excitement   looked   those   small    ears,    catching    the 


would  refuse  Meeta  permission  to  join  us,  but  either  jj  lightest  chirrup  I  could  whisper,  like  the  very  spell  of 
he  did  not  think  me  a  dangerous  person  (I  have  said  jj  swiftness  !  Pines,  hemlocks  and  cedars,  farmhouses 
before  he  was  a  dull  man),  or  he  had  no  objection  to  ||  and  milestones,  flew  back  like  shadows.  My  nunt  sat 
me  as  a  son-in-law,  which  my  aunt  and  myself  (against  j  speechless  in  the  middle  of  the  back  seat,  holding  on 
the  world)  would  have  thought  the  natural  construe-  |  with  both  hands,  in  apprehensive  resignation!  She 

expected  soon  to  come  in  sight  of  the  Springs,  and 
had  doubtless  taken  a  mental  resolution  that  if,  please 
God,  she  once  more  found  herself  at  home,  she  would 
never  "  tempt  Providence"  (it  was  a  favorite  expression 
of  hers)  by  trusting  herself  again  behind  such  a  pair 
of  fly-away  demons.  As  I  read  this  thought  in  her 
countenance  by  a  stolen  glar.ce  over  my  shoulder,  we 
rattled  into  a  village  distant  from  Lebanon  twenty 
miles. 

"  There,  aunt,"  said  I,  as  I  pulled  up  at  the  door  of 
the   inn,  "  we  have   very   nearly  described    a  circle. 
j  Now,  don't  speak  !   if  you  do,  you'll  start  the  horses. 
Thei 

'  man's  voice.      Very 

i  their  mouths  now,  and  be  at  home  in  the  crack  of  a 
whip.  Five  miles  more,  only.  Come  !" 

Off  we  sped  again  like  the  wind,  aunt  Bel  just  vcn- 
i  turing  to  wonderwhetherthe  horses  wouldn't  rather  go 
]  slower.     Meeta  had  hardly  spoken  ;  she  had  thoughts 
of  her  own  to  be  busy  with,  and  I  pretended  to  be  fully 
occupied  with  my  driving.     The  nonsense  I  talked  to 


tion  upon  his  indifference.  He  came  to  the  end  of  the 
colonnade  to  see  us  start,  and  as  I  eased  the  ribands 
and  let  the  ponies  off  like  a  shot  from  a  crossbow,  I 
stole  a  look  at  Meeta.  The  color  had  fled  from  cheek 
and  lip,  and  the  tears  streamed  over  them  like  rain. 
Aunt  Bel  was  on  the  back  seat,  grace  a  Dicu  ! 

We  met  Tom  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  I  pulled 
up.  He  was  the  best  fellow,  that  Tom  Fane ! 

"  Ease  both  the  bearing  reins,"  said  I,  "  I  am  going 
up  the  mountain." 

"  jghe  devil  you  are  !"  said  Tom,  doing  my  bidding, 
however  ;  "  you'll  find  the  road  to  the  shakers  much 
pleasanter.  What  an  odd  whim  !  It's  a  perpendicu 
lar  three  miles,  Miss  Slingsby.  I  would  as  lief  be 
hoisted  up  a  well  and  let  down  again.  Don't  go  that 
way,  Phil,  unless  you  are  going  to  run  away  with 

Miss  Von "  • 

"  Many  a  shaft  at  random  sent," 

thought  I,  and  waving  the  tandem  lash  over  the  ears 
of  the  ponies,  I  brought  up  the  silk  on  the  cheek  of 
their  malaprop  master,  and  spanked  away  up  the  hill, 
leaving  him  in  a  range  likely  to  get  a  fresh  supply  of 
fuel  by  dinner-time.  Tom  was  of  a  plethoric  habit, 
and  if  I  had  not  thought  he  could  afford  to  burst  a 
blood-vessel  better  than  two  lovers  to  break  their  hearts, 
I  should  not  have  ventured  on  the  bold  measure  of 
borrowing  his  horses  for  an  hour,  and  keeping  them  a 
week.  We  have  shaken  hands  upon  it  since,  but  it  is 
my  private  opinion  that  he  has  never  forgiven  ine  in 
his  heart. 

As  we  wound  slowly  up  the  mountain,  I  gave  Meeta 
the  reins,  and  jumped  out  to  gather  some  wild  flowers 
for  my  aunt.  Dear  old  soul !  the  attention  reconciled 
her  to  what  she  considered  a  very  unwarrantable  ca 
price  of  mine.  What  I  could  wish  to  toil  up  that 


re's  nothing  they  are  so  much  afraid  of  as  a  wo- 
's  voice.     Very  odd,  isn't  it  ?     We'll  just  sponge 


those  horses,  to  do  away  the  embarrassment  of  her  si- 
lence,'would  convict  me  of  insanity  before  any  jury  in 
the  world.  * 

The  sun  began  to  throw  long  shadows,  and  the  short- 
legged  ponies  figured  like  (lying  giraffes  along  the  re 
tiring  hedges.  Luckily,  my  aunt  had  very  little  idea 
of  conjecturing  a  course  by  the  points  of  the  compass. 
We  sped  on  gloriously. 

"  Philip,  dear  !  hav'n't  you  lost  your  way  ?  It  seems 
to  me  we've  come  more  than  five  miles  since  you 
stopped"  (ten  at  least),  "  and  I  .don't  see  the  moun 
tains  about  Lebanon  at  all  !" 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  aunty,  dear  !  We're  very  high, 
just  here,  and  shall  drop  down  on  Lebanon,  as  it  were. 
Are  you  afraid,  Meeta  ?" 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE, 


"  Nein  /"  she  answered.  She  was  thinking  in  Ger 
man,  poor  girl,  and  heart  and  memory  were  wrapped 
up  in  the  thought. 

I  drove  on  almost  cruelly.  Tom's  incomparable 
horses  justified  all  his  eulogiums  ;  they  were  indefati 
gable.  The  sun  blazed  a  moment  through  the  firs, 
and  disappeared  ;  the  gorgeous  changes  of  eve  came 
over  the  clouds ;  the  twilight  stole  through  the  damp 
air  with  its  melancholy  gray  ;  and  the  whippoorwills, 
birds  of  evening,  came  abroad,  like  gentlemen  in  debt, 
to  flit  about  in  the  darkness.  Everything  was  sad 
dening.  My  own  volubility  ceased  ;  the  whiz  of  the 
lash,  as  I  waved  it  over  the  heads  of  my  foaming  po 
nies,  and  an  occasional  "  Steady  !"as  one  or  the  other 
broke  into  a  gallop,  were  the  only  interruptions  to  the 
silence.  Meeta  buried  her  face  in  the  folds  of  her 
shawl,  and  sat  closer  to  my  side,  and  my  aunt,  soothed 
and  flattered  by  turns,  believed  and  doubted,  and  was 
finally  persuaded,  by  my  ingenious  and  well-inserted 
fibs,  that  it  was  only  somewhat  farther  than  I  antici 
pated,  and  we  should  arrive  "  presently." 

Somewhere  about  eight  o'clock  the  lights  of  a  town 
appeared  in  the  distance,  and,  straining  every  nerve, 
the  gallant  beasts  whirled  us  in  through  the  streets, 
and  I  pulled  up  suddenly  at  the  door  of  an  hotel. 

"  Why,  Philip  !"  said  my  aunt  in  a  tone  of  unut 
terable  astonishment,  looking  about  hey  as  if  she  had 
awoke  from  a  dream,  "  this  is  Hudson  !" 

It  was  too  clear  to  be  disputed.  We  were  upon  the 
North  river,  forty  miles  from  Lebanon,  and  the  steam 
er  would  touch  at  the  pier  in  half  an  hour.  My  aunt 
was  to  be  one  of  the  passengers  to  New  York,  but  she 
•was,  yet  to  be  persuaded  of  it;  the  only  thing  now  was 
to  get  her  into  the  house,  and  enact  the  scene  as  soon 
as  possible. 

I  helped  her  out  as  tenderly  as  I  knew  how,  and,  as 
we  went  up  stairs,  I  requested  Meeta  to  sit  down  in  a 
corner  of  the  room,  and  cover  her  face  with  her  hand 
kerchief.  When  the  servant  was  locked  out,  I  took 
my  aunt  into  the  recess  of  the  window,  and  informed 
her,  to  her  very  great  surprise,  that  she  had  run  away 
with  the  baron's  daughter. 
"  Philip  Slingsby  !" 

My  aunt  was  overcome.     I  had  nothing  for  it  but  to 
be  overcome  too.     She  sunk  into  one  chair,  and  I  into  I 
the  other,  and  burying  my  face  in  my  hands,  I  looked  ! 
through  my  fingers  to  watch  the  effect.     Five  mortal  I 
minutes  lasted  my  aunt's  wrath  ;   gradually,  however, 
she  began  to  steal  a  look  at  me,  and  the  expression  of  ; 
resentment  about  her  thin  lips  softened  into  something  I 
like  pity. 

"  Philip  !"  said  she,  taking  my  hand, 
"  My  dear  aunt !" 
"What  is  to  be  done?" 

I  pointed  to  Meeta,  who  sat  with  her  head  on  her 
bosom,  pressed  my  hand  to  my  heart,  as  if  to  suppress 
a  pang,  and  proceeded  to  explain.  It  seemed  impos 
sible  for  my  aunt  to  forgive  the  deception  of  the  thing. 
Unsophisticated  Isabella  !  If  thou  hadst  known  that  I 
thou  wert,  even  yet,  one  fold  removed  from  the  truth,  | 
— if  thou  couldst  have  divined  that  it  was  not  for  the 
darling  of  thy  heart  that  thou  wert  yielding  a  point  j 
only  less  dear  to  thee  than  thy  maiden  reputation — 
if  it  could  have  entered  thy  region  of  possibilities  that 
thine  own  house  in  town  had  been  three  days  aired 
for  the  reception  of  a  bride,  run  away  with  by  thy  os 
tensible  connivance,  and  all  for  a  German  pedlar,  in 
whose  fortunes  and  loves  thou  hadst  no  shadow  of 
interest — I  think  the  brain  in  thee  would  have  turned, 
and  the  dry  heart  in  thy  bosom  have  broken  with  sur 
prise  and  grief! 

I  wrote  a  note  to  Tom,  left  his  horses  at  the  inn, 
and  at  nine  o'clock  we  were  steaming  down  the  Hud 
son,  my  aunt  in  bed,  and  Meeta  pacing  the  deck  with 
me,  and  pouring  forth  her  fears  and  her  gratitude  in 


a  voice  of  music  that  made  me  almost  repent  my  self- 
sacrificing  enterprise.  I  have  told  the  story  gayly, 
gentle  teader !  but  there  was  a  nerve  ajar  in  my  heart 
while  its  little  events  went  on. 

How  we  sped  thereafter,  dear  reader  ! — how  the 
consul  of  his  majesty  of  Prussia  was  persuaded  by  my 
aunt's  respectability  to  legalize  the  wedding  by  his 
presence — how  my  aunt  fainted  dead  away  when  the 
parson  arrived,  and  she  discovered  who  was  not  to  be 
the  bridegroom  and  who  was — how  ^^sersuaded  her 
•he  had  gone  too  far  to  recede,  and  worked  on  her  ten 
derness  once  more — how  the  weeping  Karl,  and  his 
lame  and  lovely  bride,  lived  with  us  till  the  old  baron 
thought  it  fit  to  give  Meeta  his  blessing  and  some 
money — how  Tom  Fane  wished  no  good  to  the  ped 
lar's  eyes — and  lastly,  how  Miss  Isabella  Slingsby  lived 
and  died  wondering  what  earthly  motive  I  could  have 
for  my  absurd  share  in  these  events,  are  matters  of 
which  I  spare  you  the  particulars. 


NIAGARA-LAKE  ONTARIO-THE  ST.  LAW 
RENCE, 

NO.    I. NIAGARA. 


^  was  in  my  senior  vacation,  and  I  was  bound  to 
Niagara  for  the  first  time.  My  companion  was  a  spe 
cimen  of  the  human  race  found  rarely  in  Vermont,  and 
never  elsewhere.  He  was  nearly  seven  feet  high, 
walked  as  if  every  joint  in  his  body  was  in  a  hopeless 
state  of  dislocation,  and  was  hideously,  ludicrously, 
and  painfully  ugly.  This  whimsical  exterior  contained 
the  conscious  spirit  of  Apollo,  and  the  poetical  suscep 
tibility  of  Keats.  He  had  left  his  plough  in  the  Green 
mountains  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  and  entered  as  a 
poor  student  at  the  university,  where,  with  the  usual 
policy  of  the  college  government,  he  was  allotted  to 
me  as  a  compulsory  chum,  on  the  principle  of  break 
ing  in  a  colt  with  a  cart-horse.  1  began  with  laughing 
at  him,  and  ended  with  loving  him.  He  rejoiced  in 
the  common  appellation  of  Job  Smith — a  synonymous 
soubriquet,  as  1  have  elsewhere  remarked,  which  was 
substituted  by  his  classmates  for  his  baptismal  name 
of  Forbearance.  ^ 

Getting  Job  away  with  infinite  difficulty  from  a 
young  Indian  girl  who  was  selling  moccasins  in  the 
streets  of  Buffalo  (a  straight,  slender  creature  of  eigh 
teen,  stepping  about  like  a  young  leopard,  cold,  stern, 
and  beautiful),  we  crossed  the  outlet  of  Lake  Erie  at 
the  ferry,  and  took  horses  on  the  northern  bank  of 
Niagara  river  to  ride  to  the  falls.  It  was  a  noble 
stream,  as  broad  as  the  Hellespont  and  as  blue  as  the 
sky,  and  I  could  not  look  at  it,  hurrying  on  headlong- 
to  its  fearful  leap,  without  a  feeling  almost  of  dread. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  which  Job  was  more 
susceptible  than  to  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  that 
was  the  beauty  of  woman.  His  romance  had  been 
stirred  by  the  lynx-eyed  Sioux,  who  took  her  money 
for  the  moccasins  with  such  haughty  and  thankless 
superbia,  and  full  five  miles  of  the  river,  with  all  the 
gorgeous  flowers  and  rich  shrubs  upon  its  rim,  might 
as  well  have  been  Lethe  for  his  admiration.  He  rode 
along,  like  the  man  of  rags  you  see  paraded  on  an  ass 
in  the  carnival,  his  legs  and  arms  dangling  about  in 
ludicrous  obedience  to  the  sidelong  hitch  of  his  pacer. 

The  roar  of  the  falls  was  soon  audible,  and  Job's 
enthusiasm  and  my  own,  if  the  increased  pace  of  our 
Narragansetponies  meant  anything,  were  fully  aroused. 
The  river  broke  into  rapids,  foaming  furiously  on  its 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


11 


course,  and  the  subterranean  thunder  increased  like  a 
succession  of  earthquakes,  each  louder  than  the  last. 
I  had  never  heard  a  sound  so  broad  and  universal.  It 
was  impossible  not  to  suspend  the  breath,  and  feel  ab 
sorbed,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  thoughts,  in  the 
great  phenomenon  with  which  the  world  seemed  trem 
bling  to  its  centre.  A  tall,  misty  cloud,  changing  its 
shape  continually,  as  it  felt  the  shocks  of  the  air,  rose 
up  before  us,  and  with  our  eyes  fixed  upon  it,  and  our 


horses  at  a  hard  gallop,  we  found  ourselves  unexpect 
edly  in  front  of  aiP 


white 


hotel  !  which  sud 


denly  interposed  nMcwcen  the  cloud  and  our  vision. 
Job  slapped  his  legs  against  the  sides  of  his  panting 
beast,  and  urged  him  on,  but  a  long  fence  on  either 
side  the  immense  building  cut  him  oft  from  all  ap 
proach ;  and  having  assured  ourselves  that  there  was 
no  access  to  Niagara  except  through  the  back-door  of 
the  gentleman's  house,  who  stood  with  hat  oft"  to  re 
ceive  us,  we  wished  no  good  to  his  majesty's  province 
of  Upper  Canada,  and  dismounted. 

"  Will  you  visit  the  falls  before  dinner,  gentlemen  ?" 
asked  mine  host. 

"  No,  sir  !"  thundered  Job,  in  a  voice  that,  for  a  mo 
ment,  stopped  the  roar  of  the  cataract. 

He  was  like  an  improvisatore  who  had  been  checked 
by  some  rude  birbone  in  the  very  crisis  of  his  elo 
quence.  He  would  not  have  gone  to  the  falls  that 
night  to  have  saved  the  world.  We  dined. 

As  it  was  the  first  meal  we  had  ever  eaten  under  a 
monarchy,  I  proposed  the  health  of  the  king  ;  but  Job 
refused  it.  There  was  an  impertinent  profanity,  he 
said,  in  fencing  up  the  entrance  to  Niagara  that  was  ». 
greater  encroachment  on  natural  liberty  than  the  stamp  j 
act.  He  would  drink  to  no  king  or  parliament  under  | 
which  such  a  thing  could  be  conceived  possible.  I  left  j 
the  table  and  walked  to  the  window. 

"  Job,  come  here  !  Miss ,  by  all  that  is  love 
ly  !" 

He  flounced  up,  like  a  snake  touched  with  a  torpe 
do,  and  sprang  to  the  window.  Job  had  never  seen 
the  lady  whose  name  produced  such  a  sensation,  but 
he  had  heard  more  of  her  than  of  Niagara.  So  had 
every  soul  of  the  fifteen  millions  of  inhabitants  between 
us  and  the  gulf  of  Mexico.  She  was  one  of  those  mir 
acles  of  nature  that  occur,  perhaps,  once  in  the  rise 
and  fall  of  an  empire — a  woman  of  the  perfect  beauty 
of  an  angel,  with  the  most  winning  human  sweetness 
of  character  and  manner.  She  was  kind,  playful,  un 
affected,  and  radiantly,  gloriously  beautiful.  I  am  sor 
ry  I  may  not  mention  her  name,  for  in  more  chival 
rous  times  she  would  have  been  a  character  of  history. 
Everybody  who  has  been  in  America,  however,  will 
Know  who  I  am  describing,  and  I  am  sorry  for  those 
who  have  not.  The  country  of  Washington  will  be 
in  its  decadence  before  it  sees  such  another. 

She  had  been  to  the  fall  and  was  returning  with  her 
mother  and  a  troop  of  lovers,  who,  I  will  venturiS  to 
presume,  brought  away  a  very  imperfect  impression  of 
the  scene.  I  would  describe  her  as  she  came  laugh 
ing  up  that  green  bank,  unconscious  of  everything  but 
the  pleasure  of  life  in  a  summer  sunset ;  but  I  leave  it 
for  a  more  skilful  hand.  The  authoress  of  "  Hope 
Leslie"  will,  perhaps,  mould  her  image  into  one  of 
her  inimitable  heroines. 

I  presented  my  friend,  and  we  passed  the  evening 
in  her  dangerous  company.  After  making  an  engage 
ment  to  accompany  her  in  the  morning  behind  ih<' 
sheet  of  the  fall,  we  said  "Good-night"  at  twelve — one 
of  us  at  least  as  many  "  fathom  deep  in  love"  as  a  thou 
sand  Rosalinds.  My  poor  chum  !  The  roar  of  the 
cataract  that  shook  the  very  roof  over  thy  head  was 
less  loud  to  thee  that  night  than  the  beating  of  thine 
own  heart,  I  warrant  me  ! 

I  rose  at  sunrise  to  go  alone  to  the  fall,  but  Job  was 
before  me,  and  the  angular  outline  of  his  gaunt  figure, 
stretching  up  from  Table  Rock  in  strong  relief  against 


the  white  body  of  the  spray,  was  the  first  object  that 
caught  my  eye  as  I  descended. 

As  I  came  nearer  the  fall,  a  feeling  of  disappoint 
ment  came  over  me.  I  had  imagined  Niagara  a  vast 
body  of  water  descending  as  if  from  the  clouds.  The 
approach  to  most  falls  is  from  below,  and  we  get  an 
idea  of  them  as  of  rivers  pitching  down  to  the  plain 
from  the  brow  of  a  hill  or  mountain.  Niagara  river, 
on  the  contrary,  comes  out  from  Lake  Erie  through  a 
flat  plain.  The  top  of  the  cascade  is  ten  feet  perhaps 
below  the  level  of  the  country  around — consequently 
invisible  from  any  considerable  distance.  You  walk 
to  the  bank  of  a  broad  and  rapid  river,  and  look  over 
the  edge  of  a  rock,  where  the  outlet  flood  of  an  inland 
sea  seems  to  have  broken  through  the  crust  of  the 
earth,  and,  by  its  mere  weight,  plunged  with  an  awful 
leap  into  an  immeasurabh  and  resounding  abyss.  It 
seems  to  strike  and  thunder  upon  the  very  centre  of 
I  the  world,  and  the  ground  beneath  your  feet  quivers 
with  the  shock  till  you  feel  unsafe  upon  it. 

Other  disappointment  than  this  I  can  not  conceive 
at  Niagara.  It  is  a  spectacle  so  awful,  so  beyond  the 
scope  and  power  of  every  other  phenomenon  in  the 
world,  that  I  think  people  who  are  disappointed  there 
mistake  the  incapacity  of  their  own  conception  for  the 
want  of  grandeur  in  the  scene. 

The  "hell  of  waters"  below  need  but  a  little  red 
ochre  to  out-Phlegethon  Phlegethon.  I  can  imagine 
the  surprise  of  the  gentle  element,  after  sleeping  away 
a  se'nnight  of  moonlight  in  the  peaceful  bosom  of 
Lake  Erie,  at  finding  itself  of  a  sudden  in  such  a  coil! 
A  Mediterranean  sea-gull,  which  had  tossed  out  the 
whole  of  a  January  in  the  infernal  "  yeast"  of  the 
Archipelago  (was  I  not  all  but  wrecked  every  day  be 
tween  Troy  and  Malta  in  a  score  of  successive  hurri 
canes  ?) — I  say,  the  most  weather-beaten  of  sea-birds 
would  look  twice  before  he  ventured  upon  the  roaring 
caldron  below  Niagara.  It  is  astonishing  to  see  how 
far  the  descending  mass  is  driven  under  the  surface  of 
the  stream.  As  far  down  toward  Lake  Ontario  as  the 
eye  can  reach,  the  immense  volumes  of  water  rise 
like  huge  monsters  to  the  light,  boiling  and  flashing 
out  in  rings  of  foam,  with  an  appearance  of  rage  and 
anger  that  I  have  seen  in  no  other  cataract  in  the 
world. 

"  A  nice  fall,  as  an  Englishman  would  say,  my  dear 
Job." 

"Awful!" 

Halleck,  the  American  poet  (a  better  one  never 
"strung  pearls"),  has  writlen  some  admirable  verses 
on  Niagara,  describing  its  effect  on  the  different  indi 
viduals  of  a  mixed  party,  among  whom  was  a  tailor. 
The  sea  of  incident  that  has  broken  over  me  in  years 
of  travel,  has  washed  out  of  my  memory  all  but  the 
two  lines  descriptive  of  its  impression  upon  Snip  :— 

"  The  tailor  made  one  single  note — 
'  Gods  !  what  a  place  to  sponge  a  coat !' " 

"  Shall  we  go  to  breakfast,  Job  ?" 

"  How   slowly   and   solemnly   they   drop  into   the 

It  was  not  an  original  remark  of  Mr.  Smith's.  Noth 
ing  is  so  surprising  to  the  observer  as  the  extraordi 
nary  deliberateness  with  which  the  waters  of  Niagara 
take  their  tremendous  plunge.  All  hurry  and  foam 
and  fret,  till  they  reach  the  smooth  limit  of  the  curve 
—and  then  the  laws  of  gravitation  seem  suspended, 
and,  like  Cesar,  they  pause,  and  determine,  since  it  is 
inevitable,  to  take  the  death-leap  with  becoming  dig- 

01  "Shall  we  go  to  breakfast,  Job  ?"  I  was  obliged  to 
raise  my  voice,  to  be  hearJ,  to  a  pitch  rather  exhaust 
ing  to  an  empty  stomach. 

His  eyes  remained  fixed  upon  the  shifting  rainbows 
bending  and  vanishing  in  the  spray.  There  was  no 
moving  him,  and  I  gave  in  for  another  five  minutes. 


13 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


"  Do  you  think  it  probable,  Job,  that  the  waters  of 
Niagara  strike  on  the  axis  of  the  world  ?" 

No  answer. 

"  Job  !" 

«'  What  ?" 

'«  Do  you  think  his  majesty's  half  of  the  cataract  is 
finer  than  ours  ?" 

«  Much." 

•'  For  water,  merely,  perhaps.  But  look  at  the  de 
licious  verdure  on  the  American  shore,  the  glorious 
trees,  the  massed  foliage,  the  luxuriant  growth  even  to 
the  very  rim  of  the  ravine  !  By  Jove  !  it  seems  to  me 
things  grow  better  in  a  republic.  Did  you  ever  see  a 
more  barren  and  scraggy  shore  than  the  one  you  stand 
upon  ?" 

"  How  exquisitely,"  said  Job,  soliloquizing,  "  that 
small  green  island  divides  the  fnll !  What  a  rock  it 
must  be  founded  on,  not  to  have  been  washed  away 
in  the  ages  that  these  waters  have  split  against  it !" 

"  I'll  lay  you  a  bet  it  is  washed  away  before  the 
year  two  thousand — payable  in  any  currency  with 
which  we  may  then  be  conversant." 

"  Don't  trifle  !" 

"  With  time,  or  geology,  do  you  mean  ?  Isn't  it 
perfectly  clear  from  the  looks  of  that  ravine,  that  Ni 
agara  has  backed  up  all  the  way  from  Lake  Ontario  ? 
These  rocks  are  not  adamant,  and  the  very  precipice 
you  stand  on  has  cracked,  and  looks  ready  for  the 
plunge.*  It  must  gradually  wear  back  to  Lake  Erie, 
and  then  there  will  be  a  sweep,  I  should  like  to  live 
long  enough  to  see.  The  instantaneous  junction  of 
two  seas,  with  a  difference  of  two  hundred  feet  in  their 
levels,  will  be  a  spectacle — eh,  Job?" 

"  Tremendous !" 

"  Do  you  intend  to  wait  and  see  it,  or  will  you  come 
to  breakfast  ?" 

He  was  immoveable.  I  left  him  on  the  rock,  went 
up  to  the  hotel  and  ordered  mutton-chops  and  coffee, 
and  when  they  were  on  the  table,  gave  two  of  the 
waiters  a  dollar  each  to  bring  him  up  nolens-volens. 
He  arrived  in  a  great  rage,  but  with  a  good  appetite, 
and  we  finished  our  breakfast  just  in  time  to  meet 

Miss ,  as  she  stepped  like  Aurora  from  her 

chamber. 

It  is  necessary  to  a  reputation  for  prowess  in  the 
United  States  to  have  been  behind  the  sheet  of  the 
fall  (supposing  you  to  have  been  to  Niagara).  This 
achievement  is  equivalent  to  a  hundred  shower-baths, 
one  severe  cold,  and  being  drowned  twite — but  most 
people  do  it. 

We  descended  to  the  bottom  of  the  precipice,  at  the 
side  of  the  fall,  where  we  found  a  small  house,  fur 
nished  with  coarse  linen  dresses  for  the  purpose,  and 
having  arranged  ourselves  in  habiliments  not  particu 
larly  improving  to  our  natural  beauty,  we  reappeared — 
only  three  out  of  a  party  often  having  had  the  courage 
to  trust  their  attractions  to  such  a  trial.  Miss 


looked  like  a  fairy  in  disguise,  and  Job  like  the  most 
ghostly  and  diabolical  monster  that  ever  stalked  un- 
sepultured  abroad.  He  would  frighten  a  child  in  his 
best  black  suit — but  with  a  pair  of  wet  linen  trowsers 
scarcely  reaching  to  his  knees,  a  jacket  with  sleeves 
shrunk  to  the  elbows,  and  a  white  cap,  he  was  some 
thing  supernaturally  awful.  The  guide  hesitated 
about  going  under  the  fall  with  him. 

It  looked  rather  appalling.  Our  way  lay  through  a 
dense  descending  sheet  of  water,  along  a  slender 
pathway  of  rocks,  broken  into  small  fragments,  with 
an  overhanging  wall  on  one  side,  and  the  boiling 
caldron  of  the  cataract  on  the  othfr.  A  false  step, 
and  you  were  a  subject  for  the  "  shocking  accident" 
maker. 

*  It  has  since  fallen  into  the  abyss— fortunately  in  the  night, 
as  visiters  were  always  upon  it  during  the  day.  The  noise  was 
heard  at  an  incredible  distance. 


The  guide  went  frst,  taking   Miss 


right 


hand.  She  gave  me  her  left,  and  Job  brought  up  the 
rear,  as  they  say  in  Connecticut,  "  on  his  own  hook." 
We  picked  our  way  boldly  up  to  the  water.  The  wall 
leaned  over  so  much,  and  the  fragmented  declivity 
was  so  narrow  and  steep,  that  if  it  had  not  been  done 
before,  I  should  have  turned  back  at  once.  Two 
steps  more,  and  the  small  hand  in  mine  began  to  strug 
gle  violently,  and,  in  the  same  instant,  the  torrent  beat 
into  my  eyes,  mouth,  and  nostrils,  .and  I  felt  as  if  I 
was  drowning.  I  staggered  a  blu^ktcp  onward,  but 
still  the  water  poured  into  my  nWmls,  and  the  con 
viction  rushed  for  a  moment  on  my  mind  that  we  were 
lost.  I  struggled  for  breath,  stumbled  forward,  and 
with  a  gasp  that  I  thought  was  my  last,  sunk  upon 
the  rocks  within  the  descending  waters.  Job  tumbled 
over  me  the  next  instant,  and  as  soon  as  I  could  clear 
my  eyes  sufficiently  to  look  about  me,  I  saw  the 

guide  sustaining  Miss ,  who  had  been  as  nearly 

drowned  as  most  of  the  subjects  of  the  Humane  So 
ciety,  but  was  apparently  in  a  state  of  resuscitation. 
None  but  the  half-drowned  know  the  pleasure  of 
breathing. 

Here  we  were  within  a  chamber  that  Undine  might 
have  coveted,  a  wall  of  rock  at  our  back,  and  a  trans 
parent  curtain  of  shifting  water  between  us  and  the 
world,  having  entitled  ourselves  a  pcu  prcs  to  the  same 
reputation  with  Hylas  and  Leauder,  for  seduction  by 
the  Naiads. 

Whatever  sister  of  Arethusa  inhabits  there,  we 
could  but  congratulate  her  on  the  beauty  of  her  abode. 
A  lofty  and  well-lighted  hall,  shaped  like  a  long  pavil 
ion,  extended  as  far  as  we  could  see  through  the  spray, 
and  with  the  two  objections,  that  you  could  not  have 
heard  a  pistol  at  your  ear  for  the  noise,  and  that  the 
floor  was  somewhat  precipitous,  one  could  scarce  im 
agine  a  more  agreeable  retreat  for  a  gentleman  who 
was  disgusted  with  the  world,  and  subject  to  dryness 
of  the  skin.  In  one  respect  it  resembled  the  enchanted 
dwelling  of  the  Witch  of  Atlas,  where,  Shelley  tells 
us — 

"  The  invisible  rain  did  ever  sing 
A  silver  music  on  the  mossy  lawn." 

It  is  lucky  for  Witches  and  Naiads  that  they  are  not 
subject  to  rheumatism. 

The  air  was  scarcely  breathable — (if  air  it  may  be 
called,  which  streams  down  the  face  with  the  density 
of  a  shower  from  a  watering-pot),  and  our  footing  upon 
the  slippery  rocks  was  so  insecure,  that  the^exertion 
of  continually  wiping  our  eyes  was  attended  with  im 
minent  danger.  Our  sight  was  valuable,  for  surely, 
never  was  such  a  brilliant  curtain  hung  up  to  the  sight 
of  mortals,  as  spread  apparently  from  the  zenith  to  our 
feet,  changing  in  thickness  and  lustre,  but  with  a  con 
stant  and  resplendent  curve.  It  was  what  a  child  might 
imagine  the  arch  of  the  sky  to  be  where  it  bends  over 
the  edge  of  the  horizon. 

The  sublime  is  certainly  very  much  diluted  when 
one  contemplates  it  with  his  back  to  a  dripping  and 
slimy  rock,  and  his  person  saturated  with  a  continual 
supply  of  water.  From  a  dry  window,  I  think  the  in 
fernal  writhe  and  agony  of  the  abyss  into  which  we 
were  continually  liable  to  slip,  would  have  been  as  fine 
a  thing  as  I  have  seen  in  my  travels ;  but  I  am  free  to 
admit,  that,  at  the  moment,  I  would  have  exchanged 
my  experience  and  all  the  honor  attached  to  it,  for 'a 
dry  escape.  The  idea  of  drowning  back  through  that 
thick  column  of  water,  was  at  least  a  damper  to  en 
thusiasm.  We  seemed  cut  off  from  the  living.  There 
was  a  death  between  us  and  the  vital  air  and  sunshine. 

I  was  screwing  up  my  courage  for  the  return,  when 
the  guide  seized  me  by  the  shoulder.  I  looked  around, 

and  what  was  my  horror  to  see  Miss standing 

far  in  behind  the  sheet  upon  the  last  visible  point  of 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


rock,  with  the  water  pouring  over  her  in  torrents,  and  |  pulling  across,  and  you  may  get  two  or  three  of  these 
a  gulf  of  loam  between  us,  which  I  could  in  no  way  lifts,  which  shove  you  st.aight  into  the  air  about  ten 
understand  how  she  had  passed  over. 

She  seemed  frightened  and  pale,  and  the  guide  ex 
plained  to  me  by  signs  (for  I  could  not  distinguish  a 
syllable  through  the  roar  of  the  cataract),  that  she  had 


walked  over  a  narrow  ledge,  which  had  broken  with 


stiaig 

feet,  and  then  drop  you  into  the  cup  of  an  eddy,  as  if 
some  long-armed  Titan  had  his  hand  under  the  water, 
and  were  tossing  you  up  and  down  for  his  amuse 
ment.  It  imports  lovers  to  take  heed  how  their  mis 


tresses  are  seated,  as  all  ladies,  on  these  occasions, 


her  weight.     A  long  fresh  mark  upon  the  rock  at  the  \  throw  themselves  into  the  arms  of  the  nearest  "  hose 


foot  of  the  precii^^s  wall,  made"  it  sufficiently  evi 
dent :  her  positi^^Hs  most  alarming. 

I  made  a  sign^^Hier  to  look  well  to  her  feet;  for 
the  little  island  on  which  she  stood  was  green  with 
slime  and  scarce  larger  than  a  hat,  and  an  abyss  of  full 
six  feet  wide,  foaming  and   unfathomable,  raged  be 
tween  it  and  the  nearest  foothold.     What  was  to  be 
done?     Had  we  a  plank,  even,  there  was  no  possible 
hold  for  the  further  extremity,  and   the  shape  of  the 
rock  was  so  conical,  that  its  slippery  surface  evidently 
would  not  hold  a  rope  for  a  moment.  To  jump  to  her, 
even  if  it  were  possible,  would  endanger  her  life,  and  ' 
while  I   was  sinking  and  encouraging  the  beautiful  j 
creature,  as  she  stood  trembling  and  pale  on  her  dan-  I 
gerous  foothold,  I  felt  my  very  heart  sink  within  me.  j 

The  despairing  guide  said  something  which  I  could  i 
not  hear,  and  disappeared  through  the  watery  wall, 
and  I  fixed  my  eyes  upon  the  lovely  form,  standing, 
like  a  spirit  in  the  misty  shroud  of  the  spray,  as  if  the 
intensity  of  my  gaze  could  sustain  her  upon  her  dan 
gerous  foothold.  I  would  have  given  ten  years  of  my 
life  at  that  moment  to  have  clasped  her  hand  in  mine. 

I  had  scarce  thought  of  Job  until  I  felt  him  trying 


and  doublet.' 

Job  and  I  went  over  to  dine  on  the  American  side 
and  refresh  our  patriotism.  \Ve  dined  under  a  hickory- 
tree  on  Goat  island,  just  over  the  glassy  curve  of  the 
cataract;  and  as  we  grew  joyous  with  our  champagne, 
we  strolled  up  to  the  point  where  the  waters  divide 
for  the  American  and  British  Falls;  and  Job  ha 
rangued  the  "mistaken  gentleman  on  his  right,"  in 
eloquence  that  would  have  turned  a  division  in  the 
house  of  commons.  The  deluded  multitude,  how 
ever,  rolled  away  in  crowds  for  the  monarchy,  and  at 
the  close  of  his  speech  the  British  Fall  was  still,  by  a 
melancholy  majority,  the  largest.  We  walked  back 
to  our  bottle  like  foiled  patriots,  and  soon  after,  hope 
less  of  our  principles,  went  over  to  the  other  side  too! 

I  advise  all  people  going  to  Niagara  to  suspend  ma 
king  a  note  in  their  journal  till  the  last  day  of  their 
visit.  You  might  as  well  teach  a  child  the  magni 
tude  of  the  heavens  by  pointing  to  the  sky  with  your 
finger,  as  comprehend  Niagara  in  a  day.  It  has  to 
create  its  own  mighty  place  in  your  mind.  You  have 
no  comparison  through  which  it  can  enter.  It  is  too 
vast.  The  imagination  shrinks  from  it.  It  rolls  in . 


to  pass  behind  me.  His  hand  was  trembling  as  he  j  gradually,  thunder  upon  thunder,  and  plunge  upon 
laid  it  on  my  shoulder  to  steady  his  steps  ;  but  there  I  plunge  ;  and  the  mind  labors  with  it  to  an  exhaustion 
was  something  in  his  ill-hewn  features  that  shot  an  \-  such"  as  is  created  only  by  the  extremes!  intellectual 
indefinable  ray  of  hope  through  my  mind.  His  sandy  |;  effort.  I  have  seen  men  sit  and  gaze  upon  it  in  a  cool 


hair  was  plastered  over  his  forehead,  and  his  scant   ,  day  of  autumn,    with  the   perspiration  standing 
like  a  skin  ;  but  though  I  recall   '  their  foreheads  in  large  beads,  from  the  unconsci 


dress  clung  to  him 

his  image  now  with  a  smile,  I  looked  upon  him  with  a 
feeling  far  enough  from  amusement  then.  God  bless 
thee,  my  dear  Job!  wherever  in  this  unfit  world  thy 
fine  spirit  may  be  fulfilling  its  destiny ! 

He  crept  down  carefully  to  the  edge  of  the  foaming 
abyss,  till  he  stood  with  the  breaking  bubbles  at  his 
knees.  I  was  at  a  loss  to  know  what  he  intended. 
She  surely  would  not  dare  to  attempt  a  jump  to  his 
arms  from  that  slippery  rock,  and  to  reach  her  in  any 
way  seemed  impossible.  v 

The  next  instant  he  threw  himself  forward,  and 
while  I  covered  my  eyes  in  horror,  with  the  flashing 
conviction  that  he  had  gone  mad  and  flung  himself 
into  the  hopeless  whirlpool  to  reach  her^  she  had 
crossed  the  awful  gulf,  and  lay  trembling  and  ex 
hausted  at  my  feet  I  He  had  thrown  himself  over  the 
chasm,  caught  the  rock  barely  with  the  extremities  of 
his  fingers,  and  with  certain  death  if  he  missed  his 
hold  or  slipped  from  his  uncertain  tenure,  had  sus 
tained  her  with  supernatural  strength  as  she  walked 
over  his  body  ! 

The  guide  providentially  returned  with  a  rope  in 
the  same  instant,  and  fastening  it  around  one  of  his 
feet,  we  dragged  him  back  through  the  whirlpool,  and 
after  a  moment  or  two  to  recover  from  the  suffocating 
immersion,  he  fell  on  his  knees,  and  we  joined  him, 
I  doubt  not  devoutly,  in  his  inaudible  thanks  to  God. 

II. LAKE    ONTARIO. 

THE  next  bravest  achievement  to  venturing  behind 
the  sheet  of  Niagara,  is  to  cross  the  river  in  a  small 
boat,  at  some  distance  below  the  Phlegethon  of  the 
abyss.  I  should  imagine  it  was  something  like  riding 
in  a  howdah  on  a  swimming  elephant.  The  im 
mense  masses  of  water  driven  under  by  the  Fall,  rise 
splashing  and  fuming  far  down  the  river;  and  they 
are  as  unlike  a  common  wave,  to  ride,  as  a  horse  and 
a  camel.  You  are,  perhaps,  ten  or  fifteen  minutes 


on 

rge  beads,  from  the  unconscious 
but  toilsome  agony  of  its  conception.  After  haunting 
its  precipices,  and  looking  on  its  solemn  waters  for 
seven  days,  sleeping  with  its  wind-played  monotony 
in  your  ears,  dreaming,  and  returning  to  it  till  it  has 
grown  the  one  object,  as  it  will,  of  your  perpetual 
thought,  you  feel,  all  at  once,  like  one  who  has  com 
passed  the  span  of  some  almighty  problem.  It  has 
stretched  itself  within  you.  Your  capacity  has  at 
tained  the  gigantic  standard,  and  you  feel  an  elevation 
and  breadth  of  nature  that  could  measure  girth  and 
stature  with  a  seraph.  We  had  fairly  "  done"  Niaga 
ra.  We  had  seen  it  by  sunrise,  sunset,  moonlight; 
from  top  and  bottom  ;  fasting  and  full ;  alone  and  to 
gether.  We  had  learned  by  heart  every  green  path 
on  the  island  of  perpetual  dew,  which  is  set  like  an 
imperial  emerald  on  its  front  (a  poetical  idea  of  my 
own,  much  admired  by  Job) — we  had  been  grave,  gay, 
tender,  and  sublime,  in  its  mighty  neighborhood,  we 
had  become  so  accustomed  to  the  base  of  its  broad 
thunder,  that  it  seemed  to  us  like  a  natural  property 
in  the  air,  and  we  were  unconscious  of  it  for  hours; 
our  voices  had  become  so  tuned  to  its  key,  and  our 
thoughts  so  tinged  by  its  grand  and  perpetual  anthem, 
that  I  almost  doubted  if  the  air  beyond  the  reach  of 
its  vibrations  would  not  agonize  us  with  its  unnatural 
silence,  and  the  common  features  of  the  world  seem 
of  an  unutterable  and  frivolous  littleness. 

We  were  eating  our  last  breakfast  there,  in  tender 
melancholy:  mine  for  the  Falls,  and  Job's  for  the 
Falls  and  Miss ,  to  whom  I  had  a  half  sus 
picion  that  he  had  made  a  declaration. 

"Job ."'said  I. 

He  looked  up  from  his  egg. 

44  My  dear  Job  !" 

44  Don't  allude  to  it,  my  dear  chum,"  said  he,  drop 
ping  his  spoon,  and  rushing  to  the  window  to  hide  his 
agitation.  It  was  quite  clear. 

I  could  scarce  restrain  a  smile.  Psyche  in  the  em 
brace  of  a  respectable  giraffe  would  be  the  first  thought 


14 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


in  anybody's  mind  who  should  see  them  together. 
And  yet  why  should  he  not  woo  her — and  win  her 
too  ?  He  had  saved  her  life  in  the  extremes!  peril,  at 
the  most  extreme  hazard  of  his  own ;  he  had  a  heart 
as  high  and  worthy,  and  as  capable  of  an  undying 
worship  of  her  as  she  would  find  in  a  wilderness  of 
lovers;  he  felt  like  a  graceful  man,  and  acted  like  a 
brave  one,  and  was  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche,  and 
why  should  he  not  love  like  other  men  ?  My  dear 
Job  !  I  fear  thou  wilt  go  down  to  thy  grave,  and  but 
one  woman  in  this  wide  world  will  have  loved  thee — 
thy  mother  !  Thou  art  the  soul  of  a  preux  chevalier 
in  the  body  of  some  worthy  grave-digger,  who  is  strut 
ting  about  the  world,  perhaps,  in  thy  more  proper  car 
cass.  These  angels  are  so  o'er  hasty  in  packing ! 

We  got  upon  our  horses,  and  had  a  pleasant  amble 
before  us  of  fifteen  miles,  on  the  British  side  of  the 
river.  We  cantered  off  stoutly  for  a  mile  to  settle  our 
regrets,  and  then  I  pulled  up,  and  requested  Job  to 
ride  near  me,  as  I  had  something  to  say  to  him. 

"  You  are  entering,"  said  I,  "  my  dear  Job,  upon 
your  first  journey  in  a  foreign  land.  You  will  see 
other  manners  than  your  own,  which  are  not  therefore 
laughable,  and  hear  a  different  pronunciation  from 
your  own,  which  is  not  therefore  vulgar.  You  are  to 
mix  with  British  subjects,  whom  you  have  attacked 
vigorously  in  your  school  declamations  as  '  the  enemy.' 
but  who  are  not  therefore  to  be  bullied  in  their  own 
country,  and  who  have  certain  tastes  of  their  own, 
upon  which  you  had  better  reserve  your  judgment. 
We  have  no  doubt  that  we  are  the  greatest  country 
that  ever  was,  is,  or  ever  shall  be ;  but,  as  this  is  an 
unpalatable  piece  of  information  to  other  nations,  we 
will  not  stuff  it  into  their  teeth,  unless  by  particular 
request.  John  Bull  likes  his  coat  too  small.  Let  him 
wear  it.  John  Bull  prefers  his  beefsteak  to  a  frican- 
deau.  Let  him  eat  it.  John  Bull  will  leave  no  stone 
unturned  to  serve  you  in  his  own  country,  if  you  will 
let  him.  Let  him.  John  Bull  will  suffer  you  to  find 
fault  for  ever  with  king,  lords,  and  commons,  if  you 
do  not  compare  them  invidiously  with  other  govern 
ments.  Let  the  comparison  alone.  In  short,  my 
dear  chum,  as  we  insist  that  foreigners  should  adopt 
our  manners  while  they  are  travelling  in  the  United 
States,  we  had  better  adopt  theirs  when  we  return  the 
visit.  They  are  doubtless  quite  wOng  throughout, 
but  it  is  not  worth  while  to  bristle  one's  back  against 
the  opinions  of  some  score  mi'lions." 

The  foam  disappeared  frr,n  the  stream,  as  we  fol 
lowed  it  on,  and  the  roar  jf  the  falls — 

*          *          *         "  Now  loud,  now  calm  again, 
Like  a  ring  of  bells,  whose  sound  the  wind  still  alters, ' 

was  soon  faint  in  our  ears,  and  like  the  regret  of  part 
ing,  lessened  with  the  increasing  distance  till  it  was 
lost.  Job  began  to  look  around  him,  and  see  some 
thing  else  besides  a  lovely  face  in  the  turnings  of  the 
road,  and  the  historian  of  this  memorable  journey, 
who  never  had  but  one  sorrow  that  "  would  not  budge 
with  a  fillip,"  rose  in  his  stirrups  as  he  descried  the 
broad  blue  bosom  of  Lake  Ontario,  and  gave  vent  to 
his  feelings  in  (he  begs  the  reader  to  believe)  the  most 
suitable  quotation. 

Seeing  any  celebrated  water  for  the  first  time  was 
always,  to  me,  an  event.  River,  waterfall,  or  lake,  if 
I  have  heard  of  it  and  thought  of  it  for  years,  has  a 
sensible  presence,  that  I  feel  like  the  approach  of  a 
human  being  in  whom  I  am  interested.  My  heart  flut 
ters  to  it.  It  is  thereafter  an  acquaintance,  and  I  de 
fend  its  beauty  or  its  grandeur  as  I  would  the  fair  fame 
and  worth  of  a  woman  that  had  shown  me  a  prefer 
ence.  My  dear  reader,  do  you  love  water?  Not  to 
drink,  for  I  own  it  is  detestable  in  small  quantities — 
but  water,  running  or  falling,  sleeping  or  gliding,  tin 
ged  by  the  sunset  glow,  or  silvered  by  the  gentle  al- 
chymist  of  the  midnight  heaven  ?  Do  you  love  a 


lake?  Do  you  love  a  river?  Do  you  "affect"  any 
one  laughing  and  sparkling  brook  that  has  flashed  on 
your  eye  like  a  fay  overtaken  by  the  cock-crowing, 
and  tripping  away  slily  to  dream-land?  As  you  see 
four  sisters,  and  but  one  to  love  ;  so,  in  the  family  of 
the  elements,  I  have  a  tenderness  for  water. 

Lake  Ontario  spread  away  to  the  horizon,  glittering 
in  the  summer  sun,  boundless  to  the  eye  as  the  Atlan 
tic  ;  and  directly  beneath  us  «Uic  small  town  of 
Fort  Niagara,  with  the  steame^Hphe  pier,  in  which 
we  promised  ourselves  a  passaj^^own  the  St.  Law 
rence.  We  rode  on  to  the  hotel,  which  we  found  to 
our  surprise  crowded  with  English  officers,  and  having 
disposed  of  our  Narragansets,  we  inquired  the  hour 
of  departure,  and  what  we  could  eat  meantime,  in  as 
nearly  the  same  breath  as  possible. 

"  Cold  leg  of  mutton  and  the  steamboat's  engaged, 
sir !" 

The  mercury  in  Job's  Britishometer  fell  plump  to 
zero.  The  idea  of  a  monopoly  of  the  whole  steamer 
by  a  colonel  and  his  staff,  and-  no  boat  again  for  a 
week  ! 

There  was  a  government  to  live  under ! 

We  sat  down  to  our  mutton,  and  presently  enter 
the  waiter. 

"Colonel 's   compliments;    hearing   that   two 

gentlemen  have  arrived  who  expected  to  go  by  the 
steamer,  he  is  happy  to  offer  them  a  passage  if  they 
can  put  up  with  rather  crowded  accommodations." 

"Well,  Job!  what  do  you  think  now  of  England, 
politically,  morally,  and  religiously  ?  Has  not  the 
gentlemanlike  courtesy  of  one  individual  materially 
changed  your  opinions  upon  every  subject  connected 
with  the  United  Kingdom  of  Great  Britain  ?" 

"  It  has." 

"  Then,  my  dear  Job,  I  recommend  you  never  again 
to  read  a  book  of  travels  without  writing  down  on  the 
margin  of  every  bilious  chapter,  'probably  lost  his 
passage  in  the  steamer,'  or  '  had  no  mustard  to  his 
mutton,'  or  '  could  find  no  ginger-nuts  for  the  interest 
ing  little  traveller,'  or  some  similar  annotation.  De 
pend  upon  it,  that  dear  delightful  Mrs.  Trollope  would 
never  have  written  so  agreeable  a  book,  if  she  had 
thriven  with  her  bazar  in  Cincinnati." 

We  paid  our  respects  to  the  colonel,  and  at  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening  got  on  board.  Part  of  an  Irish 
regiment  was  bivouacked  on  the  deck,  and  happier 
fellows  I  never  saw.  They  had  completed  their  nine 
years'  service  on  the  three  Canadian  stations,  and 
were  returning  to  the  ould  country,  wives,  children, 
and  all.  A  line  was  drawn  across  the  deck,  reserving 
the  after  quarter  for  the  officers  ;  the  sick  were  dis 
posed  of  among  the  women  in  the  bows  of  the  boat, 
and  the  band  stood  ready  to  play  the  farewell  air  to  the 
cold  shores  of  Upper  Canada. 

The  line  was  cast  off,  when  a  boy  of  thirteen  rushed 
down  to  the  pier,  and  springing  on  board  with  a 
desperate  leap,  flew  from  one  end  of  the  deck  to  the 
other,  and  flung  himself  at  last  upon  the  neck  of  8 
pretty  girl  sitting  on  the  knee  of  one  of  the  privates. 

"  Mary,  dear  Mary  !"  was  all  he  could  utter.  His 
sobs  choked  him. 

"  Avast  with  the  line,  there !"  shouted  the  captain 
who  had  no  wish  to  carry  off  this  unexpected  passen 
ger.  The  boat  was  again  swung  to  the  wharf,  and  the 
boy  very  roughly  ordered  ashore.  His  only  answer 
was  to  cling  closer  to  the  girl,  and  redouble  his  tears, 
and  by  this  time  the  colonel  had  stepped  aft,  and  the 
case  seemed  sure  of  a  fair  trial.  The  pretty  Canadian, 
dropped  her  head  on  her  bosom,  and  seemed  divided 
between  contending  emotions,  and  the  soldier  stood  ui) 
and  raised  his  cap  to  his  commanding  officer,  but  hell 
firmly  by  her  hand.  The  boy  threw  himself  on  his 
knees  to  the  colonel,  but  tried  in  vain  to  speak. 

"  Who's  this,  O'Shane  ?"  asked  the  officer. 

"  Sure,  my  swateheart,  your  honor." 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


"  And  how  dare  you  bring  her  on  board,  sir  ?" 
"  Och,  she'll  go  to  ould  Ireland  wid  us,  your  hon 
or." 

"  No,  no,  no  !"  cried  the  convulsed  boy,  clasping  ' 
the  colonel's  knees,  and  sobbing  as  if  his  heart  would 
break;  "she  is  my  sister  !     She  isn't  his  wife!     Fa- 
ther'll  die  if  she  does  !     She  can't  go  with  him  !     She 
sho'ii't  go  with  him  !" 

Job  began  to  snivel,  and  I  felt  warm  about  the  eyes 
myself.  ^^ 

"  Have  vni^K  a  wife,  O'Shane  ?"  asked  the 
colonel. 

"  Plase  your  honor,  never  a  bit,"  said  Paddy.  He 
was  a  tight,  good-looking  fellow,  by  the  way,  as  you 
would  wish  to  see. 

"  Well — we'll  settle  this  thing  at  once.  Get  up,  my 
little  fellow!  Come  here,  my  good  girl!  Do  you 
love  O'Shane  well  enough  to  be  his  wife  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  do,  sir !"  said  Mary,  wiping  her  eyes  with 
the  back  of  her  hand,  and  stealing  a  look  at  the  "  six 
feet  one"  that  stood  as  straight  as  a  pike  beside  her. 
"  O'Shane  !  I  allow  this  girl  to  go  with  us  only  on 
condition  that  you  marry  her  at  the  first  place  where 
we  can  find  a  priest.  We  will  make  her  up  a  bit  of  a 
dowry,  and  I  will  look  after  her  comfort  as  long  as  she 
follows  the  regiment.  What  do  you  say,  sir?  Will  j 
you  marry  her?" 

O'Shane  began  to  waver  in  his  military  position,  ! 
from  a  full  front  face  getting  to  very  nearly  a  right-  j 
about.     It  was  plain  he  was  taken  by  surprise*    The 
eyes  of  the  company  were  on  him,  however,  and  pub-  i 
lie  opinion,  which,  in  most  human  breasts,  is  consider 
ably  stronger  than  conscience,  had  its  effect. 

"  I'll  do  it,  your  honor  !"  said  he,  bolting  it  out  as 
a  man  volunteers  upon  a  "forlorn  hope." 

Tears  might  as  well  have  been  bespoken  for  the 
whole  company.  The  boy  was  torn  from  his  sister's 
neck,  and  set  ashore  in  the  arms  of  two  sailors,  and 
poor  Mary,  very  much  in  doubt  whether  she  was  hap 
py  or  miserable,  sank  upon  a  heap  of  knapsacks,  and 
buried  her  eyes  in  a  cotton  handkerchief  with  a  map 
of  London  upon  it,  probably  a  gage  d'amour  from  the 
desaving  O'Shane.  I  did  the  same  myself  with 
silk  one,  and  Job  item.  Item  the  colonel  and  several 
officers. 

The  boat  was  shoved  off,  and  the  wheels  spattered 
away,  but  as  far  as  we  could  hear  his  voice,  the  cry 
came  following  on,  "  Mary,  Mary  !" 

It  rung  in  my  ears  all  night :  "  Mary,  Mary  !" 
I  was  up  in  the  morning  at  sunrise,  and  was  glad 
to  escape  from  the  confined  cabin  and  get  upon  deck 
The  steamer  was  booming  on  through  a  sea  as  calm 
as  a  mirror,  and  no  land  visible.  The  fresh  dewiness 
of  the  morning  air  ashore  played  in  my  nostrils,  and 
the  smell  of  grass  was  perceptible  in  the  mind,  but  in 
all  else  it  was  like  a  calm  in  mid  ocean.  The  soldiers 
were  asleep  along  the  decks,  with  their  wives  and 
children,  and  the  pretty  runaway  lay  with  her  head  on 
O'Shane's  bosom,  her  red  eyes  and  soiled  finery 
showing  too  plainly  how  she  had  passed  the  night. 
Poor  Mary  !  she  has  enough  of  following  a  soldier, 
by  this,  I  fear. 

I  stepped  forward,  and  was  not  a  little  surprised  to 
see  standing  against  the  railing  on  the  larboard  bow, 
the  motionless  figure  of  an  Indian  girl  of  sixteen. 
Her  dark  eye  was  fixed  on  the  line  of  the  horizon  we 
were  leaving  behind,  her  arms  were  folded  on  her 
bosom,  and  she  seemed  not  even  to  breathe.  A  com 
mon  shawl  was  wrapped  carelessly  around  her,  and 


another  glance  betrayed  to  me  that  she  was  in  a  situ 
ation  soon  to  become  a  mother.  Her  feet  were  pro 
tected  by  a  pair  of  once  gaudy  but  now  shabby  and 
torn  moccasins,  singularly  small ;  her  hands  were  of  a 
delicate  thinness  unusual  to  her  race,  and  her  hollow 
cheeks,  and  forehead  marked  with  an  expression  of 


pain,  told  all  I  could  have  prophesied  of  the  history  of 
a  white  man's  tender  mercies.  I  approached  very 
near,  quite  unperceived.  A  small  burning  spot  was 
just  perceptible  in  the  centre  of  her  dark  cheek,  and 
as  I  looked  at  her  steadfastly,  I  could  see  a  working  of 
the  muscles  of  her  dusky  brow,  which  betrayed,  in  one 
of  a  race  so  trained  to  stony  calmness,  an  unusual  fever 
of  feeling.  I  looked  around  for  the  place  in  which 
she  must  have  slept.  A  mantle  of  wampum-work, 
folded  across  a  heap  of  confused  baggage,  partly  oc 
cupied  as  a  pillow  by  a  brutal-looking  and  sleeping 
soldier,  told  at  once  the  main  part  of  her  story.  I  felt 
'or  her,  from  my  soul ! 

"  You  can  hear  the  great  waterfall  no  more,"  I  said, 
touching  her  arm. 

"  I  hear  it  when  I  think  of  it,"  she  replied,  turning 
her  eyes  upon  me  as  slowly,  and  with  as  little  surprise, 
as  if  I  had  been  talking  to  her  an  hour. 

I  pointed  to  the  sleeping  soldier.     "Are  you  going 
with  him  to  his  country  ?" 
'Yes." 

"  Are  you  his  wife  ?" 
"  My  father  gave  me  to  him." 
"  Has  he  sworn  before  the  priest  in  the  name  of  the 
Great  Spirit  to  be  your  husband  !" 

"  No."     She  looked  intently  into  my  eyes  as  she 
answered,  as  if  she  tried  in  vain  to  read  my  meaning. 
"  Is  he  kind  to  you  ?" 
She  smiled  bitterly. 
"  Why  then  did  you  follow  him  ?" 
Her  eyes  dropped  upon  the  burden  she  bore  at  her 
heart.     The  answer  could  not  have  been  clearer  if 
written  with  a  sunbeam.     I  said  a  few  words  of  kind 
ness,  and  left  her  to  turn  over  in  my  mind  how  I  could 
best  interfeie  for  her  happiness. 

HI. — THE   ST.  LAAVRENCE. 


ON  the  third  evening  we  had  entered  upon  the  St. 
Lawrence,  and  were  winding  cautiously  into  the 
channel  of  the  Thousand  Isles.  I  think  there  is  not, 
within  the  knowledge  of  the  "all-beholding  sun,"  a 
spot  so  singularly  and  exquisitely  beautiful.  Between 
the  Mississippi  and  the  Cimmerian  Bosphorus,  Iknoio 
there  is  not,  for  I  have  pic-nicked  from  the  Symplegades 
westward.  The  Thousand  Isles  of  the  St.  Lawrence 
are  as  imprinted  on  my  mind  as  the  stars  of  heaven. 
I  could  forget  them  as  soon. 

The  river  is  here  as  wide  as  a  lake,  while  the  chan 
nel  just  permits  the  passage  of  a  steamer.  The 
islands,  more  than  a  thousand  in  number,  are  a  sin 
gular  formation  of  flat,  rectangular  rock,  split,  as  it 
were,  by  regular  mathematical  fissures,  and  over 
flowed  nearly  to  the  tops,  which  are  loaded  with  a 
most  luxuriant  vegetation.  They  vary  in  size,  but 
the  generality  of  them  would  about  accommodate  a 
tea-party  of  six.  The  water  is  deep  enough  to  float  a 
large  steamer  directly  at  the  edge,  and  an  active  deer 
ould  leap  across  from  one  to  the  other  in  any  direc 
tion.  What  is  very  singular,  these  little  rocky  plat- 
brms  are  covered  with  a  rich  loam,  and  carpeted  with 
noss  and  flowers,  while  immense  trees  take  root  in  the 
clefts,  and  interlace  their  branches  with  those  of  the 
leighboring  islets,  shadowing  the  water  with  the  un 
sunned  dimness  of  the  wilderness.  It  is  a  very  odd 
hing  to  glide  through  in  a  steamer.  The  luxuriant 
eaves  sweep  the  deck,  and  the  black  funnel  parts  the 
drooping  sprays  as  it  keeps  its  way,  and  you  may 
iluck  the  blossoms  of  the  acacia,  or  the  rich  chestnut 
lowers,  sitting  on  the  taffrail,  and,  really,  a  magic  pas 
sage  in  a  witch's  steamer,  beneath  the  tree-tops  of  an 
untrodden  forest,  could  not  be  more  novel  and  start 
ing.  Then  the  solitude  and  silence  of  the  dim  and 
itill  waters  are  continually  broken  by  the  plunge  and 
cap  of  the  wild  deer  springing  or  swimming  from  one 


16 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


island  to  another,  and  the  swift  and  shadowy  canoe  of 
the  Indian  glides  out  from  some  unseen  channel,  and 
with  a  single  stroke  of  his  broad  paddle  he  vanishes, 
and  is  lost  again,  even  to  the  ear.  If  the  beauty-sick 
and  nature-searching  spirit  of  Keats  is  abroad  in  the 
world,  "  my  basnet  to  a  'prentice-cap"  he  passes  his 
summers  amid  the  thousand  isles  of  the  St.  Law 
rence  !  I  would  we  were  there  with  our  tea-things, 
sweet  Rosa  Matilda ! 

We  had  dined  on  the  quarter-deck,  and  were  sitting 
over  the  colonel's  wine,  pulling  the  elm-leaves  from 
the  branches  as  they  swept  saucily  over  the  table,  and 
listening  to  the  band,  who  were  playing  waltzes  that 
probably  ended  in  the  confirmed  insanity  of  every 
wild  heron  and  red  deer  that  happened  that  afternoon 
to  come  within  ear-shot  of  the  good  steamer  Queens- 
ton.  The  paddles  began  to  slacken  in  their  spattering, 
and  the  boat  came  to,  at  the  sharp  side  of  one  of  the 
largest  of  the  shadowy  islands.  We  were  to  stop  an 
hour  or  two,  and  take  in  wood. 

Everybody  was  soon  ashore  for  a  ramble,  leaving 
only  the  colonel,  who  was  a  cripple  from  a  score  of 
Waterloo  tokens,  and  your  servant,  reader,  who  had 
something  on  his  mind. 

"  Colonel !  will  you  oblige  me  by  sending  for  Ma- 
honey  ?  Steward !  call  me  that  Indian  girl  sitting 
with  her  head  on  her  knees  in  the  boat's  bow." 

They  stood  before  us. 

"  How  is  this  ?"  exclaimed  the  colonel ;  "  another  ! 
good  God  !  these  Irishmen  !  Well,  sir!  what  do  you 
intend  to  do  with  this  girl,  now  that  you  have  ruined 
her?" 

Mahoney  looked  at  her  out  of  a  corner  of  his  eye 
with  a  libertine  contempt  that  made  my  blood  boil. 
The  girl  watched  for  his  answer  with  an  intense  but 
calm  gaze  into  his  face,  that  if  he  had  had  a  soul, 
would  have  killed  him.  Her  lips  were  set  firmly  but 
not  fiercely  together,  and  as  the  private  stood  looking 
from  one  side  to  the  other,  unable  or  unwilling  to  an 
swer,  she  suppressed  a  rising  emotion  in  her  throat, 
and  turned  her  look  on  the  commanding  officer  with  a 
proud  coldness  that  would  have  become  Medea. 

"  Mahoney !"  said  the  colonel,  sternly,  "  will  you 
marry  this  poor  girl  ?" 

"  Never,  I  hope,  your  honor  !" 

The  wasted  and  noble  creature  raised  her  burdened 
form  to  its  fullest  height,  and,  with  an  inaudible  mur 
mur  bursting  from  her  lips,  walked  back  to  the  bow 
of  the  vessel.  The  colonel  pursued  his  conversation 
with  Mahoney,  and  the  obstinate  brute  was  still  re 
fusing  the  only  reparation  he  could  make  the  poor 
Indian,  when  she  suddenly  reappeared.  The  shawl 
was  no  longer  around  her  shoulders.  A  coarse  blan 
ket  was  bound  below  her  breast  with  a  belt  of  wam 
pum,  leaving  her  fine  bust  entirely  bare,  her  small  feet 
trod  the  deck  with  the  elasticity  of  a  leopard  about  to 
leap  on  his  prey,  and  her  dark,  heavily- fringed  eyes, 
glowed  like  coals  of  fire.  She  seized  the  colonel's 
hand,  and  imprinted  a  kiss  upon  it,  another  upon  mine, 
and  without  a  look  at  the  father  of  her  child,  dived 
with  a  single  leap  over  the  gangway.  She  rose  di 
rectly  in  the  clear  water,  swam  with  powerful  strokes 
to  one  of  the  most  distant  islands,  and  turning  once 
more  to  wave  her  hand  as  she  stood  on  the  shore, 
strode  on,  and  was  lost  in  the  tangles  of  the  forest. 


THE  CHEROKEE'S  THREAT, 

"  Notre  bonheur,  tnon  cher,  se  tiendra  toujours  entre  la  plante  de 
nos  pieds  et  notre  occiput ;  et  qu'il  coute  un  million  par  an  on  cent 
louis,  la  perception  intrinsique  est  la  mgme  au-dedans  de  nous." 

Le  Pere  Goriot, 

THERE  were  a  hundred  students  in  the  new  class 
matriculated  at  Yale  College  in  Connecticut,  ia  the 


year  18 — .  They  were  young  men  of  different  ages 
and  of  all  conditions  in  life,  but  less  various  in  their 
mien  and  breeding  than  in  the  characteristics  of  the 
widely-separate  states  from  which  they  came.  It  is 
not  thought  extraordinary  in  Europe  that  the  French 
and  English,  the  German,  and  the  Italian,  should  pos 
sess  distinct  national  traits :  yet  one  American  is  sup 
posed  to  be  like  every  other,  though  the  two  between 
whom  the  comparison  is  drawn  were  born  and  bred  as 
far  apart,  and  in  as  different  latitu^fcas  the  Highland 
cateran  and  the  brigand  of  Calabi^BL 

I  looked  around  me  with  som^mterest,  when,  on 
the  first  morning  of  the  term,  the  president,  professors, 
and  students  of  the  University  assembled  in  the  college 
chapel  at  the  sound  of  the  prayer-bell,  and,  with  my 
brother  freshmen,  I  stood  in  the  side  aisle,  closing 
up  with  our  motley,  and,  as  yet,  unclassical  heads  and 
habiliments,  the  long  files  of  the  more  initiated  classes. 
The  berry-brown  tan  of  the  sun  of  Georgia,  unblanched 
by  study,  was  still  dark  and  deep  on  the  cheek  of  one ; 
the  look  of  command,  breathing  through  the  indolent 
attitude,  betrayed,  in  another,  the  young  Carolinian 
and  slave-master ;  a  coat  of  green,  garnished  with  fur 
and  bright  buttons,  and  shaped  less  by  the  tailor  than 
by  the  Herculean  and  expansive  frame  over  which  it 
was  strained,  had  a  taste  of  Kentucky  in  its  complex 
ion  ;  the  white  skin  and  red  or  sandy  hair,  cold  ex 
pression,  stiff  black  coat,  and  serious  attention  to  the 
service,  told  of  the  puritan  son  of  New  Hampshire  or 
Vermont ;  and,  perked  up  in  his  well-fitted  coat,  the 
exquisite  of  the  class,  stood  the  slight  and  metropolitan 
New-Yorker,  with  a  firm  belief  in  his  tailor  and  him 
self  written  on  his  effeminate  lip,  and  an  occasional 
look  at  his  neighbors'  coats  and  shoulders,  that  might 
have  been  construed  into  wonder  upon  what  western 
river  or  mountain  dwelt  the  builders  of  such  coats  and 
men  ! 

Rather  annoyed  at  last  by  the  glances  of  one  or  two 
seniors,  who  were  amusing  themselves  with  my  simple 
gaze  of  curiosity,  I  turned  my  attention  to  my  more 
immediate  neighborhood.  A  youth  with  close,  curl 
ing,  brown  hair,  rather  under-size,  but  with  a  certain 
decision  and  nerve  in  his  lip  which  struck  me  imme 
diately,  and  which  seemed  to  express  somehow  a  con 
fidence  in  himself  which  his  limbs  scarce  bore  out, 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  pulpit,  and,  with  his  foot  on 
the  seat  and  his  elbow  on  his  knee,  seemed  to  have 
fallen  at  once  into  the  habit  of  the  place,  and  to  be 
beyond  surprise  or  interest.  As  it  was  the  custom  of 
the  college  to  take  places  at  prayers  and  recitation 
alphabetically,  and  he  was  likely  to  be  my  neighbor 
in  chapel  and  hall  for  the  next  four  years,  I  speculated 
rather  more  than  I  should  else  have  done  on  his  face 
and  manner;  and  as  the  president  came  to  his  Amen, 
I  came  to  the  conclusion,  that  whatever  might  be  Mr. 
"S.'s"  capacity  for  friendship,  his  ill-will  would  be 
very  demonstrative  and  uncomfortable. 

The  term  went  on,  the  politics  of  the  little  republic 
fermented,  and  as  first  appearances  wore  away,  or 
peculiarities  wore  off  by  collision  or  developed  by  in 
timacy,  the  different  members  of  the  class  rose  or  fell 
in  the  general  estimation,  and  the  graduation  of  talent 
and  spirit  became  more  just  and  definite.  The 
"  Southerners  and  Northerners,"  as  they  are  called, 
soon  discovered,  like  the  classes  that  had  gone  before 
them,  that  they  had  no  qualities  in  common,  and,  of 
the  secret  societies  which  exist  among  the  students  in 
that  university,  joined  each  that  of  his  own  compatri 
ots.  The  Carolinian  or  Georgian,  who  had  passed  his 
life  on  a  plantation,  secluded  from  the  society  of  his 
equals,  soon  found  out  the  value  of  his  chivalrous  de 
portment  and  graceful  indolence  in  the  gay  society  for 
which  the  town  is  remarkable  ;  while  the  Vermontese, 
or  White-Mountaineer,  "  made  unfashionably,"  and  ill 
at  ease  on  a  carpet,  took  another  line  of  ambition,  and 
sat  down  with  the  advantage  of  constitutional  patience 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


17 


aud  perseverance  to  the  study  which  he  would  find  in 
the  end  a  "  better  contiuuer,"  even  in  the  race  for  a 
lady's  favor. 

It  was  the  only  republic  I  have  ever  known — that 
class  of  freshmen.  It  was  a  fair  arena;  and  neither: 
in  politics,  nor  society,  nor  literature,  nor  love,  nor  re 
ligion,  have  I,  in  much  searching  through  the  world, 
found  the  same  fair  play  or  good  feeling.  Talk  of  out- 
own  republic ! — ^society  is  the  very  core  and  gali  of 
the  worst  growtj^feuistocracy.  Talk  of  the  republic 
of  letters !— the^ro  graves  by  the  pyramid  of  Cains 
Cestius  laugh  it  to  scorn.  Of  love! — of  religion. 
What  is  bought  and  sold  like  that  which  has  the  name 
of  the  first?  What  is  made  a  snare  and  a  tool  by  the 
designing  like  the  last?  But  here — with  a  govern 
ment  over  us  ever  kindly  and  paternal,  no  favor  shown, 
and  no  privilege  denied;  every  equality  in  the  com 
petitors  at  all  possible— age,  previous  education,  and, 
above  all,  worldly  position — it  was  an  arena  in  which 
a  generous  spirit  would  wrestle  with  an  abandon  of 
heart  and  limb  he  might  never  know  in  the  world 
again.  Every  individual  rising  or  falling  by  the  esti 
mation  he  exacts  of  his  fellows,  there  is  no  such 
school  of  honor;  each,  of  the  many  pahns  of  scholar 
ship,  from  the  severest  to  the  lightest,  aiming  at  that 
which  best  suits  his  genius,  and  as  welcome  as  another 
to  the  goal,  there  is  no  apology  for  the  laggard.  Of 
the  feelings  that  stir  the  heart  in  our  youth — of  the 
few,  the  very  few,  which  have  no  recoil,  and  leave  no 
repentance — this  leaping  from  the  starting-post  of 
mind — this  first  spread  of  the  encouraged  wing  in  the 
free  heaven  of  thought  and  knowledge — is  recorded  in 
my  own  slender  experience  as  the  most  joyous  and 
the  most  unmingled.  He  who  has  soiled  his  bright  h 
honor  with  the  tools  of  political  ambition — he  who  has  j 
leant  his  soul  upon  the  charity  of  a  sect  in  religion — 
he  who  has  loved,  hoped,  and  trusted,  in  the  greater  \\ 
arena  of  life  and  manhood — must  look  back  on  days  j  j 
like  these  as  the  broken-winged  eagle  to  the  sky— as 
the  Indian's  subdued  horse  to  the  prairie. 

II. 

NEW  HAVEN  is  not  alone  the  seat  of  a  university. 
It  is  a  kind  of  metropolis  of  education.  The  excessive 
beauty  of  the  town,  with  its  embowered  streets  and 
sunny  gardens,  the  refinement  of  its  society,  its  cen 
tral  position  and  accessibility,  and  the  facilities  for  at 
tending  the  lectures  of  the  college  professors,  render 
it  a  most  desirable  place  of  instruction  in  every  de 
partment.  Among  others,  the  female  schools  of  the 
place  have  a  great  reputation,  and  this' which  in  Eu 
rope,  or  with  a  European  state  of  society,  would 
probably  be  an  evil,  is,  from  the  simple  and  frank 
character  of  manners  in  America,  a  mutual  aujd  de 
cided  advantage.  The  daughters  of  the  first  families 
of  the  country  are  sent  here,  committed  for  two,  three, 
and  four  years,  to  the  exclusive  care  of  the  head  of 
the  establishment,  and  (as  one  of  the  privileges  and 
advantages  of  the  school)  associating  freely  with  the 
general  society  of  the  town,  the  male  part,  of  course, 
composed  principally  of  students.  A  more  easy  and 
liberal  intercourse  exists  in  no  society  in  the  world, 
and  in  no  society  that  I  have  ever  seen  is  the  tone  of 
morals  and  manners  so  high  and  unexceptionable. 
Attachments  are  often  formed,  and  little  harm  is 
thought  of  it;  and  unless  it  is  a  very  strong  case  of 
disparity  or  objection,  no  obstacle  is  thrown  in  the 
way  of  the  common  intercourse  between  lovers ;  and 
the  lady  returns  to  her  family,  and  the  gentleman 
senior  disappears  with  his  degree,  and  they  meet  and 
marry — if  they  like.  If  they  do  not,  the  lady  stands 
as  well  in  the  matrimonial  market  as  ever,  and  the 
gentleman  (unlike  his" horse)  is  not  damaged  by  hav 
ing  been  on  his  knees. 

Like  "  Le  Noir  Fain6ant,"   at  the  tournament,  my 


friend  St.  John  seemed  more  a  looker-on  than  an  actor 
in  tlu:  various  pursuits  of  the  university.  A  sudden 
interference  in  a  quarrel,  in  which  a  brother  freshman 
was  contending  against  odds,  enlightened  the  class  as 
to  his  spirit  and  personal  strength;  he  acquitted  him 
self  at  recitations  with  the  air  of  self-contempt  for 
such  easy  excellence ;  he  dressed  plainly,  but  with 
instinctive  taste  ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  first  term, 
having  shrunk  from  all  intimacy,  and  lived  alone  with 
his  books  and  a  kind  of  trapper's  dog  he  had  brought 
with  him  from  the  west,  he  had  acquired  an  ascen 
dency  in  the  opinion  of  the  class  for  which  no  one 
could  well  account,  but  to  which  every  one  unhes 
itatingly  assented. 

We  returned  after  our  first  short  vacation,  and  of 
my  hundred  class-mates  there  was  but  one  whom  I 
much  cared  to  meet  again.  St.  John  had  passed  the 
vacation  in  his  rooms,  and  my  evident  pleasure  at 
meeting  him,  for  the  first  time,  seemed  to  open  his 
heart  to  me.  He  invited  me  to  breakfast  with  him. 
By  favor  seldom  granted  to  a  freshman,  he  had  a  lodg 
ing  in  the  town — the  rest  of  the  class  being  compelled 
to  live  with  a  chum  in  the  college  buildings.  1  found 
his  rooms — (I  was  the  first  of  the  class  who  had  en 
tered  them) — more  luxuriously  furnished  than  I  had 
expected  from  the  simplicity  of  his  appearance,  but 
his  books,  not  many,  but  select,  and  (what  is  in  America 
an  expensive  luxury)  in  the  best  English  editions  and 
superbly  bound,  excited  most  my  envy  and  surprise. 
How  he  should  have  acquired  tastes  of  such  ultra- 
civilization  in  the  forests  of  the  west  was  a  mystery 
that  remained  to  be  solved. 


III. 

AT  the  extremity  of  a  green  lane  in  the  outer  skirt 
of  the  fashionable  suburb  of  New  Haven  stood  a  ram 
bling  old  Dutch  house,  built  probably  when  the  cattle 
of  Mynheer  grazed  over  the  present  site  of  the  town. 
It  was  a  wilderness  of  irregular  rooms,  of  no  describa- 
ble  shape  in  its  exterior,  and  from  its  southern  balcony, 
to  use  an  expressive  Gallicism,  "gave  upon  the  bay." 
Long  Island  sound,  the  great  highway  from  the  north 
ern  Atlantic  to  New  York,  weltered  in  alternate  lead 
and  silver  (oftener  like  the  brighter  metal,  for  the  cli 
mate  is  divine),  between  the  curving  lip  of  the  bay  and 
the  interminable  and  sandy  shore  of  the  island  some 
six  leagues  distant ;  the  procession  of  ships  and  steam 
ers  stole  past  with  an  imperceptible  progress  ;  the 
ceaseless  bells  of  the  college  chapel  came  deadened 
through  the  trees  from  behind,  and  (the  day  being  one 
of  golden  autumn,  and  myself  and  St.  John  waiting 
while  black  Agatha  answered  the  door-bell)  the  sun- 
steeped  precipice  of  East  Rock,  with  its  tiara  of  blood- 
red  maples  flushing  like  a  Turk's  banner  in  the  light, 
drew  from  us  both  a  truant  wish  for  a  ramble  and  a 
holyday.  I  shall  have  more  to  say  anon  of  the  foliage 
of  an  American  October:  but  just  now,  while  I  remem 
ber  it,  I  wish  to  record  a  belief  of  my  own,  that  if,  as 
philosophy  supposes,  we  have  lived  other  lives — if 

"  our  star 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  cometh  from  afar" — 

it  is  surely  in  the  days  tempered  like  the  one  I  am  re 
membering  and  describing — profoundly  serene,  sunny 
as  the  top  of  Olympus,  heavenly  pure,  holy,  and  more 
invigorating  and  intoxicating  than  luxurious  or  balmy ; 
the  sort  of  air  that  the  visiting  angels  might  have 
brought  with  them  to  the  tent  of  Abraham — it  is  on 
such  days,  I  would  record,  that  my  own  memory  steps 
back  over  the  dim  threshold  of  life  (so  it  seems  to  me), 
and  on  such  days  only.  It  is  worth  the  translation  of 
our  youth  and  our  household  gods  to  a  sunnier  land, 
if  it  were  alone  for  those  immortal  revelations. 

In  a  few  minutes  from  this  time  were  assembled  in 


18 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


Mrs.  Ilfrington's  drawing-room  the  six  or  seven  young 
ladies  of  my  more  particular  acquaintance  among  her 
pupils,  of  whom  one  was  a  newcomer,  and  the  object 
of  my  mingled  curiosity  and  admiration.     It  was  the 
one  day  of  the  week  when  morning  visiters  were  ad 
mitted,  and  I  was  there,  in  compliance  with  an  unex 
pected  request  from  my  friend,  to  present  him  to  the 
agreeable  circle  o-f  Mrs.  Ilfrington.     As  an  habitue  in 
her  family,  this  excellent  lady  had  taken  occasion  to 
introduce  to  me,  a  week  or  two  before,  the  newcomer  | 
of  whom  I  have  spoken  above — a  departure  from  the  j 
ordinary  rule  of  the  establishment,  which  I  felt  to  be  j 
a  compliment,  and  which  gave  me,  I  presumed,  a  tacit  j 
claim  to  mix  myself  up  in  that  young  lady's  destiny  j 
as  deeply  as  I  should  find  agreeable.     The  newcomer  ! 
was  the  daughter  of  an  Indian  chief,  and  her  name 
was  Nunu. 

The  wrongs  of  civilization  to  the  noble  aborigines  ! 
of  America  are  a  subject  of  much  poetical  feeling  in  j 
the  United  States,  and  will  ultimately  become  the  po-  ! 
etry  of  the  nation.  At  present  the  sentiment  takes 
occasionally  a  tangible  shape,  and  the  transmission  of  j 
the  daughter  of  a  Cherokee  chief  to  New  Haven,  to  j 
be  educated  at  the  expense  of  the  government,  and  of  j 
several  young  men  of  the  same  high  birth  to  different  ; 
colleges,  will  be  recorded  among  the  evidences  in  his 
tory  that  we  did  not  plough  the  bones  of  their  fathers  j 
into  our  fields  without  some  feelings  of  compunction.  ' 
Nunu  had  come  to  the  seaboard  under  the  charge  of  a  [ 
female  missionary,  whose  pupil  she  had  been  in  one  j 
of  the  native  schools  of  the  west,  and  was  destined,  I 
though  a  chief's  daughter,  to  return  as  a  teacher  to  j 
her  tribe  when  she  should  have  mastered  some  of  j 
the  higher  accomplishments  of  her  sex.  She  was  an  j 
apt  scholar,  but  her  settled  melancholy,  when  away  I 
from  her  books,  had  determined  Mrs.  Ilfrington  to  try  | 
the  effect  of  a  little  society  upon  her,  and  hence  my  j 
privilege  to  ask  for  her  appearance  in  the  drawing-  i 
room. 

As  we  strolled  down  in  the  alternate  shade  and  sun-  j 
shine  of  the  road,  I  had  been  a  little  piqued  at  the  want  i 
of  interest,  and  the  manner  of  course,  with  which  St.  I 
John  had  received  my  animated  descriptions  of  the 
personal  beauty  of  the  Cherokee. 

"  I  have  hunted  with  the  tribe,"  was  his  only  an-  i 
swer,  "  and  know  their  features." 

'.'  But  she  is  not  like  them,"  I  replied,  with  a  tone  J 
of  some  impatience  ;  "  she  is  the  beau  ideal  of  a  red  ! 
skin,  but  it  is  with  the  softened  features  of  an  Arab  or 
an  Egyptian.     She  is  more  willowy  than  erect,  and 
has  no  higher  cheek-bones  than  the  plaster  Venus  in 
your  chambers.     If  it  were  not  for  the  lambent  fire  in 
her  eye,  you  might  take  her,  in  the  sculptured  pose 
of  her  attitudes,  for  an  immortal  bronze  of  Cleopatra. 
I  tell  you  she  is  divine." 

St.  John  called  to  his  dog,  and  we  turned  along 
the  green  bank  above  the  beach,  with  Mrs.  Ilfrington's 
house  in  view,  and  so  opens  a  new  chapter  in  my  story. 

IV. 

In  the  united  pictures  of  Paul  Veronese  and  Ra 
phael,  steeped  as  their  colors  seem  to  have  been  in  the 
divinest  age  of  Venetian  and  Roman  female  beauty,  I 
have  scarcely  found  so  many  lovely  women,  of  so  dif 
ferent  models  and  so  perfect, as  were  assembled  during 
my  sophomore  year  under  the  roof  of  Mrs.  Ilfrington.  , 
They  went  about  in  their  evening  walks,  graceful  and  j 
angelic,  but,  like  the  virgin  pearls  of  the  sea,  they 
poured  the  light  of  their  loveliness  on  the  vegeta 
ting  oysters  about  them,  and  no  diver  of  fashion  had 
yet  taught  them  their  value.  Ignorant  myself  in  those 
days  of  the  scale  of  beauty,  their  features  are  enam 
elled  in  my  memory,  and  I  have  tried  insensibly  by 
that  standard  (and  found  wanting)  of  every  court  in 
Europe  the  dames  most  worshipped  and  highest  born. 


Queen  of  the  Sicilies,  loveliest  in  your  own  realm  of 
sunshine  and  passion  !  Pale  and  transparent  princess 
— pearl  of  the  court  of  Florence — than  whom  the  cre 
ations  on  the  immortal  walls  of  the  Pitti  less  discipline 
our  eye  for  the  shapes  of  heaven  !  Gipsy  of  the  Pac- 
tolus  !  Jewess  of  the  Thracian  Gallipolis  !  Bright 
and  gifted  cynosure  of  the  aristocracy  of  England  !— 
ye  are  five  women  I  have  seen  in  as  many  years'  wan 
dering  over  the  world,  lived  to  gaze  upon,  and  live  to 
remember  and  admire — a  constella^n,  I  almost  be 
lieve,  that  has  absorbed  all  the  inBfcest  light  of  the 
beauty  of  a  hemisphere — yet,  with  your  pictures  col 
ored  to  life  in  my  memory,  and  the  pride  of  rank  and 
state  thrown  over  most  of  you  like  an  elevating  charm, 
I  go  back  to  the  school  of  Mrs.  Ilfrington,  and  (smile 
if  you  will !)  they  were  as  lovely,  and  stately,  and  as 
worthy  of  the  worship  of  the  world. 

I  introduced  St.  John  to  the  young  ladies  as  they 
came  in.  Having  never  seen  him,  except  in  the  pres 
ence  of  men,  I  was  a  little  curious  to  know  whether 
his  singular  aplomb  would  serve  him  as  well  with  the 
other  sex,  of  which  I  was  aware  he  had  had  a  very 
slender  experience.  My  attention  was  distracted  at 
the  moment  of  mentioning  his  name  to  a  lovely  little 
Georgian  (with  eyes  full  of  the  liquid  sunshine  of  the 
south),  by  a  sudden  bark  of  joy  from  the  dog,  who  had 
been  left  in  the  hall  ;  and  as  the  door  opened,  and  the 
slight  and  graceful  Indian  girl  entered  the  room,  the 
usually  unsocial  animal  sprang  bounding  in,  lavishing 
caresses  on  her,  and  seemingly  wild  with  the  delight 
of  a  recognition. 

In  the  confusion  of  taking  the  dog  from  the  room,  I 
had  again  lost  the  moment  of  remarking  St.  John's 
manner,  and  on  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Ilfrington,  Nunu 
was  sitting  calmly  by  the  piano,  and  my  friend  was 
talking  in  a  quiet  undertone  with  the  passionate  Geor 
gian. 

"  I  must  apologize  for  my  dog,"  said  St.  John,  bow 
ing  gracefully  to  the  mistress  of  the  house;  "  he  was 
bred  by  Indians,  and  the  sight  of  a  Cherokee  remind 
ed  him  of  happier  days — as  it  did  his  master." 

Nunu  turned  her  eyes  quickly  upon  him,  but  im 
mediately  resumed  her  apparent  deep  study  of  the  ab 
struse  figures  in  the  Kidderminster  carpet. 

"  You  are  well  arrived,  young  gentlemen,"  said  Mrs. 
Ilfrington  ;  "  we  press  you  into  our  service  for  a  bo 
tanical  ramble.  Mr.  Slingsby  is  at  leisure,  and  will  be 
delighted,  I  am  sure.  Shall  I  say  as  much  for  you, 
Mr.  St.  John  ?" 

St.  John  bowed,  and  the  ladies  left  the  room  for 
their  bonnets — Mrs.  Ilfrington  last.  The  door  was 
scarcely  closed  when  Nunu  reappeared,  and  checking 
herself  with  a  sudden  feeling  at  the  first  step  over  the 
threshold,  stood  gazing  at  St.  John,  evidently  under 
very  powerful  emotion. 

"  Nunu  !"  he  said,  smiling  slowly  and  unwillinsly, 
and  holding  out  his  hand  with  the  air  of  one  who  for 
gives  an  offence. 

She  sprang  upon  his  bosom  with  the  bound  of  a 
leveret,  and  between  her  fast  kisses  broke  the  endear 
ing  epithets  of  her  native  tongue,  in  words  that  I  onlv 
understood  by  their  passionate  and  thrilling  accent. 
The  language  of  the  heart  is  universal. 

The  fair  scholars  came  in  one  after  another,  and  we 
were  soon  on  our  way  through  the  green  fields  to  the 
flowery  mountain-side  of  East  Rock  ;  Mrs.  Ilfrington's 
arm  and  conversation  having  fallen  to  my  share,  and 
St.  John  rambling  at  large  with  the  rest  of  the  party, 
but  more  particularly  beset  by  Miss  Temple,  whose 
Christian  name  was  Isabella,  and  whose  Christian  char 
ity  had  no  bowels  for  broken  hearts. 

The  most  sociable  individuals  of  the  party  fora  while 
were  Nunu  and  Lash  ;  the  dog's  recollections  of  the 
past  seeming,  like  those  of  wiser  animals,  more  agreea 
ble  than  the" present.  The  Cherokee  astonished  Mrs. 
Ilfrington  by  an  abandonment  to  joy  and  frolic  which 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


19 


she  had  never  displayed  before — sometimes  fairly  out 
running  the  dog  at  full  speed,  and  sometimes  sitting 
down  breathless  upon  a  green  bank,  while  the  rude 
creature  overpowered  her  with  his  caresses.  The 
scene  gave  origin  to  a  grave  discussion  between  that 
well-instructed  lady  and  myself,  upon  the  singular 
force  of  childish  association — the  extraordinary  intima 
cy  between  the  Indian  and  the  trapper's  dog  being 
explained  satisfactorily  (to  her,  at  least)  on  that  at 
tractive  principle.  Had  she  but  seen  Nunu  spring 
into  the  bosom  of  my  friend  half  an  hour  before,  she 
might  have  added  a  material  corollary  to  her  proposi 
tion.  If  the  dog  and  the  chief's  daughter  were  not 
old  friends,  the  chief's  daughter  and  St.  John  certain 
ly  were. 

As  well  as  I  could  judge  by  the  motions  of  two 
people  walking  before  me,  St.  John  was  advancing  fast 
in  the  favor  and  acquaintance  of  the  graceful  Georgian. 
Her  southern  indolence  was  probably  an  apology  in 
Mrs.  Ilfrington's  eyes  for  leaning  heavily  on  her  com 
panion's  arm  ;  but,  in  a  momentary  halt,  the  capricious 
beauty  disembarrassed  herself  of  the  bright  scarf  that 
had  floated  over  her  shoulders,  and  bound  it  playfully 
around  his  waist.  This  was  rather  strong  on  a  first 
acquaintance,  and  Mrs.  Ilfrington  was  of  that  opin 
ion. 

"  Miss  Temple  !"  said  she,  advancing  to  whisper  a 
reproof  in  the  beauty's  ear. 

Before  she  had  taken  a  second  step,  Nunu  bounded 
over  the  low  hedge,  followed  by  the  dog,  with  whom 
she  had  been  chasing  a  butterfly,  and  springing  upon 
St.  John  with  eyes  that  flashed  fire,  she  tore  the  scarf 
into  shreds,  and  stood  trembling  and  pale,  with  her  feet 
on  the  silken  fragments. 

44  Madam!"  said  St.  John,  advancing  to  Mrs.  Ilfring 
ton,  after  casting  on  the  Cherokee  a  look  of  surprise 
and  displeasure,  "  I  should  have  told  you  before  that 
your  pupil  and  myself  are  not  new  acquaintances.  Her 
father  is  my  friend.  I  have  hunted  with  the  tribe,  and 
have  hitherto  looked  upon  Nunu  as  a  child.  You  will 
believe  me,  I  trust,  when  I  say  her  conduct  surprises 
me,  and  I  beg  to  assure  you  that  any  influence  I  may 
have  over  her  will  be  in  accordance  with  your  own 
wishes  exclusively." 

His  tone  was  cold,  and  Nunu  listened  with  fixed  lips 
and  frowning  eyes. 

"Have  you  seen  her  before  since  her  arrival  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Ilfrington. 

44  My  dog  brought  me  yesterday  the  first  intelligence 
that  she  was  here:  he  returned  from  his  morning  ram 
ble  with  a  string  of  wampum  about  his  neck,  which 
had  the  mark  of  the  tribe.  He  was  her  gift,"  he  added, 
patting  the  head  of  the  dog,  and  looking  with  a  soft 
ened  expression  at  Nunu,  who  dropped  her  head  upon 
her  bosom,  and  walked  on  in  tears. 

V. 

The  chain  of  the  Green  mountains,  after  a  gallop  of 
some  five  hundred  miles,  from  Canada  to  Connecticut, 
suddenly  pulls  up  on  the  shore  of  Long-island  sound, 
and  stands  rearing  with  a  bristling  mane  of  pine-trees, 
three  hundred  feet  in  air,  as  if  checked  in  mid  career 
by  the  sea.  Standing  on  the  brink  of  this  bold  preci 
pice,  you  have  the  bald  face  of  the  rock  in  a  sheer  per 
pendicular  below  you  ;  and,  spreading  away  from  the 
broken  masses  at  its  feet,  lies  an  emerald  meadow,  in 
laid  with  a  crystal  and  rambling  river,  across  which, 
at  a  distance  of  a  mile  or  two,  rise  the  spires  of  the 
university,  from  what  else  were  a  thick-serried  wilder 
ness  of  elms.  Back  from  the  edge  of  the  precipice 
extends  a  wild  forest  of  hemlock  and  fir,  ploughed  on 
its  northern  side  by  a  mountain-torrent,  whose  bed  of 
marl,  dry  and  overhung  with  trees  in  the  summer,  serve 
as  a  path  and  a  guide  from  the  plain  to  the  summit.  It 
were  a  toilsome  ascent  but  for  that  smooth  and  hard 


pavement,  and   the   impervious  and  green  thatch  of 
pine  tassels  overhung. 

Antiquity  in  America  extends  no  farther  back  than 
the  days  of  Cromwell,  and  East  Rock  is  traditionary 
ground  with  us — for  there  harbored  the  regicides 
Whalley  and  Goffe,  and  many  a  breath-hushing  tale 
is  told  of  them  over  the  smouldering  log-fires  of  Con 
necticut.  Not  to  rob  the  historian,  I  pass  on  to  say 
that  this  cavernous  path  to  the  mountain-top  was  the 
resort  in  the  holyday  summer  afternoons  of  most  of  the 
poetical  and  otherwise  well-disposed  gentlemen  sopho 
mores,  and,  on  the  day  of  which  I  speak,  of  Mrs.  Il 
frington  and  herseven-and-twenty  lovely  scholars.  The 
kind  mistress  ascended  with  the  assistance  of  my  arm, 
and  St.  John  drew  stoutly  between  Miss  Temple  and 
a  fat  young  lady  with  an  incipient  asthma.  Nunu  had 
not  been  seen  since  the  first  cluster  of  hanging  flow- 

;  ers  had  hidden  her  from  our  sight,  as  she  bounded 

j  upward. 

The  hour  or  two  of  slanting  sunshine,  poured  in 
upon  the  summit  of  the  precipice  from  the  west,  had 
been  sufficient  to  induce  a  fine  and  silken  moss  to 
show  its  fibres  and  small  blossoms  above  the  carpet  of 
pine-tassels  ;  and  emerging  from  the  brown  shadow  of 
the  wood,  you  stood  on  a  verdant  platform,  the  foliage 
of  sighing  trees  overhead,  a  fairies' velvet  beneath  you, 
and  a  view  below  that  you  may  as  well  (if  you  would 
not  die  in  your  ignorance)  make  a  voyage  over  the 
water  to  see. 

We  found  Nunu  lying  thoughtfully  near  the  brink 
of  the  precipice,  and  gazing  off  over  the  waters  of  the 
sound,  as  if  she  watched  the  coming  or  going  of  a 
friend  under  the  white  sails  that  spotted  its  bosom. 
We  recovered  our  bteath  in  silence,  I  alone,  perhaps, 
of  that  considerable  company  gazing  with  admiration 
at  the  lithe  and  unconscious  figure  of  grace  lying  in 
the  attitude  of  the  Grecian  Hermaphrodite  on  the  brow 
of  the  rock  before  us.  Her  eyes  were  moist  and  mo 
tionless  with  abstraction,  her  lips  just  perceptibly 
curved  in  an  expression  of  mingled  pride  and  sorrow, 
her  small  hand  buried  and  clinched  in  the  moss,  and 
her  left  foot  and  ankle,  models  of  spirited  symmetry,  es 
caped  carelessly  from  her  dress,  the  high  instep  strained 
back  as  if  recovering  from  a  leap,  with  the  tense  con 
trol  of  emotion. 

The  game  of  the  coquettish  Georgian  was  well 
played.  With  a  true  woman's  pique,  she  had  re- 

j  doubled  her  attentions  to  my  friend  from  the  moment 

j  that  she  found  it  gave  pain  to  another  of  her  sex  ;  and 
St.  John,  like  most  men,  seemed  not  unwilling  to  see 
a  new  altar  kindled  to  his  vanity,  though  a  heart  he 
had  already  won  was  stifling  with  the  incense.  Miss 
Temple  was  very  lovely.  Her  skin,  of  that  teint  of 
opaque  and  patrican  white  which  is  found  oftenest  in 
Asian  latitudes,  was  just  perceptibly  warmed  toward 
the  centre  of  the  cheek  with  a  glow  like  sunshine 
through  the  thick  white  petal  of  a  "magnolia;  her  eyes 
were  hazel,  with  those  inky  lashes  which  enhance  the 
expression  a  thousand-fold,  either  of  passion  or  mel 
ancholy  ;  her  teeth  were  like  strips  from  the  lily's 
heart ;  and  she  was  clever,  captivating,  graceful,  and  a 
thorough  coquette.  St.  John  was  mysterious,  roman 
tic-looking,  superior,  and,  just  now,  the  only  victim  in 
the  way.  He  admired,  as  all  men  do,  those  qualities 
which,  to  her  own  sex,  rendered  the  fair  Isabella  un- 
amiable ;  and  yielded  himself,  as  all  men  will,  a,  satis 
fied  prey  to  enchantments  of  which  he  knew  the 
springs  were  the  pique  and  vanity  of  the  enchantress. 
How  singular  it  is  that  the  highest  and  best  qualities 
of  the  female  heart  are  those  with  whicn  men  are  the 
least  captivated ! 

A  rib  of  the  mountain  formed  a  natural  seat  a  little 
back  from  the  pitch  of  the  precipice,  and  here  sat  Miss 
Temple,  triumphant  in  drawing  all  eyes  upon  herself 
and  her  tamed  lion  ;  her  lap  full  of  flowers,  which  h,» 
had  fou,nd  time  to  gather  on  the  way,  and  fy 


20 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


hands  employed  in  arranging  a  bouquet,  of  which  the 
destiny  was  yet  a  secret.  Next  to  their  own  loves, 
ladies  like  nothing  on  earth  like  mending  or  marring 
the  loves  of  others  ;  and  while  the  violets  and  already- 
drooping  wild  flowers  were  coquettishly  chosen  or  re 
jected  by  those  slender  fingers,  the  sun  might  have 
swung  back  to  the  east  like  a  pendulum,  and  those 
seven-and-twenty  misses  would  have  watched  their 
lovely  schoolfellow  the  same.  Nunu  turned  her  head 
slowly  around  at  last,  and  silently  looked  on.  St. 
John  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  Georgian,  glancing  from 
the  flowers  to  her  face,  and  from  her  face  to  the  flow 
ers,  with  an  admiration  not  at  all  equivocal.  Mrs. 
Ilfrington  sat  apart,  absorbed  in  finishing  a  sketch  of 
New-Haven  ;  and  I,  interested  painfully  in  watching 
the  emotions  of  the  Cherokee,  sat  with  my  back  to 
the  trunk  of  a  hemlock — the  only  spectator  who 
comprehended  the  whole  extent  of  the  drama. 

A  wild  rose  was  set  in  the  heart  of  the  bouquet  at 
last,  a  spear  of  riband-grass  added  to  give  it  grace 
and  point,  and  nothing  was  wanting  but  a  string.  Ret 
icules  were  searched,  pockets  turned  inside  out,  and 
never  a  bit  of  riband  to  be  found.  The  beauty  was 
in  despair. 

"  Stay,"  said  St.  John,  springing  to  his  feet. 
"  Lash  !  Lash!" 

The  dog  came  coursing  in  from  the  wood,  and 
crouched  to  his  master's  hand. 

"Will  a  string  of  wampum  do  ?"  he  asked,  feeling 
under  the  long  hair  on  the  dog's  neck,  and  untying  a 
fine  and  variegated  thread  of  many-colored  beads, 
worked  exquisitely. 

The  dog  growled,  and  Nunu  sprang  into  the  mid 
dle  of  the  circle  with  the  fling  of  an  adder,  and  seiz 
ing  the  wampum  as  he  handed  it  to  her  rival,  called  the 
dog,  and  fastened  it  once  more  around  his  neck. 

The  ladies  rose  in  alarm  ;  the  belle  turned  pale,  and 
clung  to  St.  John's  arm ;  the  dog,  with  his  hair  brist 
ling  upon  his  back,  stood  close  to  her  feet  in  an  atti 
tude  of  defiance  ;  and  the  superb  Indian,  the  peculiar 
genius  of  her  beauty  developed  by  her  indignation, 
her  nostrils  expanded,  and  her  eyes  almost  showering 
fire  in  their  flashes,  stood  before  them  like  a  young 
Pythoness,  ready  to  strike  them  dead  with  a  regard. 

St.  John  recovered  from  his  astonishment  after  a 
moment,  and  leaving  the  arm  of  Miss  Temple,  ad 
vanced  a  step,  and  called  to  his  dog. 

The  Cherokee  patted  the  animal  on  his  back,  and 
spoke  to  him  in  her  own  language  ;  and,  as  St.  John 
still  advanced,  Nunu  drew  herself  to  her  fullest  height, 
placed  herself  before  the  dog,  who  slunk  growling 
from  his  master,  and  said  to  him,  as  she  folded  her 
arms,  "  The  wampum  is  mine." 

St.  John  colored  to  the  temples  with  shame. 

"  Lash  !"  he  cried,  stamping  with  his  feet,  and  en 
deavoring  to  fright  him  from  his  protectress. 

The  dog  howled  and  crept  away,  half  crouching 
with  fear,  toward  the  precipice ;  and  St.  John  shoot 
ing  suddenly  past  Nunu,  seized  him  on  the  brink,  and 
held  him  down  by  the  throat. 

The  next  instant,  a  scream  of  horror  from  Mrs.  Il 
frington,  followed  by  a  terrific  echo  from  every  female 
present,  started  the  rude  Kentuckian  to  his  feet. 

Clear  over  the  abyss,  hanging  with  one  hand  by  an 
ashen  sapling,  the  point  of  her  tiny  foot  just  poising 
on  a  projecting  ledge  of  rock,  swung  the  desperate 
Cherokee,  sustaining  herself  with  perfect  ease,  but 
with  all  the  determination  of  her  iron  race  collected 
in  calm  concentration  on  her  lips. 

"  Restore  the  wampum  to  his  neck,"  she  cried,  with 
a  voice  that  thrilled  the  very  marrow  with  its  subdued 
fierceness,  "  or  my  blood  rest  on  your  soul !" 

St.  John  flung  it  toward  the  dog,  and  clasped  his 
hands  in  silent  horror. 

The  Cherokee  bore  down  the  sapling  till  its  slender 
stem  cracked  with  the  tension,  and  rising  lightly  with 


the  rebound,  alit  like  a  feather  upon  the  rock.  The 
subdued  student  sprang  to  her  side  ;  but  with  scorn 
on  her  lip,  and  the  flush  of  exertion  already  vanished 
from  her  cheek,  she  called  to  the  dog,  and  with  rapid 
strides  took  her  way  alone  down  the  mountain. 

VI. 

Five  years  had  elapsed.  I  had  put  to  sea  from  the 
sheltered  river  of  boyhood — had  encountered  the 
storms  of  a  first  entrance  into  life — had  trimmed  my 
boat,  shortened  sail,  and,  with  a  sharp  eye  to  wind 
ward,  was  lying  fairly  on  my  course.  Among  others 
from  whom  I  had  parted  company  was  Paul  St.  John, 
who  had  shaken  hands  with  me  at  the  university  gate, 
leaving  me,  after  four  years'  intimacy,  as  much  in 
doubt  as  to  his  real  character  and  history  as  the  first 
day  we  met.  I  had  never  heard  him  speak  of  either 
father  or  mother,  nor  had  he,  to  my  knowledge,  re 
ceived  a  letter  from  the  day  of  his  matriculation.  He 
passed  his  vacations  at  the  university ;  he  had  studied 
well,  yet  refused  one  of  the  highest  college  honors 
offered  him  with  his  degree  ;  he  had  shown  many 
good  qualities,  yet  some  unaccountable  faults  ;  and, 
all  in  all,  was  an  enigma  to  myself  and  the  class.  I 
knew  him,  clever,  accomplished,  and  conscious  of 
superiority  ;  and  my  knowledge  went  no  farther.  The 
coach  was  at  the  gate,  and  I  was  there  to  see  him  off; 
and,  after  four  years'  constant  association,  I  had  not 
an  idea  where  he  was  going,  or  to  what  he  was  des 
tined.  The  driver  blew  his  horn. 
"  God  bless  you,  Slingsby  !" 
"God  bless  you,  St.  John  " 
And  so  we  parted. 

It  was  five  years  from  this  time,  I  say,  and,  in  the 
|  bitter  struggles  of  first  manhood,  I  had  almost  forgot- 
[  ten  there  was  such  a  being  in  the  world.     Late  in  the 
j  month  of  October,  in  1829,  I  was  on  my  way  west- 
!  ward,  giving  myself  a  vacation  from  the  law.     I  em 
barked,  on  a  clear   and  delicious  day,    in  the  small 
j  steamer  which  plies  up  and  down  the  Cayuga  lake, 
j  looking  forward  to  a  calm  feast  of  scenery,  and  caring 
!  little  who  were  to  be  my  fellow-passengers.     As  we 
!  got  out  of  the  little  harbor  of  Cayuga,  I  walked  astern 
|  for  the  first  time,  and  saw  the  not  very  unusual  sight 
of  a    group  of  Indians   standing   motionless   by  the 
wheel.  They  were  chiefs,  returning  from  a  diplomatic 
;  visit  to  Washington. 

I  sat  down  by  the  companion-ladder,  and  opened 
;  soul  and  eye  to  the  glorious  scenery  we  were  gliding 
:  through.  The  first  severe  frost  had  come,  and  the 
I  miraculous  change  had  passed  upon  the  leaves  which 
i  is  known  only  in  America.  The  blood-red  sugar  ma- 
!  pie,  with  a  leaf  brighter  and  more  delicate  than  a  Cir 
cassian  lip,  stood  here  and  there  in  the  forest  like  the 
Sultan's  standard  in  a  host — the  solitary  and  far-seen 
aristocrat  of  the  wilderness  ;  the  birch,  with  its  spirit- 
like  and  amber  leaves,  ghosts  of  the  departed  summer, 
turned  out  along  the  edges  of  the  woods  like  a  lining 
of  the  palest  gold  ;  the  broad  sycamore  and  the  fan- 
like  catalpa  flaunted  their  saffron  foliage  in  the  sun, 
spotted  with  gold  like  the  wings  of  a  lady-bird;  the 
kingly  oak,  with  its  summit  shaken  bare,  still  hid  its 
majestic  trunk  in  a  drapery  of  sumptuous  dyes,  like  a 
stricken  monarch,  gathering  his  robes  of  slate  about 
him  to  die  royally  in  his  purple  ;  the  tall  poplar,  with 
its  minaret  of  silver  leaves,  stood  blanched  like  a  cow 
ard  in  the  dying  forest,  burthening  every  breeze  with 
its  complainings ;  the  hickory  paled  through  its  en 
during  green  ;  the  bright  berries  of  the  mountain-ash 
flushed  with  a  more  sanguine  glory  in  the  unobstructed 
sun  ;  the  gaudy  tulip-tree,  the  Sybarite  of  vegetation, 
stripped  of  its  golden  cups,  still  drank  the  intoxicating 
light  of  noonday  in  leaves  than  which  the  lip  of  an 
Indian  shell  was  never  more  delicately  teinted  ;  the 
still  deeper-dyed  vines  of  the  lavish  wilderness,  perish- 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


ing  with  the  noble  things  whose  summer  they  had 
shared,  outshone  them  in  their  decline,  as  woman  in 
her  death  is  heavenlier  than  the  being  on  whom  in  life 
she  leaned ;  and  alone  and  unsympathizing  in  this 
universal  decay,  outlaws  from  Nature,  stood  the  fir 
and  the  hemlock,  their  frowning  and  sombre  heads 
darker  and  less  lovely  than  ever,  in  contrast  with  the 
death-struck  glory  of  their  companions. 

The  dull  colors  of  English  autumnal  foliage  give 
you  no  conception  of  this  marvellous  phenomenon. 
The  change  here  is  gradual ;  in  America  it  is  the 
work  of  a  night — of  a  single  frost ! 

Oh,  to  have  seen  the  sun  set  on  hills  bright  in  the 
still  green  and  lingering  summer,  and  to  wake  in  the 
morning  to  a  spectacle  like  this! 

It  is  as  if  a  myriad  of  rainbows  were  laced  through  ! ' 
the  tree-tops — as  if  the  sunsets  of  a  summer — gold, 
pdrple,  and  crimson — had  been  fused  in  the  alembic 
of  the  west,  and  poured  back  in  a  new  deluge  of  light  |: 
and  color  over  the  wilderness.     It  is  as  if  every  leaf  ;j 
in  those  countless  trees  had  been  painted  to  outflush   ! 
the  tulip — as  if.  by  some  electric  miracle,  the  dyes  of  || 
the  earth's  heart  had  struck  upward,  and  her  crystals   ' 
and  ores,  her  sapphires,  hyacinths,  and  rubies,  had  let 
forth  their  imprisoned  colors  to  mount  through  the!j 
roots  of  the  forest,  and,  like  the  angels  that  in  olden  jj 
time  entered  the  body  of  the  dying,  reanimate  the  per-  jj 
ishing  leaves,  and  revel  an  hour  in  their  bravery. 

I  was  sitting  by  the  companion-ladder,  thinking  to 
what  on  earth  these  masses  of  foliage  could  be  resem 
bled,  when  a  dog  sprang  upon  my  knees,  and,  the 
moment  after,  a  hand  was  laid  on  my  shoulder. 

"St.  John?     Impossible!" 

"Bodily!"  answered  my  quondam  classmate. 

I  looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  The  soigne 
man  of  fashion  I  had  once  known  was  enveloped  in  a 
kind  of  hunter's  frock,  loose  and  large,  and  girded  to 
his  waist  by  a  belt;  his  hat  was  exchanged  for  a  cap 
of  rich  otter  skin  ;  his  pantaloons  spread  with  a  slov 
enly  carelessness  over  his  feet ;  and,  altogether,  there 
was  that  in  his  air  which  told  me  at  a  glance  that  he 
had  renounced  the  world.  Lash  had  recovered  his 
leanness,  and,  after  wagging  out  his  joy,  he  crouched 
between  my  feet,  and  lay  looking  into  my  face,  as  if 
he  was  brooding  over  the  more  idle  days  in  which  we 
had  been  acquainted. 

"And  where  are  you  bound?"  I  asked,  having  an 
swered  the  same  question  for  myself. 

"  Westward  with  the  chiefs  !" 

"For  how  long?" 

"  The  remainder  of  my  life." 

I  could  not  forbear  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"You  would  wonder  less,"  said  he,  with  an  impa 
tient  gesture,  "  if  you  knew  more  of  me.  And,  by- 
the-way,"  he  added  with  a  smile,  "  I  think  }  never 
told  you  the  first  half  of  the  story — my  life  up  to  the 
time  I  met  you." 

"  It  was  not  for  want  of  a  catechist,"  I  answered, 
settling  myself  in  an  attitude  of  attention. 

"  No  ;  and  I  was  often  tempted  to  gratify  your  cu 
riosity  :  but  from  the  little  intercourse^!  had  had  with 
the  world,  I  had  adopted  some  precocious  principles; 
and  one  was,  that  a  man's  influence  over  others  was 
vulgarized  and  diminished  by  a  knowledge  of  his 
history." 

I  smiled,  and  as  the  boat  sped  on  her  Avay  over  the 
calm  waters  of  the  Cayuga,  St.  John  went  on  lei 
surely  with  a  story  which  is  scarce  remarkable  enough 
for  a  repetition.  He  believed  himself  the  natural  son 
of  a  western  hunter,  but  only  knew  that  he  had  passed 
his  early  youth  on  the  borders  of  civilization,  between 
•vyhites  and  Indians,  and  that  he  had  been  more  par 
ticularly  indebted  for  protection  to  the  father  of  Nunu. 
Mingled  ambition  and  curiosity  had  led  him  eastward 
while  still  a  lad,  and  a  year  or  two  of  a  most  vagabond 
life  in  the  different  cities  had  taught  him  the  caution 


and  bitterness  for  which  he  was  so  remarkable.  A 
fortunate  experiment  in  lotteries  supplied  him  with 
the  means  of  education,  and,  with  singular  application 
in  a  youth  of  such  wandering  habits,  he  had  applied 
himself  to  study  under  a  private  master,  fitted  him 
self  for  the  university  in  half  the  usual  time,  and  cul 
tivated,  in  addition,  the  literary  taste  which  I  have  re 
marked  upon. 

"  This,"  he  said,  smiling  at  my  look  of  astonish 
ment,  "  brings  me  up  to  the  time  when  we  met.  I 
came  to  college  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  with  a  few 
hundred  dollars  in  my  pocket,  some  pregnant  experi 
ence  of  the  rough  side  of  the  world,  great  confidence 
in  myself,  and  distrust  of  others,  and,  1  believe,  a  kind 
of  instinct  of  good  manneis,  which  made  me  ambi 
tious  of  shilling  in  society.  Yon  were  a  witness  to 
my  debut.  Miss  Temple  was  the  first  highly-edu 
cated  woman  I  had  ever  known,  and  you  saw  her 
effect  on  me." 

"And  since  we  parted  ?" 

11  Oh,  since  we  parted  my  life  has  been  vulgar 
enough.  I  have  ransacked  civilized  life  to  the  bot 
tom,  and  found  it  a  heap  of  unredeemed  falsehoods. 
I  do  not  say  it  from  common  disappointment,  for  I 
may  say  I  succeeded  in  everything  I  undertook " 

"Except  Miss  Temple,"  1  said,  interrupting,  at  the 
hazard  of  wounding  him. 

"No;  she  was  a  coquette,  and  I  pursued  her  till  I 
had  my  turn.  You  see  me  in  my  new  character  now. 
But  a  month  ago  I  was  the  Apollo  of  Saratoga,  play 
ing  my  own  game  with  Miss  Temple.  I  left  her  for 
a  woman  worth  ten  thousand  of  her — and  here  she 
is." 

As  Nunu  came  up  the  companion-way  from  the 
cabin,  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  breathing  creature 
so  exquisitely  lovely.  With  the  exception  of  a  pair 
of  brilliant  moccasins  on  her  feet,  she  was  dressed  in 
the  usual  manner,  but  with  the  most  absolute  sim 
plicity.  She  had  changed  in  those  five  years  from 
the  child  to  the  woman,  and,  with  a  rouiul  and  well- 
developed  fiuure,  additional  height,  and  manners  at 
once  gracious  and  dignified,  she  walked  and  looked 
the  chieftain's  daughter.  St.  John  took  her  hand, 
and  gazed  on  her  with  moisture  in  his  eyes. 

"  That  I  could  ever  have  put  a  creature  like  this," 
he  said,  "  into  comparison  with  the  dolls  of  civiliza 
tion!" 

We  parted  at  Buffalo  ;  St.  John  with  his  wife  and 
the  chiefs  to  pursue  their  way  westward  by  Lake 
Erie,  and  I  to  go  moralizing  on  my  way  to  Niagara. 


F,  SMITH, 

Nature  had  made  him  for  some  other  planet, 

And  pressed  his  xonl  into  a  human  shape 

By  accident  or  malice."  COLEHIDOB. 


"  I  '!»•  liave  you  chronicled,  and  chronicled,  and  cut-and-chron- 
iclnd,  and  sung  in  all-to-be-praised  sonnets,  and  graved  in  new 
brave  ballads,  tliat  all  tongues  shall  troule  you."— PUILASTEE. 

IF  you  can  imagine  a  buried  Titan  lying  along  the 
length  of  a  continent  with  one  arm  stretched  out  into 
the  midst  of  the  sea,  the  place  to  which  I  would  trans 
port  you,  reader  mine !  would  lie  as  it  were  in  the 
palm  of  the  giant's  hand.  The  small  promontory  to 
which  I  refer,  which  becomes  an  island  in  certain 
states  of  the  tide,  is  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  long  capes 
of  Massachusetts,  and  is  still  called  by  its  Indian  name, 
Nuhant.  Not  to  make  you  uncomfortable,  I  beg  to 
introduce  you  at  once  to  a  pretentious  hotel,  "squat- 
like  a  toad"  upon  the  unsheltered  and  highest  point 
of  this  citadel  in  mid  sea,  and  a  very  great  resort  for 
the  metropolitan  New-Englanders.  Nahant  is  per- 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


haps,  liberally  measured,  a  square  half-mile ;  and  it  is 
distant  from  what  may  fairly  be  called  mainland,  per 
haps  a  league. 

Road  to  Nahant  there  is  none.  The  oi  pottm  go 
there  by  steam  ;  but  when  the  tide  is  down,  you  may 
drive  there  with  a  thousand  chariots  over  the  bottom 
of  the  sea.  As  I  suppose  there  is  not  such  another 
place  in  the  known  world,  my  tale  will  wait  while  I 
describe  it  more  fully.  If  the  Bible  had  been  a  fic 
tion  (not  to  speak  profanely),  I  should  have  thought 
the  idea  of  the  destruction  of  Pharaoh  and  his  host 
had  its  origin  in  some  such  wonder  of  nature. 

Nahant  is  so  far  out  into  the  ocean,  that  what  is 
called  the  "ground  swell,"  the  majestic  heave  of  its 
great  bosom  going  on  for  ever  like  respiration  (though 
its  face  may  be  like  a  mirror  beneath  the  sun,  and  a 
wind  may  not  have  crisped  its  surface  for  days  and 
weeks),  is  as  broad  and  powerful  within  a  rood  of  the 
shore  as  it  is  a  thousand  miles  at  sea. 

The  promontory  itself  is  never  wholly  left  by  the 
ebb  ;  but,  from  its  western  extremity,  there  runs  a 
narrow  ridge,  scarce  broad  enough  for  a  horse-path, 
impassible  for  tho  rocks  and  sea-weed  of  which  it  is 
matted,  and  extending  at  just  high-water  mark  fro.m 
Nahant  to  the  mainland.  Seaward  from  this  ridge, 
which  is  the  only  connexion  of  the  promontory  with 
the  continent,  descends  an  expanse  of  sand,  left  bare 
six  hours  out  of  the  twelve  by  the  retreating  sea,  as 
smooth  and  hard  as  marble,  and  as  broad  and  appa 
rently  as  level  as  the  plain  of  the  Hermus.  For  three 
miles  it  stretches  away  without  shell  or  stone,  a  sur 
face  of  white,  fine-grained  sand,  beaten  so  hard  by  the 
eternal  hammer  of  the  surf,  that  the  hoof  of  a  horse 
scarce  marks  it,  and  the  heaviest  wheel  leaves  it  as 
printless  as  a  floor  of  granite.  This  will  be  easily  un 
derstood  when  you  remember  the  tremendous  rise  and 
fall  of  the  ocean  swell,  from  the  very  bosom  of  which, 
in  all  its  breadth  and  strength,  roll  in  the  waves  of  the 
flowing  tide,  breaking  down  on  the  beach,  every  one, 
with  the  thunder  of  a  host  precipitated  from  the  bat 
tlements  of  a  castle.  Nothing  could  be  more  solemn 
and  anthem-like  than  the  succession  of  these  plunging 
surges.  And  when  the  "  tenth  wave''  gathers,  far  out 
at  sea,  and  rolls  onward  to  the  shore,  first  with  a 
glassy  and  heaving  swell  as  if  some  mighty  monster 
were  lurching  inland  beneath  the  water,  and  then, 
bursting  up  into  foam,  with  a  front  like  an  endless  and 
sparry  crystal  wall,  advances  and  overwhelms  every 
thing  in  its  progress,  till  it  breaks  with  a  centupled 
thunder  on  the  beach — it  has  seemed  to  me,  standing 
there,  as  if  thus  might  have  beaten  the  first  surge  on 
the  shore  after  the  fiat  which  "  divided  sea  and  land." 
I  am  no  Cameronian,  but  the  sea  (myself  on  shore) 
always  drives  me  to  Scripture  for  an  illustration  of  my 
feelings. 

The  promontory  of  Nahant  must  be  based  on  the 
earth's  axle,  else  I  can  not  imagine  how  ii  should  have 
lasted  so  long.  In  the  mildest  weather,  the  ground- 
swell  of  the  sea  gives  it  a  fillip  at  every  heave  that 
would  lay  the  "  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels"  as  low  as 
Memphis.  The  wine  trembles  in  your  beaker  of 
claret  as  you  sit  after  dinner  at  the  hotel ;  and  if  you 
look  out  at  the  eastern  balcony  (for  it  is  a  wooden 
pagoda,  with  balconies,  verandahs,  and  colonnades  ad 
libitum),  you  will  see  the  grass  breathless  in  the  sun 
shine  upon  the  lawn,  and  the  ocean  as  polished  and 
calm  as  Miladi's  brow  beyond,  and  yet  the  spray  and 
foam  dashing  fifty  feet  into  the  air  between,  and  en 
veloping  the  "Devil's  Pulpit"  (a  tall  rock  split  off  from 
the  promontory's  front)  in  a  perpetual  kaleidoscope  of 
mist  and  rainbows.  Take  the  trouble  to  transport 
yourself  there  !  I  will  do  the  remaining  honors  on  the 
spot.  A  cavern  as  cool  (not  as  silent)  as  those  of 
Trophonius  lies  just  under  the  brow  of  yonder  preci 
pice,  and  the  waiter  shall  come  after  us  with  our  wine. 
You  have  dined  with  the  Borromeo  in  the  grotto  of 


Isola  Bella,  I  doubt  not,  and  know  the  perfection  of 
art — I  will  show  you  that  of  nature.  (I  should  like  to 
transport  you  for  a  similar  contrast  from  Terni  to 
Niagara,  or  from  San  Giovanni  Laterano  to  an  aisle  in 
a  forest  of  Michigan  ;  but  the  Daedalian  mystery,  alas ! 
is  unsolved.  We  "fly  not  yet.") 

Here  we  are,  then,  in  the  "Swallow's  Cave."  The 
floor  descends  by  a  g'entle  declivity  to  the  sea,  and 
from  the  long  dark  cleft  stretching  outward  you  look 
forth  upon  the  broad  Atlantic — the  shore  of  Ireland 
the  first  terra  firma  in  the  path  of  your  eye.  Here  is 
a  dark  pool  left  by  the  retreating  tide  for  a  refrigerator, 
and  with  the  champagne  in  the  midst,  we  will  recline 
about  it  like  the  soft  Asiatics  of  whom  we  learned 
pleasure  in  the  east,  and  drink  to  the  small-featured 
and  purple-lipped  "  Mignons"  of  Syria — those  fine- 
limbed  and  fiery  slaves,  adorable  as  Peris,  and  by  turns 
languishing  and  stormy,  whom  you  buy  for  a  pinch 
of  piastres  (say  51.  5s.)  in  sunny  Damascus.  Your 
drowsy  Circassian,  faint  and  dreamy,  or  your  crockery 
Georgian — fit  dolls  for  the  sensual  Turk — is,  to  him 
who  would  buy  soul,  dear  at  a  para  the  hecatomb. 

We  recline,  as  it  were,  in  an  ebon  pyramid,  with  a 
hundred  feet  of  floor  and  sixty  of  wall,  and  the  fourth 
side  open  to  the  sky.  The  light  comes  in  mellow  and 
dim,  and  the  sharp  edges  of  the  rocky  portal  seem  let 
into  the  pearly  arch  of  heaven.  The  tide  is  at  half- 
ebb,  and  the  advancing  and  retreating  waves,  which  at 
first  just  lifted  the  fringe  of  crimson  dulse  at  the  lip 
of  the  cavern,  now  dash  their  spray-pearls  on  the  rock 
below,  the  "tenth"  surge  alone  rallying  as  if  in  scorn 
of  its  retreating  fellows,  and,  like  the  chieftain  of  Cul- 
loden  Moor,  rushing  back  singly  to  the  contest.  And 
now  that  the  waters  reach  the  entrance  no  more,  come 
forward  and  look  on  the  sea  !  The  swell  lifts  ! — would 
you  not  think  the  bases  of  the  earth  rising  beneath  it? 
It  falls ! — would  you  not  think  the  foundation  of  the 
deep  had  given  way  ?  A  plain,  broad  enough  for  the 
navies  of  the  world  to  ride  at  large,  heaves  up  evenly 
and  steadily  as  if  it  would  lie  against  the  sky,  rests  a 
moment  spell-bound  in  its  place,  and  falls  again  as 
far — the  respiration  of  a  sleeping  child  not  more  reg 
ular  and  full  of  slumber.  It  is  only  on  the  shore  that 
it  chafes.  Blessed  emblem  !  it  is  at  peace  with  itself! 
The  rocks  war  with  a  nature  so  unlike  their  own,  and 
the  hoarse  din  of  their  border  onsets  resounds  through 
the  caverns  they  have  rent  open ;  but  beyond,  in  the 
calm  bosom  of  the  ocean,  what  heavenly  dignity !  what 
godlike  unconsciousness  of  alarm !  I  did  not  think  we 
should  stumble  on  such  a  moral  in  the  cave ! 

By  the  deeper  base  of  its  hoarse  organ,  the  sea  is 
now  playing  upon  its  lowest  stops,  and  the  tide  is  down. 
Hear!  how  it  rushes  in  beneath  the  rocks,  broken  and 
stilled  in  its  tortuous  way,  till  it  ends  with  a  washing 
and  dull  hiss  among  the  sea-weed,  and,  like  a  myriad 
of  small  tinkling  bells,  the  dripping  from  the  crags  is 
audible.  There  is  fine  music  in  the  sea ! 

And  now  the  beach  is  bare.  The  cave  begins  to 
cool  and  darken,  and  the  first  gold  teint  of  sunset  is 
stealing  into  the  sky,  and  the  sea  looks  of  a  changing 
opal,  green,  purple,  and  white,  as  if  its  floor  were 
paved  with  pearl,  and  the  changing  light  struck  up 
through  the  waters.  And  there  heaves  a  ship  into  the 
horizon,  like  a  white-winged  bird  lying  with  dark  breast 
on  the  waves,  abandoned  of  the  sea-breeze  within  sight 
of  port,  and  repelled  even  by  the  spicy  breath  that 
comes  with  a  welcome  off  the  shore.  She  comes  from 
"merry  England."  She  is  freighted  with  more  than 
merchandise.  The  home-sick  exile  will  gaze  on  her 
snowy  sail  as  she  sets  in  with  the  morning  breeze,  and 
bless  it ;  for  the  wind  that  first  filled  it  on  its  way 
swept  through  the  green  valley  of  his  home !  What 
links  of  human  affection  brings  she  over  the  sea? 
How  much  comes  in  her  that  is  not  in  her  "bill  of 
lading,"  yet  worth,  to  the  heart  that  is  waiting  for  it,  a 
thousand  times  the  purchase  of  her  whole  venture ! 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


Mais  montons  nous!  I  hear  the  small  hoofs  of 
Thalaba;  my  stanhope  waits;  we  will  leave  this  half 
bottle  of  champagne,  that  "  remainder  biscuit,"  and  the 
echoes  of  our  philosophy,  to  the  Naiads  who  have  lent 
us  their  drawing-room.  Undine,  or  Egeria!  Lurly, 
or  Arethusa!  whatever  thou  art  called,  nympth  of  this 
shadowy  cave!  adieu! 

Slowly,  Thalaba!  Tread  gingerly  down  this  rocky 
descent !  So  !  Here  we  are  on  the  floor  of  the  vasty 
deep!  What  a  glorious  race-course  !  The  polished 
and  printless  sand  spreads  away  before  you  as  far  as 
the  eye  can  see,  the  surf  comes  in  below,  breast-high 
ere  it  breaks,  and  the  white  fringe  of  the  sliding  wave 
shoots  up  the  beach,  but  leaves  room  for  the  marching 
of  a  Persian  phalanx  on  the  sands  it  has  deserted. 
Oh,  how  noiselessly  runs  the  wheel,  and  how  dreamily 
we  glide  along,  feeling  our  motion  but  in  the  resist 
ance  of  the  wind,  and  by  the  trout-like  pull  of  the 
ribands  by  the  excited  animal  before  us.  Mark  the 
color  of  the  sand!  Whit 


Hence  I  speak  not  of  the  friends  I  made,  rambling  by 
lake  or  river.  The  lake  and  the  river  are  there,  but 
the  friends  are  changed — to  themselves  and  me.  I 
speak  not  of  the  lovely  and  loving  ones  that  stood  by 
me,  looking  on  glen  or  waterfall.  The  glen  and  the 
waterfall  are  romantic  still,  but  the  form  and  the  heart 
that  breathed  through  it  are  no  longer  lovely  or  loving. 
I  should  renew  my  joys  by  the  old  mountain  and 
j  river,  for,  all  they  ever  were  I  should  find  them  still, 
I  and  never  seem  to  myself  grown  old,  or  cankered  of 
the  world,  or  changed  in  form  or  spirit,  while  they 
reminded  me  but  of  my  youth,  with  their  familiar 
sunshine  and  beauty.  But  the  friends  that  I  knew — 
as  I  knew  them — are  dead.  They  look  no  longer 
the  same ;  they  have  another  heart  in  them  ;  the 
kindness  of  the  eye,  the  smilingness  of  the  lip,  are 
no  more  there.  Philosophy  tells  me  the  material 
and  living  body  changes  and  renews,  particle  by  par 
ticle,  with  time  ;  and  experience — cold-blooded  and 


it  high-water  mark,  and  j  stony  monitor — tells  me,  in  his  frozen  monotone,  that 
thence  deepening  to  a  silvery  gray  as  the  water  has  '  heart  and  spirit  change  with  it  and  renew  !  But  the 
evaporated  less — a  slab  of  Egyptian  granite  in  the  I  name  remains,  mockery  that  it  is!  and  the  memory 


obelisk  of  St.  Peter's  not  more  polished  and  unimpres- 
sible.  Shell  or  rock,  weed  or  quicksand,  there  is 
none ;  and  mar  or  deface  its  bright  surface  as  you 
will,  it  is  ever  beaten  down  anew,  and  washed  even  of 


sometimes;  and  so  these  apparitions  of  the  past — that 
we  almost  fear  to  question  when  they  encounter  us, 
lest  the  change  they  have  undergone  should  freeze  our 
blood — stare  coldly  on  us,  yet  call  us  by  name,  and 


!  wish  the  grave  of  the  past,  with  all  that  it  contained 
nty   |  of  kind  or   lovely,   had   been  sealed   for  ever.     The 


the  dust  of  the   foot  of  man,  by  the  returning  sea.  I;  answer,  though   coldly  to   their  own,   and   have  that 
You  may  write  upon  its  fine-grained  face  with  a  crow-  |   terrible  similitude   to  what  they  were,  mingled   with 
quill — you  may  course  over  its  dazzling  expanse  with  j   their  unsympathizing  and  hollow  mummery,  that 
a  troop  of  chariots. 

Most  wondrous  and  beautiful  of  all,  within  twenty.. 

yards  of  the  surf,  or  for  an  hour  after  the  tide  has  left  \.  heart  we  have  lain  near  before  our  birth  (so  read  I  the 
the  sand,  it  holds  the  water  without  losing  its  firm-  j   book  of  human  life)  is  the  only  one  that  can  not  for- 
ness,  and  is  like  a  gray  mirror,  bright  as  the  bosom  of  ;!  get  that  it  has  loved  us.     Saith   well  and   aflectiou- 
the  sea.     (By  your  leave,  Thalaba!)     And  now  lean  !|  ately  an  American  poet,  in  some   birth-day  verses  to 
over  the  dasher,  and  see  those  small  fetlocks  striking  •!  his  mother — 
up  from  beneath — the  flying  mane,  the  thorough-bred  j 
action,  the  small  and  expressive  head,  as  perfect  in  j 


the   reflection   as  in    the  reality;  like  Wordsworth's 
swan,  he 

"  Trots  double,  horse  and  shadow." 

You  would  swear  you  were  skimming  the  surface  of  j 
the  sea;  and  the  delusion  is  more  complete  as  the! 
white  foam  of  the  "tenth  wave'1  skims  in  beneath! 
wheel  and  hoof,  and  you  urge  on  with  the  treacherous 
element  gliding  away  visibly  beneath  you. 

We  seem  not  to  have  driven  fast,  yet  three  miles, 
fairly  measured,  are  left  behind,  and  Thalaba's  blood 
is  up.  Fine  creature!  I  would  not  give  him 


(  Mother  !  dear  mother  !  the  feelings  nurst 
As  I  hung  at  thy  bosom,  duns;  round  thee  first — 
'Twas  the  earliest  link  in  love's  warm  chain, 
'Tis  the  only  one  that  will  long  remain  ; 
And  as,  yearly  year,  and  day  by  day, 
Some  friend,  still  trusted,  drops  away, 
Mother  !  dear  mother  !  oh,  dost  thou  see 
HoiL'  the  shortened  chain  brings  me  nearer  thee  .'" 


I  have  observed  that  of  all  the  friends  one  has  in  the 
course  of  his  life,  the  truest  and  most  attached  is  ex 
actly  the  one  who,  from  his  dissimilarity  to  yourself, 
the  world  finds  it  very  odd  you  should  fancy.  We 

hear  sometimes  of  lovers  who  "are   made   for  each 
For  the  best  horse  the  Sun  has  in  his  stable."  |  other/,  ,)Ut  rardy  of  the  game  naturj|j  match  ^  f) .iend_ 

We  have  won  champagne  ere  now,  Thalaba,  and  I,  I  ship.  It  is  no  great  marvel.  In  a  world  like  this, 
trotting  on  this  silvery  beach  ;  and  if  ever  old  age  I  where  we  pluck  so  desperately  at  the  fruit  of  pleasure, 
comes  on  me,  and  I  intend  it  never  shall  on  aught  we  prefer  for  company  those  who  are  not  formed  with 
save  my  mortal  coil  (my  spirit  vowed  to  perpetual  precisely  the  same  palate  as  ourselves.  You  will  sel- 
youth),  I  think  these  vital  breezes,  and  a  trot  on  these  l!  dom  go  wrong,  dear  reader,  if  you  refer  any  human 
exhilarating  sands,  would  sooner  renew  my  prime  question  about  which  you  are  in  doubt  to  that  icy 
than  a  rock  in  St.  Hilary's  cradle,  or  a  dip  in  the  well  '  oracle — selfishness. 


of  Kanathos.     May  we  try  the  experiment  together, 
gentle  reader! 

I  am  not  settled   in  my  own  mind  whether  this  de 


My  shadow  for  many  years  was  a  gentle  monster, 
whom  "I  have  before  mentioned,  baptized  by  the  name 
of  Forbearance  Smith.  He  was  a  Vermontese,  a  de 


ription  of  one  of  my  favorite  haunts  in  America  scendant  of  one  of  the  puritan  pilgrims,  and  the  first 
was  written  most  to  introduce  the  story  that  is  to  fol-  j[  of  his  family  who  had  left  the  Green  mountains  since 
low,  or  the  story  to  introduce  the  description.  Possi-  the  flight  of  the  regicides  to  America.  We  assimilate 
bly  the  latter,  for  having  consumed  by  callow  youth  I  j  to  what  we  live  among,  and  Forbearance  was  very 

general 


in  wandering  "  to  and  fro  in  the  earth,"  like  Sathanas 
of  old,  and  looking  on  my  country  now  with  an  eye 
from  which  all  the  minor  and  temporary  features  have 
gradually  faded,  I  find  my  pride  in  it  (after  its  glory- 
as  a  republic)  settling  principally  on  the  superior 
handiwork  of  nature  in  its  land  and  water.  When 
I  talk  of  it  now,  it  is  looking  through  another's  eyes 
— his  who  listens.  I  do  not  describe  it  after  my  own 
memory  of  what  it  was  once  to  me,  but  according  to 
my  idea  of  what  it  will  seem  now  to  a  stranger. 


green,  and  very  like  a  mountain.     He  had  a 
i  resemblance  to  one  of  Thorwaldsen's  unfinished  apos- 
ties  —  larger  than  life,  and  just  hewn  into  outline.     My 


acquaintance  w 


th  him  commenced  during  my  first 


year  at  the  university.  He  stalked  into  my  room  one 
morning  with  a  hair-trunk  on  his  back,  and  handed  me 
the  follow  ing  note  from  the  tutor  : — 

41  SIR  :  The  faculty  have  decided  to  impose  upon 
you  the  fine  of  ten  dollars  and  damages,  for  painting 


24 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


the  president's  horse  on  sabbath  night  while  grazing 
on  the  college  green.  They,  moreover,  have  removed 
Freshman  Wilding  from  your  rooms,  and  appoint  as 
your  future  chum  the  studious  and  exemplary  bearer, 
Forbearance  Smith,  to  whom  you  are  desired  to  show 
a  becoming  respect. 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"ERASMUS  S^UFFI^EGREEK. 
"  To  Freshman  Slingsby." 

Bather  relieved  by  my  lenient  sentence  (for,  till  the 
next  shedding  of  his  well-saturated  coat,  the  sky-blue 
body  and  red  mane  and  tail  of  the  president's  once 
gray  mare  would  interfere  with  that  esteemed  animal's 
usefulness),  I  received  Air.  Smith  with  more  polite 
ness  than  he  expected.  He  deposited  his  hair-trunk  in 
the  vacant  bedroom,  remarked  with  a  good-humored 
smile  that  it  was  a  cold  morning,  and  seating  himself 
in  my  easiest  chair,  opened  his  Euclid,  and  went  to 
work  upon  a  problem,  as  perfectly  at  home  as  if  he 
had  furnished  the  room  himself,  and  lived  in  it  from 
his  matriculation.  I  had  expected  some  preparatory 
apology  at  least,  and  was  a  little  annoyed  ;  but  being 
upon  my  good  behavior,  I  bit  my  lips,  and  resumed 
the  "Art  of  Love,"  upon  which  I  was  just  then  prac 
tising  my  nascent  Latinity,  instead  of  calculating  loga 
rithms  for  recitation.  In  about  an  hour,  my  new  chum 
suddenly  vociferated  "Eureka!"  shut  up  his  book, 
and  having  stretched  himself  (a  very  unnecessary  op 
eration),  coolly  walked  to  my  dressing-table,  selected 
my  best  hair-brush,  redolent  of  Macassar,  and  used  it 
with  the  greatest  apparent  satisfaction. 

"  Have  you  done  with  that  hair-brush  ?"  I  asked,  as 
he  laid  it  in  its  place  again. 

"  Oh  yes  !" 

"  Then,  perhaps,  you  will  do  me  the  favor  to  throw 
it  out  of  the  window." 

He  did  it  without  the  slightest  hesitation.  He  then 
resumed  his  seat  by  the  fire,  and  I  went  on  with  my 
book  in  silence.  Twenty  minutes  had  elapsed,  per 
haps,  when  he  rose  very  deliberately,  and  without  a 
word  of  preparation,  gave  me  a  cuff  that  sent  me  fly 
ing  into  the  wood-basket  in  the  corner  behind  me.  As 
soon  as  I  could  pick  myself  out,  I  flew  upon  him.  but 
I  might  as  well  have  grappled  with  a  boa-constrictor. 
He  held  me  off  at  arm's  length  till  I  was  quite  ex 
hausted  with  rage,  and,  at  last,  when  I  could  struggle 
no  more,  I  found  breath  to  ask  him  what  the  devil  he 
meant. 

"  To  resent  what  seemed  to  me,  on  reflection,  to  be 
an  insult,"  he  answered,  in  the  calmest  tone,  "  and 
now  to  ask  your  pardon  for  a  fault  of  ignorance.  The 
first  was  due  to  myself,  the  second  to  you." 

Thenceforth,  to  the  surprise  of  everybody,  and  Bob 
Wilding  and  the  tutor,  we  were  inseparable.  I  took 
Bruin  (by  a  double  elision  Forbearance  became  "  bear," 
and  by  paraphrase  Bruin,  and  he  answered  to  the 
name) — I  took  him,  I  say,  to  the  omnium  shop,  and 
presented  him  with  a  dressing-case,  and  other  appli 
ances  for  his  outer  man  ;  and  as  my  inner  man  was 
relatively  as  much  in  need  of  his  assistance,  we  mu 
tually  improved.  I  instructed  him  in  poetry  and  po 
liteness,  and  he  returned  the  lesson  in  problems  and 
politics.  My  star  was  never  in  more  fortunate  con 
junction. 

Four  years  had  woven  their  threads  of  memory  about 
us,  and  there  was  never  woof  more  free  from  blemish. 
Our  friendship  was  proverbial.  All  that  much  care 
and  Macassar  could  do  for  Bruin  had  been  done,  but 
there  was  no  abating  his  seven  feet  of  stature,  nor  re 
ducing  the  size  of  his  feet  proper,  nor  making  the  mus 
cles  of  his  face  answer  to  their  natural  wires.  At  his 
most  placid  smile,  a  strange  waiter  would  run  for  n 
hot  towel  and  the  doctor  (colic  was  not  more  like  it 
self  than  that  like  colic);  and  for  his  motions — oh 
Lord  I  a  skeleton,  with  each  individual  bone  append 


ed  to  its  neighbor  with  a  string,  wculd  execute  a  pas 
scul  with  the  same  expression.  His  mind,  however, 
had  none  of  the  awkwardness  of  his  body.  A  simpli 
city  and  truth,  amounting  to  the  greatest  naivete,  and 
a  fatuitous  unconsciousness  of  the  effect  on  beholders 
of  his  outer  man,  were  its  only  approaches  to  fault  or 
foible.  With  the  finest  sense  of  the  beautiful,  the 
most  unerring  judgment  in  literary  taste,  the  purest 
romance,  a  fervid  enthusiasm,  constancy,  courage,  and 
good  temper,  he  walked  about  the  world  in  a  mask — 
an  admirable  creature,  in  the  guise  and  seeming  of  a 
ludicrous  monster. 

Bruin  was  sensitive  on  but  one  point.     He  never 
j  could  forgive  his  father  and  mother  for  the  wrong  they 
j  had  entailed  on  him  at  his  baptism.     "Forbearance 
j  Smith  !"  he  would  say  to  himself  sometimes  in  uncon 
scious  soliloquy,  "they  should  have  given  me  the  vir- 
|  tue  as  well  as  the  name  !"     And  then  he  would  sit 
with  a  pen,  and  scrawl  "  F.  Smith"  on  a  sheet  of  paper 
by  the  hour  together.     To  insist  upon  knowing  his 
Christian  name  was  the  one  impertinence  he  never 
fonrave. 


III. 


My  party  at  Nahant  consisted  of  Thalaba,  Forbear 
ance,  and  myself.  The  place  was  crowded,  but  I 
passed  my  time  very  much  between  my  horse  and  my 
i  friend,  and  was  as  certain  to  be  found  on  the  beach 
i  when  the  tide  was  down,  as  the  sea  to  have  left  the 


sands.  Job  (a  synonyme  for  Forbearance  which  be 
came  at  this  time  his  common  soubriquet)  was,  of 
course,  in  love.  Not  the  least  to  the  prejudice,  how 
ever,  of  his  last  faithful  passion — for  he  was  as  fond 
of  the  memory  of  an  old  love,  as  he  was  tender  in  the 
presence  of  the  new.  I  intended  to  have  had  him  dis 
sected  after  his  death,  to  see  whether  his  organization 
was  not  peculiar.  I  strongly  incline  to  the  opinion 
that  we  should  have  found  a  mirror  in  the  place  of  his 
heart.  Strange  !  how  the  same  man  who  is  so  fickle 
in  love,  will  be  so  constant  in  friendship  !  But  is  it 
fickleness  ?  Is  it  not  rather  a  supcrjlu,  of  tenderness  in 
the  nature,  which  overflows  to  all  who  approach  the 
fountain  ?  I  have  ever  observed  that  the  most  suscep 
tible  men  are  the  most  remarkable  for  the  finer  quali 
ties  of  character.  They  are  more  generous,  more 
delicate,  and  of  a  more  chivalrous  complexion  alto 
gether,  than  ether  men.  It  was  surprising  how  reason 
ably  Bruin  would  argue  upon  this  point"  "  Because 
I  was  happy  at  Niagara,"  he  was  saying  one  day  as 
we  sat  upon  the  rocks,  "  shall  I  take  no  pleasure  in 
the  falls  of  Montmorenci  ?  Because  the  sunset  was 
glorious  yesterday,  shall  I  find  no  beauty  in  that  of 
to-day  ?  Is  my  fancy  to  be  used  but  once,  and  the 
key  turned  upon  it  for  ever?  Is  the  heart  like  a  bon 
bon,  to  be  eaten  up  by  the  first  favorite,  and  thought 
of  no  more  ?  Are  our  eyes  blind,  save  to  one  shape 
of  beauty  ?  Are  our  ears  insensible  to  the  music  save 
of  one  voice  ?" 

"  But  do  you  not  weaken  the  heart,  and  become  in 
capable  of  a  lasting  attachment,  by  this  habit  of  incon 
stancy  1" 

"  How  long,  my  dear  Phil,  will  you  persist  in  talk 
ing  as  if  the  heart  was  material,  and  held  so  much  love 
as  a  cup  so  much  water,  and  had  legs  to  be  weary,  or 
organs  to  grow  dull  ?  How  is  my  sensibility  lessened 
— Tiow  my  capacity  enfeebled?  What  would  I  have 
done  for  my  first  love,  that  I  would  not  do  for  my  last  ? 
I  would  have  sacrificed  my  life  to  secure  the  happi 
ness  of  one  you  wot  of  in  days  gone  by:  I  would  jump 
into  the  sea,  if  it  would  make  Blanche  Carroll  happier 
to-morrow." 

"  Sautez-dvnc  !"  said  a  thrilling  voice  behind  ;  and 
as  if  the  utterance  of  her  name  had  conjured  her  out 
of  the  ground,  the  object  of  all  Job's  admiration,  and 
a  little  of  my  own,  stood  before  us.  She  had  a  work- 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


basket  in  her  hand,  a  gipsy-hat  tossed  carelessly  on 
her  bead,  and  had  preceded  a  whole  troop  of  belles 
and  matrons,  who  were  coming  out  to  while  away  the 
morning,  and  breathe  the  invigorating  sea-air  on  the 
rocks. 

Blanche  Carroll  was  what  the  women  would  call 
"  a  little  love,"  but  that  phrase  of  endearment  would 
not  at  all  express  the  feeling  with  which  she  inspired 
the  men.     She  was  small,  and   her  face  and  figure 
might  have  been  framed  in  fairy-land  for  bewitching 
beauty  ;  but  with  the  manner  of  a  spoiled  child,  and, 
apparently,  the  most  thoughtless  playfulness  of  mind, 
she  was  as  veritable  a  little  devil  as  ever  took  the  shape 
of  woman.     Scarce  seventeen  at  this  time,  she  had 
a  knowledge  of  character  that  was  like  an  instinct,  and  I 
was  an  accomplished  actress  in  any  part  it  was  neces 
sary  for  her  purpose  to  play.     No   grave  Machiavel  i 
ever  managed  his  cards  with  more  finesse  than  that  | 
little  intriguante  the  limited  world  of  which  she  was  ! 
the  star.     She  was  a  natural  master-spirit  and  plotter; 
and  the  talent  that  would  have  employed  itself  in  the  ! 
deeper  game  of  politics,  had  she  been  born  a  woman 
of  rank  in  EJurope,  displayed  itself,  in  the  simple  so-  j 
ciety  of  a  republic,  in  subduing  to  her  power  every-  : 
thing  in  the  shape  of  a  single  man  that  ventured  to  her  ' 
net.     I  have  nothing  to  tell  of  her  at  all  commensu 
rate  with  the  character  I  have  drawn,  for  the  disposal 
of  her  own  heart  (if  she  has  one)  must  of  course  be 
the  most  important  event  of  her  life  ;  but  I  merely 
pencil  the  outline   of  the   portrait   in   passing,  as  a  i 
specimen   of  the   material  that   exists — even   in  the  | 
simplest    society — for    the    dramatis   persons   of    a  i 
court. 


"  Good-night !     'Tis  little  now  to  thee 

That  in  my  ear  thy  words  were  spoken, 
And  thou  wilt  think  of  them  and  me 

As  long  as  of  the  bracelet  broken. 
For  thus  is  riven  many  a  chain 

That  thou  hast  fastened  but  to  break, 
And  thus  tliou'lt  sink  to  sleep  again, 

As  careless  that  another  wake  : 
The  only  thought  thy  heart  can  rend 
Is — what  the  fellou''ll  charge  to  mend!" 

Job's  conclusion  was  more  pathetic,  but  probably 
less  true.  He  appeared  after  the  applause  had  ceased, 
and  resumed  his  place  at  the  lady's  feet,  with  a  look 
in  his  countenance  of  having  deserved  an  abatement 
of  persecution.  The  beauty  spread  out  the  fragments 
of  the  broken  bracelet  on  the  rock  beside  her. 

"  Mr.  Smith  !"  said  she,  in  her  most  conciliating 
tone. 

Job  leaned  toward  her  with  a  look  of  devoted  in 
quiry. 

"  Has  the  tide  turned  ?" 

"  Certainly.     Two  hours  since." 

"  The  beach  is  passable,  then  ?" 

"  Hardly,  I  fear." 

"  No  matter.  How  many  hours'  drive  is  it  to  Sa 
lem  ?" 

"  Mr.  Slingsby  drives  it  in  two." 

"  Then  you'll  get  Mr.  Slingsby  to  lend  you  his 
stanhope,  drive  to  Salem,  have  this  bracelet  mended, 
and  bring  it  back  in  time  for  the  ball.  /  have  spoken, 
as  the  grand  Turk  says.  Allez  /" 

"  But  my  dear  Miss  Carroll " 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  mouth  as  he  began  to  re 
monstrate,  and  while  I  made  signs  to  him  to  refuse, 


We  followed  the  light-footed  beauty  to  the  shelter     she  said  something  to  him  which  I  lost  in  a  sudden 
of  one  of  the  caves  ope'ning  on  the  sea,  and  seated  our-  !   dash  of  tlle  waters-     He  looked  at  me  for  in^  ' 
selves   about  her  upon  the  rocks.  Some  one  proposed 
that  Job  or  myself  should  read. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Smith,"  interrupted  the  belle,  "where  is 
n.y  bracelet  ? — and  where  are  my  verses  ?" 

At   the   ball  the   night  before  she  had   dropped 


aracelet  in  the  waltz,  and  Job  had  been  permitted  to 
take  care  of  the  fragments,  on  condition  of  restoring 
them,  with  a  sonnet,  the  next  morning.     She  had  just  i 
thought  of  it. 

"  Read  them  out !  read  them  out !"  she  cried,  as 
Job,  blushing  a  deep  blue,  extracted  a  tri-colored  pink 
document  from  his  pocket,  and  tried  to  give  it  to  her  i 
unobserved,  with  the  packet  of  jewelry.  Job  looked 
at  her  imploringly,  and  she  took  the  verses  from  his 
hand,  and  ran  her  eye  through  them. 

"  Pretty  well !"  she  said  ;  "  but  the  last  line  might 
be  improved.  Give  me  a  pencil,  some  one  !"  And 
bending  over  it,  till  her  luxuriant  hair  concealed  her 
fairy  fingers  in  their  employment,  she  wrote  a  moment 
upon  her  knee,  and  tossing  the  paper  to  me,  bijde  me 
read  it  out  with  the  emendation.  Bruin  had,  mean 
time,  modestly  disappeared,  and  I  read  with  the  more 
freedom  • — 


'Twas  broken  in  the  gliding  dance, 

When  thou  wcrt  in  I  he  dream  of  power  ; 
When  shape  and  motion,  tone  and  glance, 

Were  glorious  all — the  woman's  hour  ! 
The  light  lay  soft  upon  thy  brow, 

The  music  molted  in  thine  ear, 
And  one  perhaps  forgotten  now, 

With  -'wildered  thoughts  stood  listening  near. 
Marvelling  not  that  links  of  gold 
A  pulse  like  thine  had  not  controlled. 

'Tis  midnight  now.     The  dance  is  done, 

And  thou.  in  thy  soft  dreams,  asleep, 
And  I,  awake,  am  gazing  on 

The  fragments  given  me  to  keep  : 
I  think  of  every  glowing  vein 

That  ran  beneath  these  links  of  trnld, 
And  wonder  if  n.  thrill  of  pain 

Made  those  bright  channels  ever  cold  ! 
With  gifts  like  thine,  I  can  not  think 
Grief  ever  chilled  this  broken  link. 


for  my  consent. 

"  Oh  !  you  can  have  Mr.  Slingsby's  horse,"  said  the 
beauty,  as  I  hesitated  whether  my  refusal  would  not 
check  her  tyranny,  "  and  I'll  drive  him  out  this  even 
ing  for  his  reward,  N*est-ce  pasl  you  cross  man  !" 

So,  with  a  sun  hot  enough  to  fry  the  brains  in  his 
skull,  and  a  quivering  reflection  on  -the  sands  that 
would  burn  his  face  to  a  blister,  exit  Job,  with  the 
broken  bracelet  in  his  bosom. 

"Stop,  Mr.  Slingsby," said  the  imperious  little  belle, 
as  I  was  making  up  a  mouth,  after  his  departure,  to 
express  my  disapprobation  of  her  measures,  "no  lec 
ture,  if  you  please.  Give  me  that  book  of  plays,  and 
I'll  read  you  a  precedent.  Because  you  are  virtuous, 
shall  we  have  no  more  cakes  and  ale  ?  Ecoulez  !  And, 
with  an  emphasis  and  expression  that  would  have  been 
perfect  on  the  stage,  she  read  the  following  passage 
from  "  The  Careless  Husband  :" — 

"  Lady  Bef.li/ — The  men  of  sense,  my  dear,  make 
the  best  fools  in  the  world ;  their  sincerity  and  good 
breeding  throw  them  so  entirely  into  one's  power,  and 
give  one  such  an  agreeable  thirst  of  using  them  ill,  to 
show  that  power — 'tis  impossible  not  to  quench  it. 

"  Lady  Easy. — But,  my  Lord  Morelove — 

"  Lad'y  B. — Pooh  !  my  Lord  Morelove's  a  mere  In 
dian  damask — one  can't  wear  him  out:  o'  my  con- 
sciende,  I  must  give  him  to  my  woman  at  last.  I  begin 
to  be  known  by  him  ;  had  I  not  best  leave  him  oft",  my 
dear? 

"  Lady  E. — Why  did  you  ever  encourage  him  ? 

"Lady  B. — Why,  what  would  you  have  one  do? 
For  my  part,  I  could  no  more  choose  a  man  by  my 
eye  than  a  shoe — one  must  draw  them  on  a  little,  to 
see  if  they  are  riaht  to  one's  foot. 

"  Lady  E. — But  I'd  no  more  fool  on  with  a  man  I 
could  not  like,  than'wear  a  shoe  that  pinched  me. 

"  Lady  B. — Ay  ;  but  then  a  poor  wretch  tells  one 
he'll  widen  'em,  or  do  anything,  and  is  so  civil  and 
silly,  that  one  does  not  know  how  to  turn  such  a  trifle 
as  a  pair  of  shoes,  or  a  heart,  upon  a  fellow's  hands 
again. 

"  Lady  E — And  there's  my  Lord  Foppington. 


26 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


"Lady  B. — My  dear!  fine  fruit  will  have  flies  about 
it ;  but,  poor  things!  they  do  it  no  harm;  for,  if  you 
observe,  people  are  generally  most  apt  to  choose  that 
the  flies  have  been  busy  with.  Ha  !  ha  ! 

"  Lady  E. — Thou  art  a  strange,  giddy  creature ! 

"  Lady  B. — That  may  be  from  too  much  circula 
tion  of  thought,  my  dear!" 

"  Pray,  Miss  Carroll,"  said  I,  as  she  threw  aside  the 
book  with  a  theatrical  air,  "  have  you  any  precedent 
for  broiling  a  man's  brains,  as  well  as  breaking  his 
heart  ?  For,  by  this  time,  my  friend  Forbearance  has 
a  coup  de  soleil,  and  is  hissing  over  the  beach  like  a 
steam-engine." 

"  How  tiresome  you  are  !  Do  you  really  think  it 
will  kill  him  ?" 

"  It  might  injure  him  seriously — let  alone  the  dan 
ger  of  driving  a  spirited  horse  over  the  beach,  with  the 
tide  quarter-down." 

"  What  shall  I  do  to  be  '  taken  out  of  the  corner,' 
Mr.  Slingsby  ?" 

"Order  your  horses  an  hour  sooner,  and  drive  to 
Lynn,  to  meet  him  halfway  on  his  return.  I  will  re 
sume  my  stanhope,  and  give  him  the  happiness  of 
driving  back  with  you." 

"  And  shall  I  be  gentle  Blanche  Carroll,  and  no 
ogre,  if  I  do  ?" 

"Yes;  Mr.  Smith  surviving." 

"  Take  the  trouble  to  give  my  orders,  then ;  and 
come  back  immediately,  and  read  to  me  till  it  is  time 
to  go.  Meantime,  I  shall  look  at  myself  in  this  black 
mirror."  And  the  spoilt,  but  most  lovely  girl  bent 
over  a  dark  pool  in  the  corner  of  the  cave,  forming  a 
picture  on  its  shadowy  background  that  drew  a  mur 
mur  of  admiration  even  from  the  neglected  group  who 
had  been  the  silent  and  disapproving  witnesses  of  her 
caprice." 

IV. 

A  thunder-cloud  strode  into  the  sky  with  the  rapid 
ity  which  marks  that  common  phenomenon  of  a 
breathless  summer  afternoon  in  America,  darkened  the 
air  for  a  few  minutes,  so  that  the  birds  betook  them 
selves  to  their  nests,  and  then  poured  out  its  refresh 
ing  waters  with  the  most  terrific  flashes  of  lightning, 
and  crashes  of  thunder,  which  for  a  moment  seemed  to 
still  even  the  eternal  base  of  the  sea.  With  the  same 
fearful  rapidity,  the  black  roof  of  the  sky  tore  apart,  and 
fell  back,  in  rolling  and  changing  masses,  upon  the 
horizon ;  the  sun  darted  with  intense  brilliancy 
through  the  clarified  and  transparent  air;  the  light- 
stirring  breeze  came  freighted  with  delicious  coolness; 
and  the  heavy  sea-birds,  who  had  lain  brooding  on  the 
waves  while  the  tumult  of  the  elements  went  on,  rose 
on  their  cimeter-like  wings,  and  fled  away,  with  in 
comprehensible  instinct,  from  the  beautiful  and  freshen 
ed  land.  The  whole  face  of  earth  and  sky  had  been 
changed  in  an  hour. 

Oh,  of  what  fulness  of  delight  are  even  the  senses 
capable  !  What  a  nerve  there  is  sometimes  in  every 
pore  !  What  love  for  all  living  and  all  inanimate 
things  may  be  born  of  a  summer  shower  !  How  stirs 
the  fancy,  and  brightens  hope,  and  warms  the  heart, 
and  sings  the  spirit  within  us,  at  the  mere  animal  joy 
with  which  the  lark  flees  into  heaven!  And  yet,  of 
this  exquisite  capacity  for  pleasure  we  take  so  little 
care  !  We  refine  our  taste,  we  elaborate  and  finish 
our  mental  perception,  we  study  the  beautiful,  that 
we  may  know  it  when  it  appears — yet  the  senses  by 
which  these  faculties  are  approached,  the  stops  by 
which  this  fine  instrument  is  played,  are  trifled  with 
and  neglected.  We  forget  that  a  single  excess  blurs 
and  confuses  the  music  written  on  our  minds  ;  we 
forget  that  an  untimely  vigil  weakens  and  bewilders 
the  delicate  minister  to  our  inner  temple ;  we  know 


not,  or  act  as  if  we  knew  not,  that  the  fine  and  easily- 
jarred  harmony  of  health  is  the  only  interpreter  of 
Nature  to  our  souls  ;  in  short,  we  drink  too  much 
claret,  and  eat  too  much  pate  foie  gras.  Do  you  un 
derstand  me,  gourmand  et  gourmet  ? 

Blanche  Carroll  was  a  beautiful  whip,  and  the  two 
bay  ponies  in  her  phaeton  were  quite  aware  of  it.  La 
Bruyere  says,  with  his  usual  wisdom,  "  Une  belle 
femme  qui  a  les  qualites  d'un  honnete  homme  est  ce 
qu'il  y  a  au  monde  d'un  commerce  plus  delicieux  ;" 
and,  to  a  certain  degree,  masculine  accomplishments 
too,  are  very  winning  in  a  woman — if  pretty  ;  if  plain, 
she  is  expected  not  only  to  be  quite  feminine,  but 
quite  perfect.  Foibles  are  as  hateful  in  a  woman  who 
does  not  possess  beauty,  as  they  are  engaging  in  a  wo 
man  who  does.  Clouds  are  only  lovely  when  the 
heavens  are  bright. 

She  looked  loveliest  while  driving,  did  Blanche 
Carroll,  for  she  was  born  to  rule,  and  the  expression 
native  to  her  lip  was  energy  and  nerve ;  and  as  she 
sat  with  her  little  foot  pressed  against  the  dasher,  and 
reined  in  those  spirited  horses,  the  finely-pencilled 
mouth,  usually  playful  or  pettish,  wasr  pressed  to 
gether  in  a  curve  as  warlike  as  Minerva's,  and  twice 
as  captivating.  She  drove,  too,  as  capriciously  as 
she  acted.  At  one  moment  her  fleet  ponies  fled  over 
the  sand  at  the  top  of  their  speed,  and  at  the  next  they 
were  brought  down  to  a  walk,  with  a  suddenness 
which  threatened  to  bring  them  upon  their  haunches. 
Now  far  up  on  the  dry  sand,  cutting  a  zigzag  to 
lengthen  the  way,  and  again  below  at  the  tide  edge, 
with  the  waves  breaking  over  her  seaward  wheel ;  all 
her  powers  at  one  instant  engrossed  in  pushing  them 
to  their  fastest  trot,  and  in  another  the  reins  lying 
loose  on  their  backs,  while  she  discussed  some  sudden 
flight  of  philosophy.  "  Be  his  fairy,  his  page,  his 
everything  that  love  and  poetry  have  invented,"  said 
Roger  Ascham  to  Lady  Jane  Grey,  just  before  her 
marriage;  but  Blanche  Carroll  was  almost  the  only 
woman  I  ever  saw  capable  of  the  beau  ideal  of  fascina 
ting  characters. 

Between  Miss  Carroll  and  myself  there  was  a  safe 
and  cordial  friendship.  Besides  loving  another  better, 
she  was  neither  earnest,  nor  true,  nor  affectionate 
enough  to  come  at  all  within  the  range  of  my  possible 
attachments,  and  though  I  admired  her,  she  felt  that 
the  necessary  sympathy  was  wanting  for  love  ;  and, 
the  idea  of  fooling  me  with  the  rest  once  abandoned, 
we  were  the  greatest  of  allies.  She  told  me  all  her 
triumphs,  and  I  listened  and  laughed  without  thinking 
it  worth  while  to  burden  her  with  my  confidence  in 
return  ;  and  you  may  as  well  make  a  memorandum, 
gentle  reader,  that  that  is  a  very  good  basis  fora  friend 
ship.  Nothing  bores  women  or  worldly  persons  so 
uch  as  to  return  their  secrets  with  your  own. 

As  we  drew  near  the  extremity  of  the  beach,  a  boy 
rode  up  on  horseback,  and  presented  Miss  Carroll  with 
a  note.  I  observed  that  it  was  written  on  a  very  dirty 
slip  of  paper,  and  was  waiting  to  be  enlightened  as  to 

contents,  when  she  slipped  it  into  her  belt,  took  the 
whip  from  the  box,  and  flogging  her  ponies  through 
the  heavy  sand  of  the  outer  beach,  went  off,  at  a  pace 
which  seemed  to  engross  all  her  attention,  on  her  road 
to  Lynn.  We  reached  the  hotel  and  she  had  not 
spoken  a  syllable,  and  as  I  made  a  point  of  never  in 
quiring  into  anything  that  seemed  odd  in  her  conduct, 
I  merely  stole  a  glance  at  her  face,  which  wore  the 
expression  of  mischievous  satisfaction  which  I  liked 
he  least  of  its  common  expressions,  and  descended 
rom  the  phaeton  with  the  simple  remark,  that  Job 
could  not  have  arrived,  as  I  saw  nothing  of  my  stan- 
lope  in  the  yard. 

Mr.  Slingsby."     It  was  the  usual  preface  to  asking 
some  particular  favor. 
"  Miss  Carroll." 
"  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  walk  to  the  library  and 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


select  me  a  book  to  your  own  taste,  and  ask  no  ques 
tions  as  to  what  I  do  with  myself  meantime  ?" 

"But,  my  dear  Miss  Carroll— your  father " 

"  Will  feel  quite  satisfied  when  he  hears  that  Cato 
was  with  me.  Leave  the  ponies  to  the  groom,  Cato, 
and  follow  me."  I  looked  after  her  as  she  walked 
down  the  village  street  with  the  old  black  behind  her, 
not  at  all  certain  of  the  propriety  of  my  acquiescence, 
but  feeling  that  there  was  no  help  for  it. 

I  lounged  away  a  half  hour  at  the  library,  and  found 
Miss  Carroll  waiting  for  me  on  my  return.  There 
were  no  signs  of  Bruin  ;  and  as  she  seemed  impatient 
to  be  off,  I  jumped  into  the  phaeton,  and  away  we  flew 
to  the  beach  as  fast  as  her  ponies  could  be  driven 
under  the  whip.  As  we  descended  upon  the  sands 
she  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"It  is  so  civil  of  you  to  ask  no  questions,  Mr.  Slings- 
by ;  but  you  are  not  offended  with  me  ?" 

"  If  you  have  got  into  no  scrape  while  under  my 
charge,  I  shall  certainly  be  too  happy  to  shake  hands 
upon  it  to-morrow." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  ?"  she  asked  archly. 
"  Quite  sure." 

"  So  am  not  I,"  she  said  with  a  merry  laugh;  and 
in  her  excessive  amusement  she  drove  down  to  the  sea, 
till  the  surf  broke  over  the  nearest  pony's  back,  and 
filled  the  bottom  of  the  phaeton  with  water.  Our  wet 
feet  were  now  a  fair  apology  for  haste,  and  taking  the 
reins  from  her,  I  drove  rapidly  home,  while  she  wrap 
ped  herself  in  her  shawl,  and  sat  apparently  absorbed 
in  the  coming  of  the  twilight  over  the  sea. 


I  slept  late  after  the  bail,  though  I  had  gone  to  bed 
exceedingly  anxious  about  Bruin,  who  had  not  yet 
made  his  appearance.  The  tide  would  prevent  his 
crossing  the  beach  after  ten  in  the  morning  however, 
and  I  made  myself  tolerably  easy  till  the  sands  were 
passable  with  the  evening  ebb.  The  high-water  mark 
was  scarcely  deserted  by  the  waves,  when  the  same 
boy  who  had  delivered  the  note  to  Miss  Carroll  the 
day  before,  rode  up  from  the  beach  on  a  panting  horse, 
and  delivered  me  the  following  note : — 

"  DKAR  PHILIP  :   You  will  be  surprised  to  hear 
that  I  am  in  the  Lynn  jail  on  a  charge  of  theft  and 
utterance  of  counterfeit  money.     I  do  not  wait  to  tell 
you  the  particulars.     Please  come  and  identify, 
"  Yours  truly, 

"  F.  SMITH." 

I  got  upon  the  boy's  horse,  and  hurried  over  the 
beach  with  whip  and  spur.  I  stopped  at  the  justice's 
office,  and  that  worthy  seemed  uncommonly  pleased 
to  see  me. 

"  We  have  got  him,  sir,"  said  he.  « 

"  Got  whom  ?"  I  asked  rather  shortly. 

"  Why,  the  fellow  that  stole  your  stanhope  and  Miss 
Carroll's  bracelet,  and  passed  a  twenty  dollar  counter 
feit  bill — ha'n't  you  hearrc  on't  ?" 

The  justice's  incredulity,  when  I  told  him  it  was 
probably  the  most  intimate  friend  I  had  in  the  world, 
would  have  amused  me  at  any  other  time. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  see  the  prisoner?"  I  asked. 

"  Be  sure  I  will.  I  let  Miss  Carroll  have  a  peep  at 
him  yesterday,  and  what  do  you  think  ?  Oh,  Lord  ! 
he  wanted  to  make  her  believe  she  knew  him !  Good  ! 
wasn't  it?  Ha!  ha!  And  such  an  ill-looking  fel 
low!  Why,  I'd  know  him  for  a  thief  anywhere! 
Your  intimate  friend,  Mr.  Slingsby !  Oh,  Lord ! 
when  you  come  to  see  him  !  Ha !  ha  !" 

We  were  at  the  prison-door.  The  grating  bolts 
turned  slowly,  the  door  swung  rustily  on  its  hinges  as 
if  it  was  not  often  used,  and  in  the  next  minute  I  was 
enfolded  in  Job's  arms,  who  sobbed  and  laughed,  and 
Has  quite  hysterical  with  his  delight.  I  scarce  won 


dered  at  the  justice's  prepossessions  when  I  looked  at 

the   figure   he  made.     His  hat  knocked  in,  his  coat 

muddy,  his  hair  full  of  the  dust  of  straw— the  natural 

ideousness  of  poor  Job  had  every  possible  aggrava- 

We  were  in  the  stanhope,  and  fairly  on  the  beach, 
before  he  had  sufficiently  recovered  to  tell  me  the 
story.  He  had  arrived  quite  overheated  at  Lynn,  but, 
in  a  hurry  to  execute  Miss  Carroll's  commission,  he 
merely  took  a  glass  of  soda-water,  had  Thalaba's 
mouth  washed,  and  drove  on.  A  mile  on  his  way,  he 
was  overtaken  by  a  couple  of  ostlers  on  horseback 
who  very  roughly  ordered  him  back  to  the  inn.  He 
refused,  and  a  fight  ensued,  which  ended  in  his  beino- 
tied  into  the  stanhope,  and  driven  back  as  a  prisoner. 
The  large  note,  which  he  had  given  for  his  soda-water, 
it  appeared,  was  a  counterfeit,  and  placards,  offering  a 
reward  for  the  detection  of  a  villain,  described  in  the 
usual  manner  as  an  ill-looking  fellow,  had  been  stick 
ing  up  for  some  days  in  the  village.  He  was  taken 
before  the  justice,  who  declared  at  first  sight  that  he 
answered  the  description  in  the  advertisement.  His 
stubborn  refusal  to  give  the  whole  of  his  name  (he 
would  rather  have  died,  I  suppose),  his  possession  of 
my  stanhope,  which  was  immediately  recognised,  and 
lastly,  the  bracelet  found  in  his  pocket,  of  which  he 
refused  indignantly  to  give  any  account,  were  circum 
stances  enough  to  leave  no  doubt  on  the  mind  of  the 
worthy  justice.  He  made  out  his  mittimus  forthwith, 
granting  Job's  request  that  he  might  be  allowed  to 
write  a  note  to  Miss  Carroll  (who,  he  knew,  would 
drive  over  the  beach  toward  evening),  as  a  very  great 
favor.  She  arrived  as  he  expected. 

"  And  what  in  Heaven's  name  did  she  say  ?''  said  I, 
interested  beyond  my  patience  at  this  part  of  the  story. 

"Expressed  the  greatest  astonishment  when  the 
justice  showed  her  the  bracelet,  and  declared  she 
.never  saw  me  before  in  her  life!" 

That  Job  forgave  Blanche  Carroll  in  two  days,  and 
gave  her  a  pair  of  gloves  with  some  verses  on  the 
third,  will  surprise  only  those  who  have  not  seen  that 
lady.  It  would  seem  incredible,  but  here  are  the 
verses,  as  large  as  life  : — 

"  Slave  of  the  snow-white  hand  !  I  fold 

My  spirit  in  thy  fabric  fair  ; 
And  when  that  dainty  hand  is  cold, 

And  rudely  comes  the  wintry  air, 
Press  in  thy  light  and  straining  form 
Those  slender  fingers  soft  and  warm  ; 

And,  as  the  fine-traced  veins  within 
Quicken  their  bright  and  rosy  flow. 

And  gratefully  the  dewy  skin 
Clings  to  the  form  that  warms  it  so 

Tell  her  my  heart  is  hiding  there, 
Trembling  to  be  so  closely  prest, 

Yet  feels  how  brief  its'moments  are, 
And  saddens  even  to  be  blest — 
Fated  to  serve  her  for  a  day, 
And  then,  like  thee,  be  flung  away." 


EDITH  LINSEY. 

PART  1. 

FROST    AND    FLIRTATION. 

Oh  yes — for  you're  in  love  with  me .' 

(I'm  very  glad  of  it,  I'm  sure  ;) 
But  then  you  are  not  rich,  you  see. 

And  I you  know  I'm  very  poor  ! 

'Tis  true  that  I  can  drive  a  tandem — 

'Tis  true  that  I  can  turn  a  sonnet — 
'Tis  true  I  leave  the  law  at  random, 

When  I  should  study— plague  upon  it ! 
But  this  is  not— excuse  me  ! — m y  ! 

( A  thing  they  give  for  house  and  land  ;) 
And  we  must  eat  in  matrimony— 
And  love  is  neither  bread  nor  honey— 

And  so you  underatand !" 


•28 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


"  Thou  art  spotless  as  the  snow,  lady  mine,  lady  mine  ! 
Thou  art  spotless  as  the  snow,  lady  mine  ! 
But  the  noon  will  have  its  ray, 

And  hearts— why  should  not  they?— 
Why  not  thine  V     ' 

IT  began  to  snow.  The  air  softened ;  the  pattering 
of  the  horse's  hoofs  was  muffled  with  the  impeded  vi 
bration  ;  the  sleigh  glided  on  with  a  duller  sound  ; 
the  large  loose  flakes  fell  soft  and  fast,  and  the  low 
and  just  audible  murmur,  like  the  tread  of  a  fairy 
host,  melted  on  the  ear  with  a  drowsy  influence,  as  if 
it  were  a  descent  of  palpable  sleep  upon  the  earth. 
You  may  talk  of  falling  water — of  the  running  of  a 
brook — of  the  humming  song  of  an  old  crone  on  a 
sick  vigil — or  of  the  lem  susurro  of  the  bees  of  Hybla 
— but  there  is  nothing  like  the  falling  of  the  snow  for 
soft  and  soothing  music.  You  hear  it  or  not,  as  you 
will,  but  it  melts  into  your  soul  unaware.  If  you  have 
ever  a  heartache,  or  feel  the  need  of  "  poppy  or  man- 
dragora,"  or,  like  myself,  grow  sometimes  a-weary  of 
the  stale  repetitions  of  this  unvaried  world,  seek  me 
out  in  Massachusetts,  when  the  wind  softens  and  veers 
south,  after  a  frost — say  in  January.  There  shall 
have  been  a  long-lying  snow  on  the  ground,  well- 
trodden.  The  road  shall  be  as  smooth  as  the  paths 
to  our  first  sins — of  a  seeming  perpetual  declivity,  as 
it  were — and  never  a  jolt  or  jar  between  us  and  the 
edge  of  the  horizon ;  but  all  onward  and  down  appa 
rently,  with  an  insensible  ease.  You  sit  beside  me  in 
my  spring-sleigh,  hung  with  the  lightness  of  a  cob 
web  cradle  for  a  fairy's  child  in  the  trees.  Our  horse 
is,  in  the  harness,  of  a  swift  and  even  pace,  and  around 
his  neck  is  a  string  of  fine  small  bells,  that  ring  to  his 
measured  step  in  a  kind  of  muffled  music,  softer  and 
softer  as  the  snow-flakes  thicken  in  the  air.  Your 
seat  is  of  the  shape  of  the  fauteuil  in  your  library, 
cushioned  and  deep,  and  with  a  backward  and  gentle 
slope,  and  you  are  enveloped  to  the  eyelids  in  warm 
furs.  You  settle  down,  with  every  muscle  in  repose, 
the  visor  of  your  ermine  cap  just  shedding  the  snow 
from  your  forehead,  and  with  a  word,  the  groom  stands 
back,  and  the  horse  speeds  on,  steady,  but  beautifully 
fast.  The  bells,  which  you  hear  loudly  at  first,  begin 
to  deaden,  and  the  low  hum  of  the  alighting  flakes 
steals  gradually  on  your  ear;  and  soon  the  hoof- 
strokes  are  as  silent  as  if  the  steed  were  shod  with 
wool,  and  away  you  flee  through  the  white  air,  like 
birds  asleep  upon  the  wing  diving  through  the  feathery 
fleeces  of  the  moon.  Your  eyelids  fall — forgetfulness 
steals  upon  the  senses — a  delicious  torpor  takes  pos 
session  of  the  uneasy  blood — and  brain  and  thought 
yield  to  an  intoxicating  and  trance-like  slumber.  It 
were  perhaps  too  much  to  ask  that  any  human  bosom 
may  go  scathless  to  the  grave  ;  but  in  my  own  un 
worthy  petitions  I  usually  supplicate  that  my  heart 
may  be  broken  about  Christmas.  I  know  an  anodyne 
o'  that  season. 

Fred  Fleming  and  I  occupied  one  of  the  seven  long 
seats  in  a  stage-sleigh,  flying  at  this  time  twelve  miles 
in  the  hour  (yet  not  fast  enough  for  our  impatience), 
westward  from  the  university  gates.  The  sleighing 
had  been  perfect  for  a  week,  and  the  cold  keen  air  had 
softened  for  the  first  time  that  morning,  and  assumed 
the  warm  and  woolly  complexion  that  foretokened 
snow.  Though  not  very  cheerful  in  its  aspect,  this  is 
an  atmosphere  particularly  pleasant  to  breathe,  and 
Fred,  who  was  making  his  first  move  after  a  six  weeks' 
fever,  sat  with  the  furs  away  from  his  mouth,  nostrils 
expanded,  lips  parted,  and  the  countenance  altogether 
of  a  man  in  a  high  state  of  physical  enjoyment  I 
had  nursed  him  through  his  illness,  by-the-way,  in 
my  own  rooms,  and  hence  our  position  as  fellow- 
travellers.  A  pressing  invitation  from  his  father  to 
come  home  with  him  to  Skaneateles,  for  the  holydays, 
had  diverted  me  from  my  usual  winter  journey  to  the 
North ;  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  was  going 


upon  a  long  visit  to  a  strange  roof.  My  imagination 
had  never  more  business  upon  its  hands. 

Fred  had  described  to  me,  over  and  over  again, 
every  person  I  was  to  meet,  brothers,  sisters,  aunts, 
cousins,  and  friends — a  household  of  thirty  people, 
guests  included  ;  but  there  was  one  person  among 
them  of  whom  his  descriptions,  amplified  as  they 
were,  were  very  unsatisfactory. 

'•  Is  she  so  very  plain  ?"  I  asked  for  the  twentieth 
time. 

"  Abominably !" 

"  And  immense  black  eyes?" 

"  Saucers  !" 

"And  large  mouth?" 

"Huge!" 

"And  very  dark?" 

"  Like  a  squaw  !" 

"And  skinny  hands,  did  you  say  ?" 

"  Lean,  long,  and  pokerish  !" 

"  And  so  very  clever  ?" 

"  Knows  everything,  Phil  !" 

"But  a  sweet  voice  ?" 

"  Um  !  everybody  says  so." 

"  And  high  temper  ?" 

"  She's  the  devil,  Phil !  don't  ask  any  more  ques 
tions  about  her." 

"  You  don't  like  her,  then  ?" 

"  She  never  condescends  to  speak  to  me ;  how 
should  I  ?" 

And  thereupon  I  put  my  head  out  of  the  sleigh,  and 
employed  myself  with  catching  the  snow-flakes  on  my 
nose,  and  thinking  whether  Edith  Linsey  would  like 
me  or  no  ;  for  through  all  Fred's  derogatory  descrip 
tions,  it  was  clearly  evident  that  she  was  the  ruling 
spirit  of  the  hospitable  household  of  the  Flemings. 

As  we  got  farther  on,  the  new  snow  became  deeper, 
and  we  found  that  the  last  storm  had  been  heavier 
here  than  in  the  country  from  which  we  had  come. 
The  occasional  farm-houses  were  almost  wholly 
buried,  the  black  chimney  alone  appearing  above  the 
ridgy  drifts,  while  the  tops  of  the  doors  and  windows 
lay  below  the  level  of  the  trodden  road,  from  which  a 
descending  passage  was  cut  to  the  threshold,  like  the 
entrance  to  a  cave  in  the  earth.  The  fences  were 
quite  invisible.  The  fruit-trees  looked  diminished  to 
shrubberies  of  snow-flowers,  their  trunks  buried  under 
the  visible  surface,  and  their  branches  loaded  with  the 
still  falling  flakes,  till  they  bent  beneath  the  burden. 
Nothing  was  abroad,  for  nothing  could  stir  out  of  the 
road  without  danger  of  being  lost,  and  we  dreaded  to 
meet  even  a  single  sleigh,  lest  in  turning  out,  the 
horses  should  "slump"  beyond  their  depth,  in  the 
untrodden  drifts.  The  poor  animals  began  to  labor 
severely,  and  sunk  at  every  step  over  their  knees  in 
the  clogging  and  wool-like  substance  ;  and  the  long 
and  cumbrous  sleigh  rose  and  fell  in  the  deep  pits  like 
a  boat  in  a  heavy  sea.  It  seemed  impossible  to  get  on. 
Twice  we  brought  up  with  a  terrible  plunge  and  stood 
suddenly  still,  for  the  runners  had  struck  in  too  deep 
for  the  strength  of  the  horses;  and  with  the  snow- 
shovels,  which  formed  a  part  of  the  furniture  of  the 
vehicle,  we  dug  them  from  their  concrete  beds.  Our 
progress  at  last  was  reduced  to  scarce  a  mile  in  the 
hour,  and  we  began  to  have  apprehensions  that  out- 
team  would  give  out  between  the  post-houses.  For 
tunately  it  was  still  warm,  for  the  numbness  of  cold 
would  have  paralyzed  our  already  flagging  exertions. 

We  had  reached  the  summit  of  a  long  hill  with  the 
greatest  difficulty.  The  poor  beasts  stood  panting 
and  reeking  with  sweat;  the  runners  of  the  sleigh 
were  clogged  with  hard  cakes  of  snow,  and  the  air 
was  close  and  dispiriting.  We  came  to  a  stand-still, 
with  the  vehicle  lying  over  almost  on  its  side,  and  I 
stepped  out  to  speak  to  the  driver  and  look  forward. 
It  was  a  discouraging  prospect ;  a  long  deep  valley 
lay  before  us,  closed  at  the  distance  of  a  couple  of 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


miles  by  another  steep  hill,  through  a  cleft  in  the  top 
of  which  lay  our  way.  We  could  not  even  distinguish 
the  line  of  the  road  between.     Our  disheartened  ani 
mals  stood  at  this  moment  buried  to  their  breasts,  and 
to  get  forward  without  rearing  at  every  step  seemed 
impossible.     The  driver  sat  on  his  box  looking  un 
easily  down  into  the  valley.     It  was  one  undulating 
ocean  of  snow,  not  a  sign  of  a  human  habitation  to  be 
seen,  and  even  the  trees  indistinguishable  from   the 
general  mass  by  their  whitened  and  overladen  branch 
es.     The  storm  had  ceased,  but  the  usual  sharp  cold  | 
that  succeeds  a  warm  fall  of  snow  had  not  yet  light-  \ 
ened  the  clamminess   of  the   new-fallen    flakes,  and  | 
they  clung  around  the  foot  like  clay,  rendering  every 
step  a  toil. 

"  Your  leaders  are  quite  blown,"  I  said  to  the  dri 
ver,  as  he  slid  off  his  uncomfortable  seat. 

"  Pretty  nearly,  sir  !" 

"And  your  wheelers  are  not  much  better." 

"  Sca'cely." 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  the  weather?" 

"  It'll  be  darnation  cold  in  an  hour."  As  he  spoke 
he  looked  up  to  the  sky,  which  was  already  peeling 
off  its  clouds  in  long  stripes,  like  the  skin  of  an 
orange,  and  looked  as  hard  and  cold  as  marble  be 
tween  the  widening  rifts.  A  sudden  gust  of  a  more 
chilling  temperature  followed  immediately  upon  his 
prediction,  and  the  long  cloth  curtains  of  the  sleigh 
flew  clear  of  their  slight  pillars,  and  shook  oft'  their 
fringes  of  icicles. 

"  Could  you  shovel  a  little,  mister  ?"  said  the  dri-  ; 
ver,  handing  me  one  of  the  broad  wooden  utensils  ; 
from  his  foot-board,  and  commencing  himself,  after  ' 
having  thrown  off  his  box-coat,  by  heaving  up  a  solid  j 
cake  of  the  moist  snow  at  the  side  of  the  road. 

"It's  just  to  make  a  place  to  rub  down  them  ere-  j 
turs,"  said  he,  as  I  looked  at  him,  quite  puzzled  to 
know  what  he  was  going  to  do. 

Fred  was  too  weak  to  assist  us,  and  having  righted  j 
the  vehicle  a  little,  and  tied  down  the  flapping  cur-  i 
tains,  he  wrapped  himself  in  his  cloak,  and  I  set  heart-  i 
ily  to  work  with  my  shovel.  In  a  few  minutes,  taking 
advantage  of  the  hollow  of  a  drift,  we  had  cleared  a 
small  area  of  frozen  ground,  and  releasing  the  tired 
animals  from  their  harness,  we  rubbed  them  well  down 
with  the  straw  from  the  bottom  of  the  sleigh.  The 
persevering  driver  then  cleared  the  runners  of  their 
iced  and  clinging  masses,  and  a  half  hour  having 
elapsed,  he  produced  two  bottles  of  rum  from  his  box, 
and,  giving  each  of  the  horses  a  dose,  put  them  again 
to  their  traces.  - 

We  heaved  out  of  the  pit  into  which  the  sleigh  had 
settled,  and  for  the  first  mile  it  was  down-hill,  and  we 
got  on  with  comparative  ease.  The  sky  was  by  this 
time  almost  bare,  a  dark,  slaty  mass  of  cloud§  alone 
settling  on  the  horizon  in  the  quarter  of  the  wind, 
while  the  sun,  as  powerless  as  moonlight,  poured  with 
dazzling  splendor  on  the  snow,  and  the  gusts  came 
keen  and  bitter  across  the  sparkling  waste,  rimming 
the  nostrils  as  if  with  bands  of  steel,  and  penetrating  to 
the  innermost  nerve  with  their  pungent  iciness.  No 
protection  seemed  of  any  avail.  The  whole  surface 
of  the  body  ached  as  if  it  were  laid  against  a  slab  of 
ice.  The  throat  closed  instinctively,  and  contracted 
its  unpleasant  respiration — the  body  and  limbs  drew 
irresistibly  together,  to  economize,  like  a  hedge-hog, 
the  exposed  surface — the  hands  and  feet  felt  transmu 
ted  to  lead — and  across  the  forehead,  below  the  pres 
sure  of  the  cap,  there  was  a  binding  and  oppressive 
ache,  as  if  a  bar  of  frosty  iron  had  been  let  into  the 
scull.  The  mind,  meantime,  seemed  freezing  up — un 
willingness  to  stir,  and  inability  to  think  of  anything 
but  the  cold,  becoming  every  instant  more  decided. 

From  the  bend  of  the  valley  our  difficulties  became 
more  serious.  The  drifts  often  lay  across  the  road 
like  a  wall,  some  feet  above  the  heads  of  the  horses, 


and  we  had  dug  through  one  or  two,  and  had  been 
once  upset,  and  often  near  it,  before  we  came  to  the 
steepest  part  of  the  ascent.  The  horses  had  by  this 
time  begun  to  feel  the  excitement  of  the  rum,  and 
bounded  on  through  the  snow  with  continual  leaps, 
jerking  the  sleigh  after  them  with  a  violence  that 
threatened  momently  to  break  the  traces.  The  steam 
from  their  bodies  froze  instantly,  and  covered  them 
with  a  coat  like  hoar-frost,  and  spite  of  their  heat,  and 
the  unnatural  and  violent  exertions  they  were  making, 
it  was  evident  by  the  pricking  of  their  ears,  and  the 
I  sudden  crouch  of  the  body  when  a  stronger  blast 
swept  over,  that  the  cold  struck  through  even  their 
I  hot  and  intoxicated  blt>od. 

We  toiled  up,  leap  after  leap,  and  it  seemed  mirac 
ulous  to  me  that  the  now  infuriated  animals  did  not 
burst  a  blood-vessel  or  crack  a  sinew  with  every  one 
of  those  terrible  springs.  The  sleigh  plunged  on  af 
ter  them,  stopping  dead  and  short  at  every  other  mo 
ment,  and  reeling  over  the  heavy  drifts,  like  a  boat  in  a 
surging  sea.  A  finer  crystallization  had  meantime 
taken  place  upon  the  surface  of  the  moist  snow,  and 
the  powdered  particles  flew  almost  insensibly  on  the 
blasts  of  wind,  filling  the  eyes  and  hair,  and  cutting 
the  skin  with  a  sensation  like  the  touch  of  needle 
points.  The  driver  and  his  matldened  but  almost  ex 
hausted  team  were  blinded  by  the  glittering  and  whirl 
ing  eddies,  the  cold  grew  intenser  every  moment,  the 
forward  motion  gradually  less  and  less,  and  when,  with 
the  very  last  effort  apparently,  we  reached  a  spot  on 
the  summit  of  the  hill,  which,  from  its  exposed  situa 
tion,  had  been  kept  bare  by  the  wind,  the  patient  and 
persevering  whip  brought  his  horses  to  a  stand,  and 
despaired,  for  the  first  time,  of  his  prospects  of  getting 
on.  I  crept  out  of  the  sleigh,  the  iron-bound  runners 
of  which  now  grated  on  the  bare  ground,  but  found  it 
impossible  to  stand  upright. 

"  If  you  can  use  your  hands,"  said  the  driver,  turn 
ing  his  back  to  the  wind  which  stung  the  face  like  the 
lash  of  a  whip,  "  I'll  trouble  you  to  untackle  them 
horses." 

I  set  about  it,  while  he  buried  his  hands  and  face 
I  in  the  snow  to  relieve  them  for  a  moment  from  the 
agony  of  cold.  The  poor  animals  staggered  stiffly  as 
1  pushed  them  aside,  and  every  vein  stood  out  from 
their  bodies  like  ropes  under  the  skin. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  I  asked,  as  he  joined 
me  again,  and  taking  off  the  harness  of  one'  of  the 
leaders,  flung  it  into  the  snow. 

"  Hide  for  life  !"  was  his  ominous  answer. 

"  Good  God  !  and  what  is  to  become  of  my  sick 
;l  friend  ?" 

"  The  Almighty  knows — if  he  can't  ride  to  the 
;  tavern  !" 

I  sprang  instantly  to  poor  Fred,  who  was  lying  in 
j  the  bottom  of  the  sleigh  almost  frozen  to  death,  in- 
I  formed  him  of  the  driver's  decision,  and  asked  him  if 
i  he  thought  he  could  ride  one  of  the  horses.  He  was 
j  beginning  to  grow  drowsy,  the  first  symptom  of  death 
'  by  cold,  and  could  with  difficulty  be  roused.  With 
the  driver's  assistance,  however.  I  lifted  him  out  of  the 
sleigh,  shook  him  soundly,  and  making  stirrups  of  the 
traces,  set  him  upon  one  of  the  horses,  and  started 
him  off  before  us.  The  poor  beasts  seemed  to  have  a 
presentiment  of  the  necessity  of  exertion,  and  though 
stiff  and  sluggish,  entered  willingly  upon  the  deep 
drift  which  blocked  up  the  way,  and  toiled  exhaustedly 
i  on.  The  cold  in  our  exposed  position  was  agonizing. 
'  Every  small  fibre  in  the  skin  of  my  own  face  felt  split- 
!  ting  and  cracked,  and  my  eyelids  seemed  made  of  ice. 
;  Our  limbs  soon  lost  all  sensation.  I  could  only  press 
1  with  my  knees  to  the  horse's  side,  and  the  whole  col 
lected  energy  of  my  frame  seemed  expended  in  the 
exertion.  Fred  held  on  wonderfully.  The  driver  had 
still  the  use  of  his  arm,  arid  rode  behind,  flogging  the 
poor  animals  on,  whose  every  step  seemed  to  be  the 


30 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


last  summons  of  energy.  The  sun  set,  and  it  was 
rather  a  relief,  for  the  glitter  upon  the  snow  was  ex 
ceedingly  painful  to  the  sight,  and  there  was  no  warmth 
in  its  beams.  I  could  see  my  poor  friend  drooping 
gradually  to  the  neck  of  his  horse,  but  until  he  should 
drop  off  it  was  impossible  to  assist  him,  and  his  faith 
ful  animal  still  waded  on.  I  felt  my  own  strength  fast 
ebbing  away.  If  I  had  been  alone,  I  should  certainly 
have  lain  down,  with  the  almost  irresistible  inclination 
to  sleep ;  but  the  thought  of  my  friend,  and  the  shout 
ing  of  the  energetic  driver,  nerved  me  from  time  to 
time — and  with  hands  hanging  helplessly  down,  and 
elbows  fastened  convulsively  to  my  side,  we  plunged 
and  struggled  painfully  forward.  I  but  remember 
being  taken  afterward  to  a  fire,  and  shrinking  from  it 
with  a  shriek — the  suffering  of  reviving  consciousness 
was  so  intolerable.  We  had  reached  the  tavern  liter 
ally  frozen  upon  our  horses. 

II. 

I  was  balancing  my  spoon  on  the  edge  of  a  cup  at 
the  breakfast-table,  the  morning  after  our  arrival,  when 
Fred  stopped  in  the  middle  of  an  eulogium  on  my 
virtues  as  a  nurse,  and  a  lady  entering  at  the  same 
moment,  he  said  simply  in  parenthesis,  "  My  cousin 
Edith,  Mr.  Slingsby,"  and  went  on  with  his  story.  I 
rose  and  bowed,  and  as  Fred  had  the  parole,  I  had 
time  to  collect  my  courage,  and  take  a  look  at  the 
enemy's  camp — for,  of  that  considerable  household,  I 
felt  my  star  to  be  in  conjunction  or  opposition  with 
hers  only,  who  was  at  that  moment  my  vis-a-vis  across 
a  dish  of  stewed  oysters. 

In  about  five  minutes  of  rapid  mental  portrait-paint 
ing,  I  had  taken  a  likeness  of  Edith  Linsey,  which  I 
see  at  this  moment  (I  have  carried  it  about  the  world 
for  ten  years)  as  distinctly  as  the  incipient  lines  of  age 
in  this  thin-wearing  hand.  My  feelings  changed  in 
that  time  from  dread  or  admiration,  or  something  be 
tween  these,  to  pity  ;  she  was  so  unscrupulously  and 
hopelessly  plain — so  wretchedly  ill  and  suffering  in 
her  aspect — so  spiritless  and  unhappy  in  every  motion 
and  look.  "  I'll  win  her  heart,"  thought  I,  "  by  being 
kind  to  her.  Poor  thing  !  it  will  be  something  new  to 
her,  I  daresay!"  Oh,  Philip  Slingsby  !  what  a  doomed 
donkey  thou  wert  for  that  silly  soliloquy  ! 

And  yet  even  as  she  sat  there,  leaning  over  her  un- 
tasted  breakfast,  listless,  ill,  and  melancholy — with  her 
large  mouth,  her  protruding  eyes,  her  dead  and  sallow 
complexion,  and  not  one  redeeming  feature — there 
was  something  in  her  face  which  produced  a  phantom 
of  beauty  in  my  mind — a  glimpse,  a  shadowing  of  a 
countenance  that  Beatrice  Cenci  might  have  worn  at 
her  last  innocent  orison — a  loveliness  moulded  and 
exalted  by  superhuman  and  overpowering  mind — in 
stinct  through  all  its  sweetness  with  energy  and  fire. 
So  strong  was  this  phantom  portrait,  that  in  all  my 
thoughts  of  her  as  an  angel  in  heaven  (for  I  supposed 
her  dying  for  many  a  month,  and  a  future  existence 
was  her  own  most  frequent  theme),  she  always  rose  to 
my  fancy  with  a  face  half  Niobe,  half  Psyche,  radiantly 
lovely.  And  this,  too,  with  a  face  of  her  own,  a  bond 
fide  physiognomy,  that  must  have  made  a  mirror  an 
unpleasant  article  of  furniture  in  her  chamber. 

I  have  no  suspicion  in  my  own  mind  whether  Time 
was  drunk  or  sober  during  the  succeeding  week  of 
those  Christmas  holydays.  The  second  Saturday  had 
come  round,  and  I  just  remember  that  Fred  was"  very 
much  out  of  humor  with  me  for  having  appeared  to 
his  friends  to  be  everything  he  had  said  I  was  not,  and 
nothing  he  had  said  I  was.  He  had  described  me  as 
the  most  uproarious,  noisy,  good-humored,  and  agree 
able  dog  in  the  world.  And  I  was  not  that  at  all — 
particularly  the  last.  The  old  judge  told  him  he  had 
not  improved  in  his  penetration  at  the  university. 

A  week  !  and  what  a  life  had  been  clasped  within 


its  brief  calendar,  for  me  !  Edith  Linsey  was  two 
years  older  than  I,  and  I  was  considered  a  boy.  She 
was  thought  to  be  dying  slowly,  but  irretrievably,  of 
consumption  ;  and  it  was  little  matter  whom  she  loved, 
or  how.  They  would  only  have  been  pleased,  if,  by 
a  new  affection,  she  could  beguile  the  preying  melan 
choly  of  illness ;  for  by  that  gentle  name  they  called, 
in  their  kindness,  a  caprice  and  a  bitterness  of  charac 
ter  that,  had  she  been  less  a  sufferer,  would  not  have 
been  endured  for  a  day.  But  she  was  not  capricious, 
or  bitter  to  me  !  Oh  no  !  And  from  the  very  extreme 
of  her  impatience  with  others — from  her  rudeness,  her 
violence,  her  sarcasm — she  came  to  me  with  a  heart 
softer  than  a  child's,  and  wept  upon  my  hands,  and 
weighed  every  word  that  might  give  me  offence,  and 
watched  to  anticipate  my  lightest  wish,  and  was  hum 
ble,  and  generous,  and  passionately  loving  and  depen 
dant.  Her  heart  sprang  to  me  with  a  rebound.  She 
gave  herself  up  to  me  with  an  utter  and  desperate 
abandonment,  that  owed  something  to  her  peculiar 
character,  but  more  to  her  own  solemn  conviction  that 
she  was  dying — that  her  best  hope  of  life  was  not  worth 
a  week's  purchase. 

We  had  begun  with  books,  and  upon  them  her  past 
enthusiasm  had  hitherto  been  released.     She  loved  her 
favorite  authors  with  a  passion.     They  had  relieved 
j  her  heart ;  and  there  was  nothing  of  poetry  or  philoso- 
|  phy  that  was  deep  or  beautiful,  in  which  she  had  not 
steeped  her  very  soul.     How  well  I  remember  her  re 
peating  to  me  from  Shelley  those  glorious  lines  to  the 
soaring  swan  : — 

"  Thou  hast  a  home, 

Beautiful  bird  !    Thou  voyagest  to  thy  home — 
Where  thy  swoet  mate  will  twine  her  downy  neck 
With  thine,  and  welcome  thy  return  with  eyes 
Bright  with  the  lustre  of  their  own  fond  joy  ! 
And  what  am  J,  that  I  should  linger  here, 
With  voice  far  sweeter  than  thy  dying  notes, 
Spirit  more  vast  than  thine,  frame  more  attuned 
To  beauty,  wasting  these  surpassing  powers 
To  the  deaf  air,  to  the  blind  earth,  and  heaven 
That  echoes  not  my  thoughts  !" 

There  was  a  long  room  in  the  southern  wing  of  the 
house,  fitted  up  as  a  library.  It  was  a  heavily-curtain 
ed,  dim  old  place,  with  deep-embayed  windows,  and  so 
many  nooks,  and  so  much  furniture,  that  there  was 
that  hushed  air,  that  absence  of  echo  within  it,  which 
is  the  great  charm  of  a  haunt  for  study  or  thought. 
It  was  Edith's  kingdom.  She  might  lock  the  door, 
if  she  pleased,  or  shut  or  open  the  windows  ;  in  short, 
when  she  was  there,  no  one  thought  of  disturbing  her, 
and  she  was  like  a  "  spirit  in  its  cell,"  invisible  and 
inviolate.  And  here  I  drank  into  my  very  life  and 
soul  the  outpourings  of  a  bosom  that  had  been  locked 
till  (as  we  both  thought)  the  last  hour  of  its  life — a 
flow  of  mingled  intellect  and  passion  that  overran  my 
heart  like  lava,  sweeping  everything  into  its  resistless 
fire,  and  (may  God  forgive  her !)  leaving  it  scorched 
and  desolate  when  its  mocking  brightness  had  gone 
out. 

I  remember  that  "  Elia"— Charles  Lamb's  Elia — 
was  the  favorite  of  favorites  among  her  books  ;  and 
partly  that  the  late  death  of  this  most-to-be-loved  au 
thor  reminded  me  to  look  it  up,  and  partly  to  have 
time  to  draw  back  my  indifference  over  a  subject  that 
it  something  stirs  me  to  recall,  you  shall  read  an  imi 
tation  (or  continuation,  if  you  will)  that  I  did  for  Edith's 
eye,  of  his  "  Essay  on  Books  and  Reading."  I  sat 
with  her  dry  and  rleshless  hand  in  mine  while  I  read 
it  to  her,  and  the  fingers  of  Psyche  were  never  fairer 
to  Canova  than  they  to  me. 

"  It  is  a  litlle  singular,"  I  began  (looking  into  her 
eyes  as  long  as  I  could  remember  what  I  had  written), 
"  that,  among  all  the  elegancies  of  sentiment  for  which 
the  age  is  remarkable,  no  one  should  ever  have  thought 
of  writing  a  book  upon  '  Reading.'  The  refinements 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


3] 


of  the  true  epicure  in  books  are  surely  as  various  as 
those  of  the  gastronome  and  the  opium-eater ;  and  I 
can  conceive  of  no  reason  why  a  topic  of  such  natural 
occurrence  should  have  been  so  long  neglected,  unless 
it  is  that  the  taste  itself,  being  rather  a  growth  of  indo 
lence,  has  never  numbered  among  its  votaries  one  of 
the  busy  craft  of  writers. 

"  The  great  proportion  of  men  read,  as  they  eat,  for 
hunger.  I  do  not  consider  them  readers.  The  true 
secret  of  the  thing  is  no  more  adapted  to  their  compre 
hension,  than  the  sublimations  of  Louis  Eustacbe  Ude 
for  the  taste  of  a  day-laborer.  The  refined  reading- 
taste,  like  the  palate  of  gourmanderie,  must  have  got 
beyond  appetite — gross  appetite.  It  shall  be  that  of  a 
man  who,  having  led  through  childhood  and  youth 
on  simple  knowledge,  values  now  only,  as  it  were,  the 
apotheosis  of  learning — the  spiritual  narc.  There  are, 
it  is  true,  instances  of  a  keen  natural  relish  :  a  boy,  as 
you  will  sometimes  find  one,  of  a  premature  thought- 
fulness,  will  carry  a  favorite  author  in  his  bosom,  and 
feast  greedily  on  it  in  his  stolen  hours.  Elia  tells  the 
exquisite  story: — 

•  I  saw  a  boy,  with  eager  eye, 
Open  a  book  upon  a  stall, 
And  read  as  he'd  devour  it  all  ; 
Which,  when  the  stall-man  did  espy, 
Soon  to  the  boy  1  heard  him  call, 
"  You  sir,  you  never  buy  a  book, 
Therefore  in  one  you  shall  not  look  !" 
The  boy  passed  slowly  on,  and  with  a  sigh, 
He  wished  he  had  never  been  taught  to  read — 
Then  of  the  old  churl's  books  he  should  have  had  no  need.' 

"  The  pleasure  as  well  as  the  profit  of  reading  de 
pends  as  much  upon  time  and  manner,  as  upon  the 
book.  The  mind  is  an  opal — changing  its  color  with 
every  shifting  shade.  Ease  of  position  is  especially 
necessary.  A  muscle  strained,  a  "nerve  unpoised,  an 
admitted  sunbeam  caught  upon  a  mirror,  are  slight 
circumstances;  btit  a  feather  may  tickle  the  dreamer 
from  paradise  to  earth.  '  Many  a  froward  axiom,' 
says  a  refined  writer,  '  many  an  inhumane  thought 
hath  arisen  from  sitting  uncomfortably,  or  from  a  want 
of  symmetry  in  your  chamber.'  Who  has  not  felt,  at 
times,  an  unaccountable  disrelish  for  a  favorite  author? 
Who  has  not,  by  a  sudden  noise  in  the  street,  been 
startled  from  a  reading  dream,  and  found,  afterward, 
that  the  broken  spell  was  not  to  be  rewound  ?  An 
ill-tied  cravat  may  unlink  the  rich  harmonies  of  Tay 
lor.  You  would  not  think  Barry  Cornwall  the  de 
licious  heart  he  is,  reading  him  in  a  tottering  chair. 

"  There  is  much  in  the  mood  with  which  you  come 
to  a  book.  If  you  have  been  vexed  out  of  doors,  the 
good  humor  of  an  author  seems  unnatural.  I  think 
I  should  scarce  relish  the  'gentle  spiriting'  of  Ariel 
with  a  pulse  of  ninety  in  the  minute.  Or  if  I  had 
been  touched  by  the  unkindness  of  a  friend,*  Jack 
FalstalF  would  not  move  me  to  laughter  as  easily  as 
he  is  wont.  There  are  tones  of  the  mind,  however, 
to  which  a  book  will  vibrate  with  a  harmony  than 
which  there  is  nothing  more  exquisite  in  nature.  To 
go  abroad  at  sunrise  in  June,  and  admit  all  the  holy 
influences  of  the  hour — stillness,  and  purity,  and 
balm — to  a  mind  subdued  and  dignified,  as  the  mind 
will  be  by  the  sacred  tranquillity  of  sleep,  and  then  to 
come  in  with  bathed  and  refreshed  senses,  and  a  tem 
per  of  as  clear  joyfulness  as  the  soaring  lark's  and 
sit  down  to  Milton  or  Spenser,  or,  almost  loftier  still, 
the  divine  'Prometheus'  of  Shelley,  has  seemed  to  j 
me  a  harmony  of  delight  almost  too  heavenly  to  be 
human.  The  great  secret  of  such  pleasure  is  sym 
pathy.  You  must  climb  to  the  eagle  poet's  eyry. 
You  must  have  senses,  like  his,  for  the  music  that  is 
only  audible  to  the  fine  ear  of  thought,  and  the  beauty 
that  is  visible  only  to  the  spirit-eye  of  a  clear,  and  for 
the  time,  unpolluted  fancy.  The  stamp  and  pressure 
of  the  magician's  own  time  and  season  must  be  upon 
you.  You  would  not  read  Ossian,  for  example,  in  a 


j  bath,  or  sitting  under  a  tree  in  a  sultry  noon;  but 
I  after  rushing  "into  the  eye  of  the  wind  with  a  fleet 
horse,  with  all  his  gallant  pride  and  glorious  strength 
and  fire  obedient  to  your  rein,  and  so  mingling,  as  it 
will,  with  his  rider's  consciousness,  that  you  feel  as 
if  you  were  gifted  in  your  own  body  with  the  swift 
ness  and  energy  of  an  angel ;  after  this,  to  sit  down 
to  Ossian,  is  to  read  him  with  a  magnificence  of  de 
lusion,  to  my  mind  scarce  less  than  reality.  I  never 
envied  Napoleon  till  I  heard  it  was  his  habit,  after  a 
battle,  to  read  Ossian. 

"You  can  not  often  read   to  music.     But  I  love, 
•   when  the  voluntary  is  pealing  in  church — every  breath 
in  the  congregation  suppressed,  and  the  deep-volumed 
notes  pouring  through  the  arches  of  the  roof  with  the 
'  sublime  and  almost  articulate  praise  of  the  organ — to 
I  read,  from  the  pew  Bible,  tire  book  of  Ecclesiastes. 
I  The  solemn  stateliness  of  its  periods  is  fitted  to  music 
I  j  like  a  hymn.     It  is  to  me  a  spring  of  the  most  thril 
ling  devotion — though  I  shame  to  confess  that  the 
richness  of  its  eastern  imagery,  and,  above  all,  the  in 
imitable  beauty  of  its  philosophy,  stand  out  somewhat 
definitely  in  the  reminiscences  of  the  hour. 

"A    taste    for   reading   comes   comparatively    late. 
'Robinson   Crusoe'  will   turn   a   boy's   head   at  ten. 
The  'Arabian  Nights'  are   taken  to    bed  with  us  at 
twelve.     At  fourteen,    a   forward    boy   will   read   the 
'  Lady  of  the   Lake,'  'Tom  Jones,'  and  'Peregrine 
Pickle;'  and  at  seventeen  (not  before)  he  is  ready  for 
Shakspere,  and,  if  he  is  of  a  thoughtful  turn,  Milton. 
Most  men  do  not  read  these  last  with  a  true  relish  till 
!  after  this  period.     The   hidden  beauties  of  standard 
I  authors  break  upon  the  mind  by  surprise.     It  is  like 
discovering  a  secret  spring  in  an  old  jewel.     You  take 
up  the  book  in  an  idle  moment,  as  you  have  done  a 
j  thousand    times   before,   perhaps   wondering,  as   you 
I  turn  over  the  leaves,  what  the  world  finds  in  it  to  ad- 
j  mire,  when  suddenly,  as  you  read,  your  fingers  press 
|  close  upon  the  covers,  your  frame  thrills,  and  the 
i  passage  you  have  chanced  upon  chains  you   like  a 
j  spell — it  is  so  vividly  true  and    beautiful.     Milton's 
'  Comus'  flashed  upon  me  in  this  way.     I  never  could 
read  the  'Rape  of  the  Lock'  till  a  friend  quoted  some 
passages  from  it  during  a  walk.     I  know  no  more  ex 
quisite  sensation  than  this  warming  of  the  heart  to  an 
old  author;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  the  most  delicious 
portion  of  intellectual  existence  is  the  brief  period  in 
which,  one  by  one,  the  great  minds  of  old  are  admit 
ted  with   all   their  time-mellowed  worth  to  the  affec 
tions.     With  what  delight  I  read,  for  the  first  time, 
the  'kind-hearted  plays'  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher! 
How  I  doated   on  Burton !     What  treasures  to  me 
were  the  'Fairy  Queen'  and  the  Lyrics  of  Milton! 

"  I   used   to   think,  when  studying  the  Greek  and 
Latin  poets  in  my  boyhood,  that  to  be  made  a  school- 
author  was  a  fair  offset  against  immortality.     I  would 
as  lief,  it  seemed  to  rne,  have  my  verses  handed  down 
1  by  the  town-crier.     But  latterly,"  after  an  interval  of  a 
i  few  years,  I  have  taken  up  my  classics  (the  identical 
school_  copies  with  the  hard  places  all  thummed  and 
pencilled)  and  have  read  them  with  no  little  pleasure. 
:  It  is  not  to   be  believed  with  what  a  satisfaction   the 
riper  eye  glides  smoothly  over  the  once  difficult   line, 
i  finding  the  golden   cadence  of  poetry  beneath  what 
!  once  seemed  only  a  tangled  chaos  of  inversion.     The 
!  associations  of  hard  study,  instead  of  reviving  the  old 
i  distaste,  added   wonderfully   to   the  interest  of  a  re- 
I  perusal.     I  could  see  now  what  brightened  the  sunken 
eye  of  the  pale  and  sickly  master,  as  he  took  up  the 
i  hesitating  passage,  and  read  on,  forgetful  of  the  delin- 
i  quent,  to   the  end.     I   could  enjoy  now,  what  was  a 
'  dead  letter  to  me  then,  the  heightened  fulness  of  He- 
i  rodotus,  and   the  strong-woven  style  of  Thucydides, 
!  and  the  magnificent   invention  of  Eschylus.     I  took 
j  an  aversion  to  Homer  from  hearing  a  classmate  in  the 
j  next   room    scan    it    perpetually    through   his    nose. 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


There  is  no  music  for  me  in  the  '  Iliad.'  But,  spite  of 
the  recollections  scored  alike  upon  my  palm  and  the 
margin,  I  own  to  an  Augustan  relish  for  the  smooth 
melody  of  Virgil,  and  freely  forgive  the  sometime 
troublesome  ferule — enjoying  by  its  aid  the  raciness 
of  Horace  and  Juvenal,  and  the  lofty  philosophy  of 
Lucretius.  It  will  be  a  dear  friend  to  whom  1  put 
down  in  my  will  that  shelf  of  defaced  classics. 

"  There  are  some  books  that  bear  reading  pleasantly 
once  a  year.  'Tristram  Shandy'  is  an  annual  with 
me.  I  read  him  regularly  about  Christmas.  Jeremy 
Taylor  (not  to  mingle  things  holy  and  profane)  is  a 
good  table-book,  to  be  used  when  you  would  collect 
your  thoughts  and  be  serious  a  while.  A  man  of 
taste  need  never  want  for  Sunday  reading  while  he 
can  find  the  sermons  of  Taylor,  and  South,  and  Ful 
ler — writers  of  good  theological  repute — though,  be 
tween  ourselves,  I  think  one  likelier  to  be  delighted 
with  the  poetry  and  quaint  fancifulness  of  their  style, 
than  edified  by  the  piety  it  covers.  I  like  to  have  a 
quarto  edition  of  Sir  Thomas  Brown  on  a  near  shelf, 
or  Milton's  prose  works,  or  Bacon.  These  are  health 
ful  moods  of  the  mind  when  lighter  nutriment  is  dis 
tasteful. 

"I  am  growing  fastidious  in  poetry,  and  confine 
myself  more  and  more  to  the  old  writers.  Castaly  of 
late  runs  shallow.  Shelley's  (peace  to  his  passionate 
heart!)  was  a  deep  draught,  and  Wordsworth  and 
Wilson  sit  near  the  well,  and  Keats  and  Barry  Corn 
wall  have  been  to  the  fountain's  lip,  feeding  their 
imaginations  (the  latter  his  liearl  as  well),  but  they 
have  brought  back  little  for  the  world.  The  'small 
silver  stream'  will,  I  fear,  soon  cease  to  flow  down  to 
us,  and  as  it  dries  back  to  its  source,  we  shall  close 
nearer  and  nearer  upon  the  'pure  English  undefiled.' 
The  dabblers  in  muddy  waters  (tributaries  to  Lethe) 
will  have  Parnassus  to  themselves. 

"The  finest  pleasures  of  reading  come  unbidden. 
You  can  not,  with  your  choicest  appliances  for  the 
body,  always  command  the  many-toned  mind.  In  the 
twilight  alcove  of  a  library,  with  a  time-mellowed 
chair  yielding  luxuriously  to  your  pressure,  a  June 
wind  laden  with  idleness  and  balm  floating  in  at  the 
window,  and  in  your  hand  some  Russia-bound  ram 
bling  old  author,  as  Izaak  Walton,  good-humored  and 
quaint,  one  would  think  the  spirit  could  scarce  fail  to 
be  conjured.  Yet  often,  after  spending  a  morning 
hour  restlessly  thus,  I  have  risen  with  my  mind  un 
hinged,  and  strolled  off  with  a  book  in  my  pocket  to 
the  woods;  and,  as  I  live,  the  mood  has  descended 
upon  me  under  some  chance  tree,  with  a  crooked  root 
under  my  head,  and  I  have  lain  there,  reading  and 
sleeping  by  turns,  till  the  letters  were  blurred  in  the 
dimness  of  twilight.  It  is  the  evil  of  refinement  that 
it  breeds  caprice.  You  will  sometimes  stand  unfa- 
tigued  for  hours  on  the  steps  of  a  library;  or  in  a 
shop,  the  eye  will  be  arrested,  and  all  the  jostling  of 
customers  and  the  looks  of  the  jealous  shopman  will 
not  divert  you  till  you  have  read  out  the  chapter. 

•'I  do  not  often  indulge  in  the  supernatural,  for  I 
am  an  unwilling  believer  in  ghosts,  and  the  topic  ex 
cites  me.  But,  for  its  connexion  with  the  subject 
upon  which  I  am  writing,  I  must  conclude  these 
rambling  observations  with  a  late  mysterious  visitation 
of  my  own. 

"  1  had,  during  the  last  year,  given  up  the  early 
summer  tea-parties  common  in  the  town  in  which  the 
university  stands ;  and  having,  of  course,  three  or 
four  more  hours  than  usual  on  my  hands,  I  took  to  an 
afternoon  habit  of  imaginative  reading.  Shakspere 
came  first,  naturally  ;  and  I  feasted  for  the  hundredth 
time  upon  what  I  think  his  (and  the  world's)  most 
delicate  creation — the  'Tempest.'  The  twilight  of 
the  first  day  overtook  me  at  the  third  act,  where  the 
banquet  is  brought  in  with  solemn  music  by  the  fairy 
troop  of  Prospero,  and  set  before  the  shipwrecked 


king  and  his  followers.  I  closed  the  book,  and  lean 
ing  back  in  my  chair,  abandoned  myself  to  the  crowd 
of  images  which  throng  always  upon  the  traces  of 
Shakspere.  The  fancy  music  was  still  in  my  mind, 
when  an  apparently  real  strain  of  the  most  solemn 
melody  came  to  my  ear,  dying,  it  seemed  to  me  as  it 
reached  it,  the  tones  were  so  expiringly  faint  and  low. 
I  was  not  startled,  but  lay  quietly,  holding  my  breath, 
and  more  fearing  when  the  strain  would  be  broken, 
than  curious  whence  it  came.  The  twilight  deepened, 
till  it  was  dark,  and  it  still  played  on,  changing  the 
tune  at  intervals,  but  always  of  the  same  melancholy- 
sweetness  ;  till,  by-and-by,  I  lost  all  curiosity,  and, 
giving  in  to  the  charm,  the  scenes  I  had  been  reading 
began  to  form  again  in  my  mind,  and  Ariel,  with  his 
delicate  ministers,  and  Prospero,  and  Miranda,  and 
Caliban,  came  moving  before  me  to  the  measure,  as 
bright  and  vivid  as  the  reality.  I  was  disturbed  in  the 
midst  of  it  by  Alfonse,  who  came  in  at  the  usual 
hour  with  my  tea ;  and,  on  starting  to  my  feet,  I  lis 
tened  in  vain  for  the  continuance  of  the  music.  I  sat 
thinking  of  it  a  while,  but  dismissed  it  at  last,  and  went 
out  to  enjoy,  in  a  solitary  walk,  the  loveliness  of  the 
summer  night.  The  next  day  I  resumed  my  book, 
with  a  smile  at  my  previous  credulity,  and  had  read 
through  the  last  scenes  of  the  '  Tempest,'  when  the 
light  failed  me.  I  again  closed  the  book,  and  pres 
ently  again,  as  if  the  sympathy  was  instantaneous,  the 
strain  broke  in,  playing  the  same  low  and  solemn  mel 
odies,  and  falling  with  the  same  dying  cadence  upon 
the  ear.  I  listened  to  it,  as  before,  with  breathless  at 
tention  ;  abandoned  myself  once  more  to  its  irresistible 
spell ;  and,  half-waking,  half-sleeping,  fell  again  into 
a'vivid  dream,  brilliant'as  fairy-land,  and  creating  itself 
to  the  measures  of  the  still  audible  music.  1  could 
not  now  shake  off  my  belief  in  its  reality ;  but  I  was  so 
wrapt  with  its  strange  sweetness,  and  the  beauty  of  my 
dream,  that  I  cared  not  whether  it  came  from  earth  or 
air.  My  indifference,  singularly  enough,  continued 
for  several  days ;  and,  regularly  at  twilight,  I  threw 
aside  my  book,  and  listened  with  dreamy  wakefulness 
for  the  music.  It  never  failed  me,  and  its  results  were 
as  constant  as  its  coming.  AVhatever  1  had  read — 
sometimes  a  canto  of  Spenser,  sometimes  an  act  of  a 
play,  or  a  chapter  of  romance — the  scene  rose  before 
me  with  the  stately  reality  of  a  pageant.  At  hist  I 
began  to  think  of  it  more  seriously  ;  and  it  was  a  relief 
to  me  one  evening  when  Alfonse  came  in  earlier  than 
usual  with  a  message.  1  told  him  to  stand  perfectly 
still;  and  after  a  minute's  pause,  during  which  1  heard 
distinctly  an  entire  passage  of  a  funeral  hymn,  I  asked 
him  if  he  heard  any  music  ?  He  said  he  did  not.  My 
blood  chilled  at  his  positive  reply,  and  I  bade  him 
listen  once  more.  Still  he  heard  nothing.  1  could 
endure  it  no  longer.  It  was  to  me  as  distinct  and 
audible  as  my  own  voice;  and  I  rushed  from  my  room 
as  he  left  me,  shuddering  to  be  left  alone. 

"The  next  day  I  thought  of  nothing  but  death. 
Warnings  by  knells  in  the  air,  by  apparitions,  by  mys 
terious  voices,  were  things  I  had  believed  in  specula- 
tively  for  years,  and  now  their  truth  came  upon  me 
like  conviction.  I  felt  a  dull,  leaden  presentiment 
about  my  heart,  growing  heavier  and  heavier  with 
every  passing  hour.  Evening  came  at  last,  and  with 
it,  like  a  summons  from  the  grave,  a  'dead  march' 
swelled  clearly  on  the  air.  I  felt  faint  and  sick  at 
heart.  This  could  not  be  fancy ;  and  why  was  it,  as 
I  thought  I  had  proved,  audible  to  my  ear  alone  ?  I 
threw  open  the  window,  and  the  first  rush  of  the  cool 
north  wind  refreshed  me  ;  but,  as  if  to  mock  my  at 
tempts  at  relief,  the  dirge-like  sounds  rose,  at  the  in 
stant,  with  treble  distinctness.  I  seized  my  hat  and 
rushed  into  the  street,  but,  to  my  dismay,  every  step 
seemed  to  bring  me  nearer  to  the  knell.  Still  I  hur 
ried  on,  the  dismal  sounds  growing  distractingly  loud 
er,  till,  on  turning  a  corner  that  leads  to  the  lovely 


INKLINGS  OP  ADVENTURE. 


33 


burying-ground  of  New  Haven,  Icame  suddenly  upon 
— a  bell-foundry  !  In  the  rear  had  lately  been  hung, 
for  trial,  the  chiming  bells  just  completed  for  the  new 
Trinity  church,  and  the  master  of  the  establishment 
informed  me  that  one  of  his  journeymen  was  a  fine 
player,  and  every  day  after  his  work,  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  amusing  himself  with  the  '  Dead  March  in 
Saul,'  the  '  Marsellois  Hymn,'  and  olher  melancholy 
and  easy  tunes,  muffling  the  hammers  that  he  might 
not  disturb  the  neighbors." 

I  have  had  my  reward  for  these  speculations,  dear 
reader — a  smile  that  is  lying  at  this  instant,  perdu,  in 
the  innermost  recess  of  memory — and  I  care  not  much 
(without  offence)  whether  you  like  it  or  no.  She  \ 
thanked  me — she  thought  it  well  done — she  laid  her 
head  on  my  bosom  while  I  read  it  in  the  old  library  of 
the  Flemings,  and  every  word  has  been  "paid  for  in 
fairy  gold."" 

I  have  taken  up  a  thread  that  lengthens  as  I  unra 
vel  it,  and  I  can  not  well  see  how  I  shall  come  to  the 
end,  without  trespassing  on  your  patience.     We  will 
cul  it  here,  if  you  like,  and  resume  it  after  a  pause ;  j 
but  before  I  close,  I  must  give  you  a  little  instance  of 
how   love   makes  the  dullest  earth  poetical.     Edith 
had  given  me  a  portefeuille  crammed  with  all  kinds  of 
embossed  and  curious  note-paper,  all  quite  too  pret 
ty  for  use,  and  what  I  would  show  you  are  my  verses 
on  the   occasion.     For  a  hand  unpractised,  then,  in  , 
aught  save  the  "  Gradus  ad  Parnassum,"  I  must  own  ' 
I  have  fished  them  out  of  that  same  old  portefeuille 
(faded  now  from  its  glory,  and  worn  with  travel — but 
O  how  cherished  !)  with  a  pleasant  feeling  of  paternity  : 

';  Thanks  for  thy  gift !     But  heardst  thou  ever 

A  story  of  a  wandering  fay. 
Who,  tired  of  playing  syJph  for  ever, 

Came  romping  to  the"earth  one  day  ; 
And,  flirting  like  a  little  love 

With  everything  that  flew  and  flirted, 
Made  captive  of  a  sober  dove, 

Whose  pinions  (so  the  tale  asserted), 
Though  neither  very  fresh  nor  fair, 
Were  well  enough  i«r  common  wear. 

"  The  dove,  though  plain,  was  gentle  bred, 

And  coood  agreeably,  though  low  ; 
But  still  the  fairy  shook  her  head, 

And,  patting  with  her  foot,  said  '  No  ." 
'Twas  true  that  he  was  rather  fat : 

But  that  was  living  in  an  abbey  ; — 
And  solemn— but  it  was  not  that. 
'  What  then?'  '  lfrhy,  sir,  your  wj'ng.?  are  shabby.'     ; 

44  The  dove  was  dumb  :  he  drooped,  and  sidled 

In  shame  along  the  abbey-wall ; 
And  then  the  haughty  fay  unbridled, 

And  blew  her  snail-shell  trumpet-call ; 
And  summoning  her  waiting-sprite, 

Who  bore  her  wardrobe  on  his  hack, 
She  took  the  wings  she  wore  at  night, 

(Silvery  stars  on  plumes  of  black,)  • 

And,  smiling,  begged  that  he  would  take 
And  wear  them  for  his  lady's  sake. 

•"  He  took  them  ;  but  he  could  not  fly  ! 

A  fay-wing  was  too  fine  for  him  ; 
And  when  she  pouted,  by-and-by, 

And  left  him  for  some  other  whim, 
He  laid  them  softly  in  his  nest, 

And  did  his  flying  with  his  own, 
And  they  were  soft  upon  his  breast, 

When  many  a  night  he  slept  alone  ; 
And  many  a  thought  those  wings  would  stir, 
And  many  a  dream  of  love  and  her." 


PART  II. 

LOVE    AND    SPECULATION. 

EDITH  LINSEY  was  religious.      There  are   m^ny 
iniensijiets  (a  new  word,  that  I  can't  get  on  without: 
I  submit  it  for  admission  into  the  language)  ; — there 
3 


are  many  intensifies,  I  say,  to  the  passion  of  love : 
such  as   pride,  jealousy,  poetry  (money,  sometimes, 
Din  mio .')  and   idleness:*  but,  if  the  experience  of 
one  who  first  studied  the  Art  of  Love  in  an  "evan 
gelical''  country   is  worth   a  para,   there   is  nothing 
within  the  bend  of  the  rainbow  that  deepens  the  ten 
der  passion  like  religion.     I  speak  it  not  irreverently. 
The  human  being  that  loves  us  throws  the  value  of 
its  existence  into  the  crucible,  and  it  can  do  no  more. 
Love's  best  alchymy  can  only  turn  into  affection  what 
j  is  in  the  heart.     The  vain,  the  proud,  the  poetical, 
i  the  selfish,  the  weak,  can  and  do  fling  their  vanity, 
|  pride,  poetry,  selfishness,  and  weakness,  into   a  first 
;  passion ;  but  these  are  earthly  elements,  and  there  is 
j  an  antagonism  in  their  natures  that  is  for  ever  stri- 
|  ving  to  resolve  them  back  to  their  original  earth.     But 
religion  is  of  the  soul  as  well  as  the  heart — the  mind 
as  well  as  the  affections — and  when  it  mingles  in  love, 
I  it  is  the  infusion  of  an  immortal  essence  into  an  un 
worthy  and  else  perishable  mixture. 

Edith's  religion  was  equally  without  cant,  and 
'  without  hesitation  or  disguise.  She  had  arrived 
;  at  it  by  elevation  of  mind,  aided  by  the  habit  of  never 
i  counting  on  her  tenure  of  life  beyond  the  setting  of 
i  the  next  sun,  and  with  her  it  was  rather  an  intellec- 
!  tual  exaltation  than  an  humility  of  heart.  She  thought 
j  of  God  because  the  subject  was  illimitable,  and  her 
;  powerful  imagination  found  in  it  the  scope  for  which 
she  pined.  She  talked  of  goodness,  and  purity,  and 
I  disinterestedness,  because  she  found  them  easy  virtues 
]  with  a  frame  worn  down  with  disease,  and  she  was* 
i  removed  by  the  sheltered  position  of  an  invalid  from 
I  the  collision  which  tries  so  shrewdly  in  common  life 
the  ring  of  our  metal.  She  prayed,  because  the  ful 
ness  of  her  heart  was  loosed  by  her  eloquence  when 
on  her  knees,  and  she  found  that  an  indistinct  and 
mystic  unburthening  of  her  bosom,  even  to  the  Deity, 
was  a  hush  and  a  relief.  The  heart  does  not  always 
require  rhyme  and  reason  of  language  and  tears. 

There  are  many  persons  of  religious  feeling  who, 
from  a  fear  of  ridicule  or  misconception,  conduct  them 
selves  as  if  to  express  a  devout  sentiment  was  a  want 
of  taste  or  good-breeding.  Edith  was  not  of  these. 
Religion  was  to  her  a  powerful  enthusiasm,  applied 
without  exception  to  every  pursuit  and  affection.  She 
used  it  as  a  painter  ventures  on  a  daring  color,  or  a 
musician  a  new  string  in  his  instrument.  She  felt 
that  she  aggrandized  botany,  or  history,  or  friendship, 
;  or  love,  or  what  you  will,  by  making  it  a  stepping- 
i  stone  to  heaven,  and  she  made  as  little  mystery  of  it  as 
'  she  did  of  breathing  and  sleep,  and  talked  of  subjects 
which  the  serious  usually  enter  upon  with  a  sup 
pressed  breath,  as  she  would  comment  upon  a  poem  or 
define  a  new  philosophy.  It  was  surprising  what  an 
impressiveness  this  threw  over  her  in  everything ; 
how  elevated  she  seemed  above  the  best  of  those 
about  her;  and  with  what  a  worshipping  and  half- 
reverent  admiration  she  inspired  all  whom  she  did  not 
utterly  neglect  or  despise.  For  myself,  my  soul  was 
drink  up  in  hers  as  the  lark  is  taken  into  the  sky,  and 
I  forgot  there  was  a  world  beneath  me  in  my  intoxica 
tion.  I  thought  her  an  angel  unrecognised  on  earth. 
I  believed  her  as  pure  from  worldliness,  and  as  spot 
less  from  sin,  as  a  cherub  with  his  breast  upon  his 
lute ;  and  I  knelt  by  her  when  she  prayed,  and  held 
her  upon  my  bosom  in  her  fits  of  faintness  and  ex 
haustion,  and  sat  at  her  feet  with  my  face  in  her  hands 
listening  to  her  wild  speculations  (often  till  the  morn 
ing  brightened  behind  the  curtains)  with  an  utter  and 
irresistible  abandonment  of  my  existence  to  hers, 
which  seems  to  me  now  like  a  recollection  of  another 

jjfe it  were,  with  this  conscious  body  and  mind,  a 

self-relinquishment  so  impossible  ! 

Our  life  was  a  singular  one.     Living  in  the  midst  ' 
*  "  La  paresse  dans  les  femmes  est  le  presage  de  1'amour." 
— LA  BRUYEHE. 


34 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE, 


of  a  numerous  household,  with  kind  and  cultivated 
people  about  us,  \ve  were  as  separated  from  them  as  if 
the  ring  of  Gyges  encircled  us  from  their  sight.  Fred 
wished  me  joy  of  my  giraffe,  as  he  offensively  called 
his  cousin,  arid  his  sisters,  who  were  quite  too  pretty  to 
have  been  left  out  of  my  story  so  long,  were  more  indul 
gent,  I  thought,  to  tlie  indigenous  beaux  of  Skaneat- 
eles  than  those  aboriginal  specimens  had  a  right  to 
expect ;  but  I  had  no  eyes,  ears,  sense,  or  civility  for 
anything  but  Edith.  The  library  became  a  forbidden 
spot  to  all  feet  but  ours  ;  we  met  at  noon  after  our  late 
vigils  and  breakfasted  together;  a  light  sleigh  was  set 
apart  for  our  tete-a-tete  drives  over  the  frozen  lake, 
and  the  world  seemed  to  me  to  revolve  on  its  axle 
with  a  special  reference  to  Philip  Sliugsby's  happiness. 
I  wonder  whether  an  angel  out  of  heaven  would  have 
made  me  believe  that  I  should  ever  write  the  story  of 
those  passionate  hours  with  a  smile  and  a  sneer !  I 
tell  thee,  Edith  !  (for  thou  wilt  read  every  line  that  I 
have  written,  and  feel  it,  as  far  as  thou  canst,  feel  any 
thing),  that  I  have  read  "  Faust"  since,  and  thought 
thee  Mephistopheles  !  I  have  looked  on  thee  since, 
with  thy  cheek  rosy  dark,  thy  lip  filled  with  the  blood 
of  health,  and  curled  with  thy  contempt  of  the  world 
and  thy  yet  wild  ambition  to  be  its  master-spirit  and 
idol,  and  struck  my  breast  with  instinctive  self-ques 
tioning  if  thou  hadst  given  back  my  soul  that  was 
thine  own  !  I  fear  thee,  Edith.  Thou  hast  grown 
beautiful  that  wert  so  hideous — the  wonder-wrought 
miracle  of  health  and  intellect,  filling  thy  veins,  and 
breathing  almost  a  newer  shape  over  form  and  feature  ; 
lut  it  is  not  thy  beauty  ;  no,  nor  thy  enthronement 
in  the  admiration  of  thy  woman's  world.  These  are 
little  to  me;  for  I  saw  thy  loveliness  from  the  first, 
and  I  worshipped  thee  more  in  the  duration  of  a 
thought  than  a  hecatomb  of  these  worldlings  in  their 
lifetime.  I  fear  thy  mysterious  and  unaccountable 
power  over  the  human  soul!  I  can  scorn  thee  here, 
in  another  land,  with  an  ocean  weltering  between  us, 
and  anatomize  the  character  that  I  alone  have  read 
truly  and  too  well,  for  the  instruction  of  the  world  (its 
amusement,  too,  proud  woman — thou  wilt  writhe  at 
that) — but  I  confess  to  a  natural  and  irresistible  obedi 
ence  to  the  mastery  of  thy  spirit  over  mine.  I  would 
not  willingly  again  touch  the  radius  of  thy  sphere.  1 
would  come  out  of  Paradise  to  walk  alone  with  the 
devil  as  soon. 

How  little  even  the  most  instructed  women  knew 
the  secret  of  this  power  !  They  make  the  mistake  of 
cultivating  only  their  own  minds.  They  think  that, 
by  se//-elevation,  they  will  climb  up  to'the  intellects 
of  men,  and  win  them  by  seeming  their  equals.  Shal 
low  philosophers!  You  never  remember  that  to  sub 
due  a  human  being  to  your  will,  it  is  more  necessary 
to  know  his  mind  than  you  own — that,  in  conquering 
a  heart  vanity  is  the  first  out-post — that  while  your  are 
employing  your  wits  in  thinking  how  most  effectually 
to  duzzle  him,  you  should  be  sounding  his  character 
for  its  undeveloped  powers  to  assist  him  to  dazzle  you 
— that  love  is  a  reflected  light,  and  to  be  pleased  with 
others  we  must  be  first  pleased  with  ourselves  ! 

Edith  (it  has  occurred  to  me  in  my  speculations 
since)  seemed  to  me  always  an  echo  of  myself.  She 
expressed  my  thought  as  it  sprang  into  my  brain.  1 
thought  that  in  her  I  had  met  my  double  and  coun- 
terpirt,  with  the  reservation  that  I  was  a  little  the 
stronger  spirit,  and  that  in  «>/  mind  lay  the  material 
of  the  eloquence  that  flowed  from  her  lips — as  the  al 
mond  that  you  endeavor  to  split  equally  leaves  the 
kernel  in  the  deeper  cavity  of  its  shell.  Whatever 
the  topic,  she  seemed  using  my  thoughts,  anticipating 
my  reflections,  and,  with  an  unobtrusive  but  thrilling 
flattery,  referring  me  to  myself  for  the  truth  of  what 
I  must  know  was  but  a  suggestion  of  my  own  !  O! 
Lucrezia  Borgia  !  if  Machiavelli  had  but  practised  that 
subtle  cunning  upou  thee,  thou  wouldst  have  had  lit 


tle  space  in  thy  delirious  heart  for  the  passion  that,  in 
the  history  of  crime,  has  made  thee  the  marvel  and 
the  monster. 

The  charm  of  Edith  to  most  people  was  that  she 
was  no  sublimation.  Her  mind  seemed  of  any  or  ne 
stature.  She  was  as  natural,  and  earnest,  and  as  sat 
isfied  to  converse,  on  the  meanest  subject  as  on  the 
highest.  She  overpowered  nobody.  She  (apparently) 
eclipsed  nobody.  Her  passionate  and  powerful  elo 
quence  was  only  lavished  on  the  passionate  and  pow 
erful.  She  never  misapplied  herself:  and  what  a 
secret  of  influence  and  superiority  is  contained  in  that 
single  phrase  !  We  so  hate  him  who  out-measures 
us,  as  we  stand  side  by  side  before  the  world  ! 

I  have  in  my  portfolio  several  numbers  of  a  manu 
script  "  Gazette,"  with  which  the  Flemings  amused 
1 1  themselves  during  the  deep  snows  of  the  winter  in 
| ;  which  I  visited  them.  It  was  contributed  to  by  every- 
j;  body  in  the  house,  and  read  aloud  at  the  breakfast- 
|  table  on  the  day  of  its  weekly  appearance,  and,  quite 
i  apropos  to  these  remarks  upon  the  universality  of 
|  Edith's  mind,  there  is  in  one  of  them  an  essay  of  hers, 
j  on  what  she  calls  minute  philosophies.  It  is  curious, 
as  showing  how,  with  all  her  loftiness  of  speculation, 
1 1  she  descended  sometimes  to  the  examination  of  the 
j  smallest  machinery  of  enjoyment. 

"  The  principal  sources  of  everyday  happiness,"  (I 
am  copying  out  a  part  of  the  essay,  dear  reader),  "are 
too  obvious  to  need  a  place  in  a  chapter  of  breakfast- 
table  philosophy.  Occupation  and  a  clear  conscience, 
the  very  truant  in  the  fields  will  tell  you,  are  craving 
necessities.  But  when  these  are  secured,  there  are 
lighter  matters,  which,  to  the  sensitive  and  educated 
at  least,  are  to  happiness  what  foliage  is  to  the  tree. 
They  are  refinements  which  add  to  the  beauty  of  life 
without  diminishing  its  strength;  and,  as  they  spring 
only  from  a  better  use  of  our  common  gifts,  they  are 
I  neither  costly  nor  rare.  I  have  learned  secrets  under 
the  roof  of  a  poor  man,  which  would  add  to  the  Jux- 
;  ury  of  the  rich.  The  blessings  of  a  cheerful  fancy 
and  a  quick  eye  come  from  nature,  and  the  trailing  of 
a  vine  may  develop  them  as  well  as  the  curtaining  of 
a  king's  chamber. 

"  Riding  and  driving  are  such  stimulating  pleasures, 
that  to  talk  of  any  management,  in  their  indulgence 
|  seems  superfluous.  Yet  we  are,  in  motion  or  at  rest, 
equally  liable  to  the  caprices  of  feeling,  and,  perhaps, 
the  gayer  the  mood  the  deeper  the  shade  cast  on  it  by 
untoward  circumstances.  The  time  of  riding  should 
never  be  regular.  It  then  becomes  a  habit,  and  hab 
its,  though  sometimes  comfortable,  never  amount  to 
positive  pleasure.  I  would  ride  when  nature  prompt 
ed — when  the  shower  was  past,  or  the  air  balmy,  or 
the  sky  beautiful— whenever  and  wherever  the  sig 
nificant  finger  of  Desire  pointed.  Oh!  to  leap  into 
the  saddle  when  the  west  wind  blows  freshly,  and  gal 
lop  off  into  its  very  eye,  with  an  undrawn  rein,  care 
less  how  fir  or  whither;  or,  to  spring  up  from  a  book 
when  the  sun  breaks  through  afier  a  storm,  and  drive 
away  under  the  white  clouds,  through  light  and  shad 
ow,  while  the  trees  are  wet  and  the  earth  damp  and 
spicy;  or,  in  the  clear  sunny  afternoons  of  autumn, 
|  with  a  pleasant  companion  on  the  seat  beside  you,  and 
j  the  glorious  splendor  o-f  the  decaying  foliage  flushing 
in  the  sunshine,  to  loiter  up  the  valley  dreaming  over 
the  thousand  airy  castles  that  are  stirred  by  such 
shifting  beauty — these  are  pleasures  indeed,  and  such 
as  he  who  rides  regularly  after  his  dinner  knows  as 
little  of  as  the  dray-horse  of  the  exultation  of  the 
courser. 

•'  There  is  a  great  deal  in  the  choice  of  a  compan 
ion.  If  he  is  an  indifferent  acquaintance,  or  an  indis 
criminate  talker,  or  has  a  coarse  eye  for  beauty,  or  is 
insensible  to  the  delicacies  of  sensation  or  thought — 
if  he  is  sensual,  or  stupid,  or  practical  constitutionally 
— he  will  never  do.  He  must  be  a  man  who  can  de- 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


35 


tect  a  rare  color  in  a  leaf,  or  appreciate  a  peculiar 
passage  in  scenery,  or  admire  a  grand  outline  in  a 
cloud  ;  he  must  have  accurate  and  fine  senses,  and  a 
heart,  noble  at  least  by  nature,  and  subject  still  to  tier 
direct  influences  ;  he  must  be  a  lover  of  the  beautiful 
in  whatever  shape  it  comes;  and,  above  all,  he  must 
have  read  and  thought  like  a  scholar,  if  not  like  a 
poet.  He  will  then  ride  by  your  side  without  crossing 
your  humor  :  if  talkative,  he  will  talk  well,  and  if 
silent,  you  are  content,  for  you  know  that  the  same 
grandeur  or  beauty  which  has  wrought  the  silence,  in 
your  own  thoughts  has  given  a  color  to  his. 

"  There  is  much  in  the  manner  of  driving.  I  like 
a  capricious  rein— now  fast  through  a  hollow,  and  I 
now  loiteringly  on  the  edge  of  a  road  or  by  the  bank  | 
of  a  river.  There  is  a  singular  delight  in  quickening  j 
your  speed  in  the  animation  of  a  climax,  and  in  j 
coming  down  gently  to  a  walk  with  a  digression  of 
feeling,  or  a  sudden  sadness. 

"An  important  item  in  household  matters  is  the 
management  of  light.     A  small  room  well-lighted  is 
much  more  imposing   than    a   large  one  lighted  ill. 
Cross  lights  are  painful  to  the  eye,  and  they  destroy  | 
besides  the  cool  and  picturesque  shadows  of  the  fur-  j 
niture  and  figures       1  would  have  a  room  always  par-  i 
tially  darkened  :  there  is  a  repose  in  the  twilight  dim- 
Desa  of  a  drawing-room  which  affects  one  with  the 
proper  gentleness  of  the  place  :  the  out-of-door  hu 
mor  of  men  is  too  rude,  and  the  secluded  light  sub 
dues  them  fitly  as  they  enter.   1  like  curtains — heavy,  ' 
and  of  the  richest  material:  there  is  a  magnificence 
in  large  crimson  folds  which  nothing  else  equals,  and   ! 
the  color  gives  everything  a  beautiful  teint  as  the  light 
streams  through  them.     Plants  tastefully  arranged  are  j 
pretty ;  flowers  are  always  beautiful.    I  would  have  my 
own  roonf  like  a  painter's — one  curtain  partly  drawn  ; 
a  double  shadow  has  a  nervous  look.     The  effect  of  a  ' 
proper  disposal  of  light  upon  the  feelings  is  by  most 
people  surprisingly  neglected.     I  have  no  doubt  that 
as  an  habitual  thing  it  materially  affects  the  character; 
the  disposition  for  study  and  thought  is  certainly  de 
pendant  on  it  in  no  slight   degree.     What   is   more 
contemplative  than  the  twilight  of  a  deep  alcove  in  a  ! 
library  ?      What  more  awakens  thought  than  the  dim 
interior  of  an  old  church  with  its  massive  and  shadowy  ; 
pillars  ? 

"  There  mav  be  the  most  exquisite  luxury  in  furni-  i 
ture.  A  crowded  room  has  a  look  of  comfort,  and  j 
suspended  lamps  throw  a  mellow  depth  into  the  fea-  ! 
tures.  Descending  light  is  always  the  most  becoming  ;  : 
it  deepens  the  eye,  and  distributes  the  shadows  in  the  I; 
face  judiciously.  Chairs  should  be  of  different  and 
curious  fashions,  made  to  humor  every  possible  wea-  J! 
riness.  A  spice-lamp  should  burn  in  the  corner,  and 
the  pictures  should  be  colored  of  a  pleasant  tone,  and  , ' 
the  subjects  should  be  subdued  and  dreamy.  It  should  ij 
be  a  place  you  would  live  in  for  a  century  without  an  || 
juicomfortable  thought.  I  hate  a  neat  room.  A  dozen  j 
of  the  finest  old  authors  should  lie  about,  and  a  new  j. 
novel,  and  the  last  new  prints.  I  rather  like  the  French  I 
fashion  of  a  bonbonniere,  though  that  perhaps  is  an  ex 
travagance. 

"  There  is  a  management  of  one's  own  familiar  in 
tercourse  which  is  more  neglected,  and  at  the  same 
time  more  important  to  happiness,  than  every  other  ; 
it  is  particularly  a  pity  that  this  is  not  oftener  under 
stood  by  newly -married  people ;  as  far  as  my  own 
observation  goes,  I  have  rarely  failed  to  detect,  far  too 
early,  signs  of  ill-disguised  and  disappointed  weariness. 
It  was  not  the  reaction  of  excitement — not  the  return 
to  the  quiet  ways  of  home — but  a  new  manner — a  for 
getful  indifference,  believing  itself  concealed,  and  yet 
betraying  itself  continually  by  unconscious  and  irre 
pressible  symptoms.  I  believe  it  resulted  oftenest 
from  the  same  causes:  partly  that  they  saw  each 
other  too  much,  and  partly  that  when  the  form  of  eti 


quette  was  removed,  they  forgot  to  retain  its  invalua 
ble  essence — an  assiduous  and  minute  disinterested 
ness.  It  seems  nonsense  to  lovers,  but  absence  is  the 
secret  of  respect,  and  therefore  of  affection.  Love  is 
divine,  but  its  flame  is  too  del:cate  for  a  perpetual 
household  lamp  ;  it  should  be  burned  only  for  incense, 
and  even  then  trimmed  skilfully.  It  is  wonderful  how 
a  slight  neglect,  or  a  glimpse  of  a  weakness,  or  a  chance 
defect  of  knowledge,  dims  its  new  glory.  Lovers,  mar 
ried  or  single,  should  have  separate  pursuits — they 
should  meet  to  respect  each  other  for  new  and  distinct 
acquisitions.  It  is  the  weakness  of  human  affections 
that  they  are  founded  on  pride,  and  waste  with  over 
much  familiarity.  And  oh,  the  delight  to  meet  after 
hours  of  absence — to  sit  down  by  the  evening  lamp, 
and  with  a  mind  Unexhausted  by  the  intercourse  of 
the  day,  to  yield  to  the  fascinating  freedom  of  conver 
sation,  and  clothe  the  rising  thoughts  of  affection  in 
fresh  and  unhackneyed  language  !  How  richly  the 
treasures  of  the  mind  are  colored — not  doled  out, 
counter  by  counter,  as  the  visible  machinery  of  thought 
coins  them,  but  heaped  upon  the  mutual  altar  in  lavish 
and  unhesitating  profusion  !  And  how  a  bold  fancy  as 
sumes  beauty  and  power — not  traced  up  through  all  its 
petty  springs  till  its  dignity  is  lost  by  association,  but 
flashing  full-grown  and  suddenly  on  the  sense  !  The 
gifts  of  no  one  mind  are  equal  to  the  constant  draught 
of  a  lifetime  ;  and  even  if  they  were,  there  is  no  one 
taste  which  could  always  relish  them.  It  is  an  humilia 
ting  thought  that  immortal  mind  must  be  husbanded 
like  material  treasure  ! 

"  There  is  a  remark  of  Godwin,  which,  in  rather 
too  strong  language,  contains  a  valuable  truth:  'A 
judicious  and  limited  voluptuousness,'  he  says,  '  is  ne 
cessary  to  the  cultivation  of  the  mind,  to  the  polishing 
of  the  manners,  to  the  refinement  of  the  sentiment, 
and  to  the  development  of  the  understanding  ;  and  a 
woman  deficient  in  this  respect  may  be  of  use  in  the 
government  of  our  families,  but  can  not  add  to  the 
enjoyment,  nor  fix  the  partiality  of  a  man  of  taste  !' 
Since  the  days  when  '  St.  Leon'  was  written,  the  word 
by  which  the  author  expressed  his  meaning  is  grown 
perhaps  into  disrepute,  but  the  remark  is  still  one  of 
keen  and  observant  discrimination.  It  refers  (at  least 
so  I  take  it)  to  that  susceptibility  to  delicate  attentions, 
that  fine  sense  of  the  nameless  and  exquisite  ten 
derness  of  manner  and  thought,  which  constitute  in 
the  minds  of  its  possessors  the  deepest  undercurrent 
of  life — the  felt  and  treasured,  but  unseen  and  inex 
pressible  richness  of  affection.  It  is  rarely  found  in 
the  characters  of  men,  but  it  outweighs,  when  it  is,  all 
grosser  qualities — for  its  possession  implies  a  generous 
nature,  purity,  fine  affections,  and  a  heart  open  to  all 
the  sunshine  and  meaning  of  the  universe.  It  belongs 
more  to  the  nature  of  woman  ;  but  indispensable  as  it 
is  to  her  character,  it  is  oftener  tlnn  anything  else, 
wanting.  And  without  it,  what  is  she  ?  What  is  love 
to  a  being  of  such  dull  sense  that  she  hears  only  its 
common  and  audible  language,  and  sees  nothing  but 
what  it  brings  to  her  feet  to  be  eaten,  and  worn,  and 
looked"  upon  ?  What  is  woman,  if  the  impassioned 
language  of  the  eye,  or  the  deepened  fulness  of  the 
tone,  or  the  tenderness  of  a  slight  attention,  are  things 
unnoticed  and  of  no  value  ?— one  who  answers  you 
when  you  speak,  smiles  when  you  tell  her  she  is  grave, 
assents  barely  to  the  expression  of  your  enthusiasm, 
but  has  no  dream  beyond — no  suspicion  that  she  has 
not  felt  and  reciprocated  your  feelings  as  fully  as  you 
could  expect  or  desire  ?  It  is  a  matter  too  little  looked 
to.  Sensitive  and  ardent  men  too  often  marry  with 
a  blindfold  admiration  of  mere  goodness  or  loveliness. 
The  abandon  of  matrimony  soon  dissipates  the  gay 
dream,  and  they  find  themselves  suddenly  unsphered, 
linked  indissolubly  with  affections  strangely  different 
from  their  own,  and  lavishing  their  only  treasure  on 
those  who  can  neither  appreciate  nor  return  it.  The 


36 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


after-life  of  such  men  is  a  stifling  solitude  of  feeling. 
Their  avenues  of  enjoyment  are  their  manifonn  sym 
pathies,  and  when  these  are  shut  up  or  neglected,  the 
heart  is  dark,  and  they  have  nothing  to  do  thencefor 
ward  but  to  forget. 

"  There  are  many,  who,  possessed  of  the  capacity 
for  the  more  elevated  affections,  waste  and  lose  it  by 
a  careless  and  often  unconscious  neglect.  It  is  not  a 
plant  to  grow  untended.  The  breath  of  indifference, 
or  a  rude  touch,  may  destroy  for  ever  its  delicate  tex 
ture.  To  drop  the  figure,  there  is  a  daily  attention  to 
the  slight  courtesies  of  life,  and  an  artifice  in  detecting 
the  passing  shadows  of  feeling,  which  alone  can  pre 
serve,  through  life,  the  first  freshness  of  passion.  The 
easy  surprises  of  pleasure,  and  earnest  cheerfulness  of 
assent  to  slight  wishes,  the  habitual  respect  to  opin 
ions,  the  polite  abstinence  from  personal  topics  in  the 
company  of  others,  the  assiduous  and  unwavering  at 
tention  to  her  comfort,  at  home  and  abroad,  and,  above 
all,  the  absolute  preservation  in  private  of  those  pro 
prieties  of  conversation  and  manner  which  are  sacred 
before  the  world — are  some  of  the  thousand  secrets  of 
that  rare  happiness  which  age  and  habit  alike  fail  to 
impair  or  diminish." 

II. 

Vacation  was  over,  but  Fred  and  myself  were  still 
lingering  at  Fleming  Farm.  The  roads  were  impas 
sable  with  a  premature  THAW.  Perhaps  there  is  noth 
ing  so  peculiar  in  American  meteorology  as  the  phe 
nomenon  which  I  alone  probably,  of  all  the  imprisoned 
inhabitants  of  Skaneateles,  attributed  to  a  kind  and 
44  special  Providence."  Summer  had  come  back,  like 
Napoleon  from  Elba,  and  astonished  usurping  winter 
in  the  plenitude  of  apparent  possession  and  security. 
No  cloud  foreboded  the  change,  as  no  alarm  preceded 
the  apparition  of  "  the  child  of  destiny."  We  awoke 
on  a  February  morning,  with  the  snow  lying  chin- 
deep  on  the  earth,  and  it  was  June  !  The  air  was  soft 
and  warm — the  sky  was  clear,  and  of  the  milky  ceru 
lean  of  chrysoprase— the  south  wind  (the  same,  save 
his  unperfumed  wings,  who  had  crept  off  like  a  sa 
tiated  lover  in  October)  stole  back  suddenly  from  the 
tropics,  and  found  his  flowery  mistress  asleep  and  in 
sensible  to  his  kisses  beneath  her  snowy  mantle.  The 
sunset  warmed  back  from  its  wintry  purple  to  the 
golden  teints  of  heat,  the  stars  burned  with  a  less 
vitreous  sparkle,  the  meteors  slid  once  more  lambent- 
ly  down  the  sky,  and  the  house-dove  sat  on  the  eaves, 
washing  her  breast  in  the  snow-water,  and  thinking 
(like  a"  neglected  wife  at  a  capricious  return  of  her 
truant's  tenderness)  that  the  sunshine  would  last  for 
ever ! 

Th  air  was  now  full  of  music.  The  water  trickled 
away  under  the  snow,  and,  as  you  looked  around  and 
saw  no  change  or  motion  in  the  white  carpet  of  the 
earth,  it  seemed  as  if  a  myriad  of  small  bells  were  ring 
ing  under  ground — fairies,  perhaps,  startled  in  mid- 
revel  with  the  false  alarm  of  summer,  and  hurrying 
about  with  their  silver  anklets,  to  wake  up  the  slum 
bering  flowers.  The  mountain-torrents  were  loosed, 
and  rushed  down  upon  the  valleys  like  the  Children 
of  the  Mist;  and  the  hoarse  war-cry,  swelling  and  fal 
ling  upon  the  wind,  maintained  its  perpetual  undertone 
like  an  accompaniment  of  bassoons  ;  and  occasionally, 
in  a  sudden  lull  of  the  breeze,  you  would  hear  the 
click  of  the  undermined  snow-drifts  dropping  upon  the 
earth,  as  if  the  chorister  of  spring  were  beating  time 
to  the  reviving  anthem  of  nature. 

The  snow  sunk  perhaps  a  foot  in  a  day,  but  it  was 
only  perceptible  to  the  eye  where  you  could  measure 
its  wet  mark  against  a  tree  from  which  it  had  fallen 
away,  or  by  the  rock,  from  which  the  dissolving  bank 
shrunk  and  separated,  as  if  rocks  and  snow  were  as 
heartless  as  ourselves  and  threw  off  their  friends,  too, 


in  their  extremity  !  The  low-lying  lake,  meantime, 
surrounded  by  melting  mountains,  received  the  aban 
doned  waters  upon  its  frozen  bosom,  and,  spreading 
them  into  a  placid  and  shallow  lagoon,  separate  by  a 
crystal  plane  from  its  own  lower  depths,  gave  them  the 
repose  denied  in  the  more  elevated  sphere  in  which 
lay  their  birthright.  And  thus — (oh,  how  full  is  na 
ture  of  these  gentle  moralities  !) — and  thus  sometimes 
do  the  lowly,  whose  bosom,  like  the  frozen  lake,  is  at 
first  cold  and  unsympathetic  to  the  rich  and  noble, 
still  receive  them  in  adversity,  and,  when  neighbor 
hood  and  dependance  have  convinced  them  that  they 
are  made  of  the  same  common  element,  as  the  lake 
melts  its  dividing  and  icy  plane,  and  mingles  the  strange 
waters  with  its  own,  do  they  dissolve  the  unnatural  bar 
rier  of  prejudice,  and  take  the  humbled  wanderer  to 
their  bosom  ! 

The  face  of  the  snow  lost  its  dazzling  whiteness  as 
the  thaw  went  on — as  disease  steals  away  the  beauty 
of  those  we  love — but  it  was  only  in  the  distance, 
where  the  sun  threw  a  shadow  into  the  irregular  pits 
of  the  dissolving  surface.  Near  to  the  eye  (as  the 
dying  one  pressed  to  the  bosom),  it  was  still  of  its 
original  beauty,  unchanged  and  spotless.  And  now 
you  are  tired  of  my  loitering  speculations,  gentle  read 
er,  and  we  will  return  (please  Heaven,  only  on  paper!) 
to  Edith  Linsey. 

The  roads  were  at  last  reduced  to  what  is  expres 
sively  called,  in  New  England,  slosh  (in  New  York, 
posh,  but  equally  descriptive),  and  Fred  received  a 
hint  from  the  judge  that  the  mail  had  arrived  in  the 
usual  time,  and  his  beaux  jours  were  at  an  end. 

A  slighter  thing  than  my  departure  would  have  been 

sufficient  to  stagger  the  tottering  spirits  of  Edith.    We 

were  sitting  at  table  when  the  letters  came  in,  and  the 

dates  were  announced  that  proved  the  opening  of  the 

roads ;  and  I  scarce  dared  to  turn  my  eyes  upon  the 

pale  face  that  I  could  just  see  had  dropped  upon  her 

I  bosom.     The  next  instant  there  was  a  general  confu- 

!  sion,  and  she  was  carried  lifeless  to  her  chamber. 

A  note,  scarce  legible,  was  put  into  my  hand  in  the 
I  course  of  the  evening,  requesting  me  to  sit  up  for  her 
|  in  the  library.  She  would  come  to  me,  she  said,  if 
she  had  strength. 

It  was  a  night  of  extraordinary  beauty.  The  full 
moon  was  high  in  the  heavens  at  midnight,  and  there 
had  been  a  slight  shower  soon  after  sunset,  which, 
with  the  clearing-up  wind,  had  frozen  thinly  into  a 
most  fragile  rime,  and  glazed  everything  open  to  the 
sky  with  transparent  crystal.  The  distant  forest  looked 
serried  with  metallic  trees,  dazzlingly  and  unspeakably 
gorgeous  ;  and,  as  the  night-wind  stirred  through  them 
and  shook  their  crystal  points  in  the  moonlight — the 
aggregated  stars  of  heaven  springing  from  their  Ma 
ker's  hand  to  the  spheres  of  their  destiny,  or  the 
inarch  of  the  host  of  the  archangel  Michael  with  their 
irradiate  spear-points  glittering  in  the  air,  or  the  dia 
mond  beds  of  central  earth  thrust  up  to  the  sun  in 
some  throe  of  the  universe — would,  each  or  all,  have 
been  well  bodied  forth  by  such  similitude. 

It  was  an  hour  after  midnight  when  Edith  was  sup 
ported  in  by  her  maid,  and,  choosing  her  own  position, 
sunk  into  the  broad  window-seat,  and  lay  with  her  head 
on  my  bosom,  and  her  face  turned  outward  to  the  glit 
tering  night.  Her  eyes  had  become,  I  thought,  un 
naturally  bright,  and  she  spoke  with  an  exhausted 
faintness  that  gradually  strengthened  to  a  tone  of  the 
most  thrilling  and  melodious  sweetness.  I  shall  never 
get  that  music  out  of  my  brain  ! 

"  Philip  !"  she  said. 

"  I  listen,  dear  Edith  !" 

"  I  am  dying." 

And  she  looked  it,  and  I  believed  her;  and  my  heart 
sunk  to  its  deepest  abyss  of  wretchedness  with  the 
conviction. 

She  went  on  to  talk  of  death.     It  was  the  subject 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


37 


that  pressed  most  upon  her  mind,  and  she  could 
scarce  fail  to  be  eloquent  on  any  subject.  She  was 
very  eloquent  on  this.  I  was  so  impressed  with  the 
manner  in  which  she  seemed  almost  to  rhapsodize 
between  the  periods  of  her  faintness,  as  she  lay  in 
my  arms  that  night,  that  every  word  she  uttered  is 
still  fresh  in  my  memory.  She  seemed  to  forget  my 
presence,  and  to  commune  with  her  own  thoughts 


aloud. 

I  recollect,"  she  said, 


when  I  was  strong  and 


well  (years  ago,  dear  Philip!),  I  left  my  books  on  a 
morning  in  May,  and  looking  up  to  find  the  course  of 
the  wind,  started  off  alone  for  a  walk  into  its  very  eye. 
A  moist  steady  breeze  came  from  the  southwest,  dri 
ving  before  it  fragments  of  the  dispersed  clouds.  The 
air  was  elastic  and  clear  —  a  freshness  that  entered  free 
ly  at  every  pore  was  corrring  up,  mingled  with  the  pro 
fuse  perfume  of  grass  and  flowers  —  the  colors  of  the 
new,  tender  foliage  were  particularly  soothing  to  an 
eye  pained  with  close  attention  —  and  the  just  percep 
tible  murmur  of  the  drops  shaken  from  the  trees,  and 
the  peculiarly  soft  rustle  of  the  wet  leaves,  made  as 
much  music  as  an  ear  accustomed  to  the  silence  of 
solitude  could  well  relish.  Altogether,  it  was  one  of 
those  rarely-tempered  days  when  every  sense  is  satis 
fied,  and  the  mind  is  content  to  lie  still  with  its  com 
mon  thoughts,  and  simply  enjoy. 

"  I   had   proceeded   perhaps   a  mile  —  my  forehead 
held  up  to  the  wind,  my  hair  blowing  back,  and   the 
blood  glowing  in  my  cheeks  with  the  most  vivid  flush 
of  exercise  and  health  —  when   I  saw  coming  toward 
me  a  man  apparently  in  middle  life,  but  wasted  by  ill-   |  on  it  in  wonder. 
ness  to  the  extremest  emaciation.     His  lip  was  color-     realize  it. 
less,  his  skin  dry  and  white,  and  his  sunken  eyes  had 
that  expression  of  inquiring  earnestness  which  comes 


now,  will  settle  and  grow  dull  ?  That  the  refined  lip, 
which  now  shrinks  so  sensitively  from  defilement,  will 
not  feel  the  earth  lying  upon  it,  and  the  tooth  of  the 
feeding  worm  ?  That  the  free  breath  will  be  choked, 
and  the  forehead  be  pressed  heavily  on  by  the  decay 
ing  coffin,  and  the  light  and  air  of  heaven  be  shut  quite 
out  ;  and  this  very  body,  warm,  and  breathing,  and 
active  as  it  is  now,  will  not  feel  uneasiness  or  pain  ? 
I  could  not  help  looking  at  my  frame  as  these  thoughts 
crowded  on  me;  and  I  confess  I  almost  doubted  my 


own   convictions  —  there  was  so   much  strength   and 
quickness  in  it  —  my  hand  opened  so  freely,  and  my 


always  with  impatient  sickness.  He  raised  his  head, 
and  looked  steadily  at  me  as  I  came  on.  My  lips  were 
open,  and  my  whole  air  must  have  been  that  of  a  per 
son  in  the  most  exulting  enjoyment  of  health.  I  was 
just  against  him,  gliding  past  with  an  elastic  step, 
when,  with  his  eye  still  fixed  on  me,  he  half  turned, 
and  in  a  voice  of  inexpressible  meaning,  exclaimed, 


nostrils  expanded  with  such  a  satisfied  thirst  to  the 
moist  air.  Ah  !  it  is  hard  to  believe  at  first  that  we 
must  die  !  harder  still  to  believe  and  realize  the  repul 
sive  circumstances  that  follow  that  terrible  change  ! 
It  is  a  bitter  thought  at  the  lightest.  There  is  little 
comfort  in  knowing  that  the  soul  will  not  be  there  — 
that  the  sense  and  the  mind  that  feel  and  measure  suf 
fering,  will  be  gone.  The  separation  is  too  great  a 
mystery  to  satisfy  fear.  It  is  the  body  that  we  know. 
It  is  this  material  frame  in  which  the  affections  have 
grown  up.  The  spirit  is  a  mere  thought  —  a  presence 
that  we  are  told  of,  but  do  not  see.  Philosophize  as 
we  will,  the  idea  of  existence  is  connected  indissolubly 
with  the  visible  body,  and  its  pleasant  and  familiar 
senses.  We  talk  of,  and  believe,  the  soul's  ascent  to 
its  Maker  ;  but  it  is  not  ourselves  —  it  is  not  our  own 
conscious  breathing  identity  that  we  send  up  in  ima 
gination  through  the  invisible  air.  It  is  some  phantom 
that  is  to  issue  forth  mysteriously,  and  leave  us  gazing 
We  do  not  understand,  we  can  not 


At  the  time  I  speak  of,  my  health  had  been  always 
unbroken.     Since  then,  I  have  known  disease  in  many 


Merciful  Heaven  !  lioic  well  she 


eaning, 
is  ."     I 


passed  on, 


with  his  voice  still  ringing  in  my  ear.     It  haunted  me 
like  a  tone  in  the  air.     It  was  repeated  in  the  echo  of 
my  tread  —  in  the  panting  of  my  heart.     I  felt  it  in  the 
beating  of  the  strong  pulse  in   my  temples.     As  if  it 
was  strange  that  I  should  be  so  well  !     I   had  never 
before  realized  that  it  could  be  otherwise.     It  Deemed  , 
impossible  to  me  that  my  strong  limbs  shoi'W  /ail  me, 
or  the  pure  blood  I  felt  bounding  so  bravely  through  j 
my  veins  could   be  reached   and-tswn'ed   by  disease. 
I  ate. 


forms,  and  have  had,  of  course,  more  time  and  occa- 
!  sion  for  the  contemplation  of  death.     I  have  never, 
j  till  hue,  known  resignation.     With  my  utmost  energy 
I  I  was  merely  able,  in  other  days,  to  look  upon  it  with 
i  quiet  despair;  as  a  terrible,  unavoidable  evil.     I  re- 
!  member  once,  after  severe  suffering  for  weeks,  I  over 
heard  the  physician  telling  my  mother  that  I  must 
die,  and  from  th;><  moment  the  thought  never  left  me. 
A  thin  line  of  light  came  in  between  the  shutters  of 
the  south  window  ;  and,  with  this  one  thought  fasten- 
ed  on  my  mind,  like  the  vulture  of  Prometheus,  I  lay 
and  watched   it,  day   after  day,  as  it  passed  with  its 
imperceptible  progress  over  the  folds  of  my  curtains. 
The  last  faint  gleam  of  sunset  never  faded  from  its 
damask  edge,  without  an  inexpressible  sinking  of  my 
heart,  and  a  belief  that  I  should  see  its  pleasant  light 
no  more.     I  turned  from  the  window  when  even  ima 
gination  could  find  the  daylight  no  longer  there,  and 


How  should  it  come  ?     If .    - 

me  ?     If  I  slept,  would  it  not  r^iresh  me  ?     If  I  came     felt  my  pulse  and  lifted  my  head  to  try  my  remaining 

out  in  the  cool  'free  air   w«ld  not  my  lungs  Weave,  j|  strength.     And  then  every  object,  yes,  even  the  mean- 

and   my  muscles  BpriP*  «>d  my  face  feel  its  grateful  •' 

freshness  ?     I  held  o*1  my  arm> <or  tne  first  time  in  iny  ! 

life,  with  a  doub'  *>(  its  strength.     I  closed  my  hand  | 

unconscious^'*  w'tn  a  fear  >t  would  not  obey.     I  drew  j 

a  deep  hr*"*1'1'  to  ^ee'  '^  'l  was  difficult  to  breathe  ;  and  | 

even  »"f  bounding  step,  that  was  as  elastic  then  as  a 

fane's,  seemed  to  my  excited  imagination  already  to 

have  become  decrepit  and  feeble. 


I  walked  on,  and  thought  of  death.     I  had  never 


est,  grew  unutterably  dear  to  me  ;  my  pillow,  and  the 
cup  with  which  my  lips  were  moistened,  and  the  cool 
ing  amber  which  I  had  held  in  my  hand,  and  pressed 
to  my  burning  lips  when  the  fever  was  on  me — every 
thing  that  was  connected  with  life,  and  that  would  re 
main  among  the  living  when  I  was  gone. 

"  It  is  strange,  but  with  all  this  clinging  to  the  world 
my  affection  for  the  living  decreased  sensibly.  I  grew 
selfish  in  my  weakness.  I  could  not  bear  that  they 


before  done  so  definiteJy  ;  It  was  like  a  terrible  shape  j  should  go  from  my  chamber  into  the  fresh  air,  and 
that  had  always  pursued  me  dimly,  but  which  I  had  j  have  no  fear  of  sickness  and  no  pain.  It  seemed  un- 
never  before  turned  and  looked  steadily  on.  Strange!  jj  feeling  that  they  did  not  stay  and  breathe  the  close 
that  we  can  live  so  constantly  with  that  threatening  jj  atmosphere  of  my  room  —  at  least  till  I  was  dead.  — 
hand  hung  over  us,and  not  think  of  it  always!  Strange!  ji  How  could  they  walk  round  so  carelessly,  and  look 
that  we  can  use  a  limb,  or  enter  with  interest  into  any  |j  on  a  fellow-creature  dying  helplessly  and  unwillingly, 
pursuit  of  time,  when  we  know  that  our  continued  u  and  never  shed  a  tear!  And  then  the  passing  cour- 
life  is  almost  a  daily  miracle  !  \\  tesies  exchanged  with  the  family  at  the  door,  and  the 

"How  difficult  it  is  to  realize  death  !  How  difficult  i|  quickened  step  on  the  sidewalk,  and  the  wandering  looks 
it  is  to  believe  that  the  hand  with  whose  every  vein  j  about  my  room,  even  while  I  was  answering  with  my 
you  are  familiar,  will  ever  lose  its  motion  and  its  i  difficult  breath  their  cold  inquiries!  There  was  an  in- 
warmth?  That  the  quick  eye,  which  is  so  restless  ||  human  carelessness  in  all  this  that  stung  me-to  the  settl. 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


"I  craved  sympathy  as  I  did  life  ;  and  yet  I  doubted 
it  all.  There  was  not  a  word  spoken  by  the  friends 
who  were  admitted  to  see  me,  that  I  did  not  ponder 
over  when  they  were  gone,  and  always  with  an  im 
patient  dissatisfaction.  The  tone,  and  the  manner, 
and  the  expression  of  faee,  all  seemed  forced  :  and 
often,  in  my  earlier  sickness,  when  I  had  pondered  for 
hours  on  the  expressed  sympathy  of  some  one  I  had 
loved,  the  sense  of  utter  helplessness  which  crowded 
on  me  with  my  conviction  of  their  insincerity,  quite 
overcame  me.  I  have  lain  night  after  night,  and 
looked  at  my  indifferent  watchers  :  and  oh  how  I 
hated  them  for  their  careless  ease,  and  their  snatched 
moments  of  repose  !  I  could  scarce  keep  from  dashing 
aside  the  cup  they  came  to  give  me  so  sluggishly. 

"  It  is  singular  that,  with  all  our  experience  sf  sick 
ness,  we  do  not  attend  more  to  these  slight  circum 
stances.  It  can  scarce  be  conceived  how  an  ill-man- 
aged  light,  or  a  suppressed  whispering,  or  a  careless 
change  of  attitude,  in  the  presence  of  one  whose  senses 
are  so  sharpened,  and  whose  mind  is  so  sensitive  as  a 
sick  person's,  irritate  and  annoy.  And,  perhaps,  more 


reader,  with  what  must  be  more  interesting  to  me  than 
to  you,  it  is  because  every  syllable  was  burnt  like 
enamel  into  my  soul,  in  my  boundless  reverence  and 
love. 

It  was  two  o'clock,  and  she  still  lay  breathing  pain 
fully  in  my  arms.  1  had  thrown  up  the  window,  and 
the  soft  south  wind,  stirring  gently  among  the  tinkling 
icicles  of  the  trees,  came  in,  warm  and  genial,  and  she 
leaned  over  to  inhale  it,  as  if  it  came  from  the  source 
of  life.  The  stars  burned  gloriously  in  the  heavens  ; 
and,  in  a  respite  of  her  p-.iin,  she  lay  back  her  head, 
and  gazed  up  at  thein  with  an  inarticulate  motion  of 
her  lips,  and  eyes  so  unnaturally  kindled,  that  I  thought 
reason  had  abandoned  her. 

"How  beautiful  are  the  stars  to  night,  Ediih!"  I 
said,  with  half  a  fear  that  she  would  answer  me  in 
madness. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  putting  nfy  hand  (that  pressed  her 
closer,  involuntary,  to  my  bosom)  first  to  her  lips  — 
"Yes;  and,  beautiful  as  they  are,  they  are  all  accu 
rately  numbered  and  governed,  and  just  as  they  burn- 
now  have  the  burned  since  the  creation,  never  '  faint 


than  these  to  bear,  is  the  affectedly  subdued  tone  of  !   in  their  watches,'  and  never  absent  from  their  place, 
condolence.     I  remember  nothing  which  I  endured  so   !  How  glorious  they  are!     How  thrilling  it  is  to  see  them 


impatiently. 

"  Annoyances  like  these,  however,  scarcely  diverted  ! 
fox.  a  moment  the  one  great  thought  of  death.     It  be-  ' 
came  at  last  familiar,  but,  if  possible,  more  dreadfully 
horrible  from  that  very  fact.     It  was  giving  it  a  new 
character.     I  realized  it  more,     The  minute  circum 
stances  became  nearer  and  more  real  —  F  tried  the  posi 
tion  in  which  I  should  lie  in  my  coffin  —  I  lay  with 


stand  with  such  a  constant  silence  in  the  sky,  vm- 
steadied  and  unsupported,  obeying  the  great  law  of 
their  Maker!  What  pwre  and  silvery  light  h  is!  How 
steadily  it  pours  from  those  small  fountains,  giving 
every  spot  of  earth  its  due  portion  !  The  hovel  and 
the  palace  are  shone  upon  equally,  and  the  shepherd 
gets  as  broad  a  beam  as  the  king,  and  these  few  rays 
that  are  now  streaming  into  my  feverish  eyes  were 


my  arms  to  my  side,  and  my  feet  together,  and  with  j  meant  and  lavished  only  for  me!  I  have  oftf 
the  cold  sweat  standing  in  large  drops  on  my  lip,  com-  !!  thought — has  it  never  occurred  to  you,  dear  Philip  ? — 
posed  my  features  into  a  forced  expression,  of  tran-  !  how  ungrateful  we  are  to  call  ourselves  poor,  when 
quillity.  there  is  so  much  that  no  poverty  can  take  away  f 

'  I  awoke  on  the  second  morning  after  the  hope  of  |l  Clusters  of  silver  rays  from  every  star  in  these  heavens 
my  recovery  had  bcon  abandoned.  There  was  a  nar-  are  mine.  Every  breeze  that  breaks  on  my  forehead 
row  sunbeam  lying  in  ;.  clear  crimson  line  across  the  |]  was  sent  for  my  refreshment.  Every  tinkle  and  ray 


curtain,  and  I  lay  and  watched  the  specks  of  lint  sail-  j 
ing  through  it,  like  silver-winged  insects,  and  the  thin  ' 
dust,  quivering  and  disappearing  on  its  definite  limit,  I 
in  a  dream  of  wonder.  I  had  thought  not  to  see  I 


another  sun,  and  my  mind  was  still  fresh  with  the  ex 
pectation  of  an  immediate  change  ;  I  could  not  believe 


from  those  stirring  and  glistening  icicles,  and  the 
vigorating  freshness  of  this  unseasonable  and  delicious 
wind,  and  moonlight,  and  sunshine,  and  the  glory  of 
the  planets,  are  all  gifts  that  poverty  could  not  take 


away  !     It  is  not  often  that  I  forget  these  treasures ;  for 

I  have  loved  nature,  and  the  skies  of  night  and  day,  in 

that  I  was  alive.  The  dizzy  throb  in  my  temples  was  |  all  their  changes,  from  my  childhood,  and  they  have 
done  ;  my  limbs  felt  cool  and  refreshed;  my  mind  had  j|  been  unspeakably  dear  to"  me  ;  for  in  them  I  see  the 
that  feeling  of  transparency  which  is  common  after  !j  evidence  of  an  Almighty  Maker,  and  in  the  excessive 


healthful  and  sweet  sleep;  and  an  indefinite  sensation 
of  pleasure  trembled  in  every  nerve.  I  thought  that 
this  might  be  death,  and  that,  with  this  exquisite  feel 
ing  of  repose,  I  was  to  linger  thus  consciously  with 
the  body  till  the  last  day  ;  and  I  dwelt  on  it  pleasantly 
with  my  delicious  freedom  from  pain.  I  felt  no  regret 

for  life — none  for  a  friend  even  :  I  was  willing — quite  „_ 

willing — to  lie  thus  for  ages.     Presently  the  physician  I  j  it  is  the  last  time— I  am  surt0f  jt the  verv  last !    Yet 


"ty  of  the  stars  and  the  unfading  and  equal  splen 
dor  of  their  steadfast  fires,  1  see  glimpses  of  an  im 
mortal  hie,  ancj  fjncj  ail  answer  to  the  eternal  question 
ing  within  mo,; 

"  j.  hree  .  Fb*  village  clock  reaches  us  to  night. 
Nay,  the  wind  can  nos,  i,arm  me  now.  Turn  me  more 
to  the  window,  for  I  wouvi  jook  nearer  upon  the  stars: 


entered  ;  he  came  and  laid  his  fingers  on  my  pulse, 
and  his  face  brightened.  '  You  will  get  well,'  he  said, 
and  I  heard  it  almost  without  emotion.  Gradually, 
however,  the  love  of  life  returned;  and  as  I  realized  it 
fully,  and  all  the  thousand  chords  which  bound  me  to 
it  vibrated  once  more,  the  tears  came  thickly  to  my  eyes, 
and  a  crowd  of  delightful  thoughts  pressed  cheerfully 
and  glowingly  on  me.  No  language  can  do  justice 
to  the  pleasure  of  convalescence  from  extreme  sick 
ness.  The  first  step  upon  the  living  grass  —  the  first 
breath  of  free  air  —  the  first  unsuppressed  salutation  of 


to-morrow  night  those  stars  wh\a||  ^e  t|iere ,,ot  

missing  from  the  sky,  nor  shining  u^,,  ,-av  f|le  ]ess  De. 
cause  I  am  dead  !  It  is  strange  thv<\  tjjjs  thought 
should  be  so  bitter — strange  that  the  CI>INWUJJO!  shjp 
should  be  so  close  between  our  earthly  affect, ->ns  .,mj 
those  spiritual  worlds — and  stranger  yet,  that,  .v,>tjs_ 
fied  as  we  must  be  that  we  shall  know  them  neartt 
and  better  when  released  from  our  flesh,  we  still  cling: 
so  fondly  to  our  earthly  and  imperfect  vision.  I  I'erl, 
Philip,  that  I  shall  traverse  herealter  every  star  hi  tfiose 
bright  heavens.  If  the  course  of  that  career  of  kn 


a  friend — my  fainting  heart,  dear  Philip,  rallies  and  |  edge,  which  I  believe  in  my  soul  it  will  be  the  reward 


quickens  even  now  with  the  recollection." 

I  have  thrown  into  a  continuous  strain  what  was 
murmured  to  me  between  pauses  of  faintness,  and  with 
difficulty  of  breath  that  seemed  overpowered  only  by 
the  mastery  of  the  eloquent  spirit  apparently  trembling 
on  its  departure.  1  believed  Edith  Linsey  would  die 
that  uight;  I  believed  myself  listening  to  words  spoken 
almost  from  heaven  ;  and  if  I  have  wearied  you,  dear 


of  the  blessed  to  run,  be  determined  in  any  degrt 
the  strong  desires  that  yearn  so  sickeningly  within  us, 
I  see  the  thousand  gates  of  my  future  heaven  shii.ii.jj 
at  this  instant  above  me.  There  they  are!  the  clus 
tering  Pleiades,  with  '  their  sweet  influences  ;'  and 
the  morning  star,  melting  into  the  east  with  its  trans 
cendent  lambency  and  whiteness;  and  the  broad  gal 
axy,  with  its  myriads  of  bright  spheres,  dissolving  into 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


each  other's  light,  and  belling  the  heavens  like  a  gir 
dle.  J  shall  see  them  all !  1  shall  know  them  and 
the  r  inli ibitants  as  the  -angels  of  (iod  know  them  ; 
the  mystery  of  their  order,  and  the  secret  of  their 
wonderful  harmony,  and  the  duration  of  their  appoint 
ed  courses — all  will  be  made  clear!" 

1  have  trespassed  again,  most  indulgent  reader,  on 
the  limits  of  these  Procrustean  papers.  J  must  defer 
the  "  change"  that  "  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream" 
till  another  mood  an  I  time.  Meanwhile,  you  may- 
consider  Edith,  if  you  like,  the  true  heart  she  thought 
herself  (and  I  thought  her)  durin;:  her  nine  deaths  in 
the  library;  and  you  will  have  leisuie  to  imagine  the 
three  years  over  which  we  shall  skip  with  this  finale, 
during  which  I  made  a  journey  to  the  north,  and  d.-mced 
out  a  winter  in  your  own  territories  at  Quebec — a  cir 
cumstance  I  allu.Ie  to,  no  less  to  record  the  hospitali 
ties  of  the  garrison  of  that  time  (this  was  in  27 — were 
you  there?)  than  to  pluck  forth  from  Time's  hinder- 
most  wallet  a  modest  copy  of  verses  1  addressed  thence 
to  Edith.  She  sent  them  back  to  me  considerably 
mended;  but  I  give  you  the  original  draught,  scorn 
ing  her  finger  in  my  poesies. 

TO    EDITH,  FROM    THE    NORTH. 

As,  gazing  on  the  Pleiades, 

We  count  each  fair  and  starry  one, 
Yet  wander  from  the  light  of  these 

To  muse  upon  the  '  Pleiad  gone  ;'— 
As,  bending  o'er  fresh-gathered  flowers, 

The  rose  s  most  enchanting  hue 
Reminds  us  hut  of  other  hours, 

Whose  roses  were  all  lovely,  too; — 
So.  dearest,  when  I  rove  among 

The  bright  ones  of  this  northern  sky, 
And  mark  the  smilt- ,  and  list  the  song, 

And  watch  the  dmcers  gliding  by — 
The  fairer  still  they  seem  to  be, 
The  more  it  stirs  a  thought  of  thee. 

The  sad,  sweet  bells  of  twilight  chime, 

Of  many  hearts  may  touch  hut  one, 
And  so  this  seeming  careless  rhyme 

Will  whisper  to  thy  heart  alone. 
I  give  it  to  the  winds.     The  bird, 

Let  loose,  to  his  far  nest  will  flee  : 
And  love,  though  hreathed  but  on  a  word, 

Wi.l  find  thee  over  land  and  sea. 
Though  clouds  across    he  sky  have  driven, 

We  trust  the  star  at  last  will  shine ; 
And  like  the  very  light  of  heaven, 

I  trust  thy  love — trust  thou  in  mine  ! 


PART  III. 


A    DIGRESSION. 

"  B»y.  Will  you  not  sleep,  sir? 

Knight.  Fling  the  window  np  ! 

Ml  look  upon  the  stars.     Where  twinkle  now 
The  I'leiades? 

Boy.  Here,  master! 

KtifU.  Throw  me  now 

MY  cloak  upon  my  slmu  ders.  and  good  niglit ! 
I  have  no  mind  to  sleep  !        *        *        * 
*         *         *         *        She  bade  me  look 
Upon  his  hand  of  stars  when  other  eyes 
Beamed  on  me  brightly,  and  remember  her 
By  the  Lost  Pleiad. 

Ratj.  Are  you  well,  sir  ? 

Knight.  Boy! 

Love  you  the  stars  ? 

Boy.  When  they  first  spring-  at  eve 

Better  than  near  to  morning. 

Knight.  Fickle  child  ! 

Are  they  more  fair  in  twilight  ? 

Hoy.  Master,  no  ! 

Brighter  as  nisrht  wears  on—liut  I  foiget 
Their  beauty,  looking  on  >h<-m  InngT' 

*  SIR  FABIAN,"  an  unpub'ishtd  Poem. 

IT  was  a  September  night  at  the  university.  On  the 
morrow  I  was  to  appear  upon  the  stage  as  the  winner 
of  the  first  honors  of  my  year.  I  was  the  envy— the 
admiration— iu  some  degree  the  wonder,  of  the  col- 


I  legiate  town  in  which  the  university  stands  ;  for  I  had 
j  commenced  my  career  as  the  idlest  and  most  riotous 
•  of  freshmen.     What  it  was  that  had  suddenly  made 
me  enamored  of  my  chambers  and  my  books— that 
had  saddened  my  manners  and  softened  my  voice — that 
had  given  me  a  disgust  to  champagne  and  my  old  al 
lies,  in  favor  of  cold  water  and  the  Platonists — that,  in 
i  short,  had  metamorphosed,   as  Bob  Wilding  would 
;  have  said,  a  gentleman-like  rake  and  vau-rien  into  so 
|  dull  a  thing  as  an  exemplary  academician — was  past 
i  the  divining  of  most  of  my  acquaintances.    Oh,  once- 
,  loved  Edith!  hast  thou  any  inkling  in  thy  downward 
metempsychosis  of  the  philosophy  of  this  marvel  ? 

If  you"  were  to  set  a  poet  to  make  a  town,  with 
carte  blanche  as  to  trees,  gardens,  and  green  blinds, 
he  would  probably  turn  out  very  much  such  a  place 
as  New  Haven.  (Supposing  your  education  in  ge 
ography  to  have  been  neglected,  dear  reader,  this  is 
the  second  capital  of  Connecticut,  a  half-rural,  half- 
metropolitan  town,  lying  between  a  precipice  that 
makes  the  fag-end  of  the  (ireen  mountains  and  a 
handsome  bay  in  Long-Island  sound.)  The  first 
thought  of  the  inventor  of  New  Haven  was  to  lay  out 
the  streets  in  parallelograms,  and  the  second  was  to 
plant  them  from  suburb  to  water-side  with  the  mag 
nificent  elms  of  the  country.  The  result  is,  that  at 
the  end  of  fifty  years,  the  town  is  buried  in  leaves.  If 
it  were  not  for  the  spires  of  the  churches,  a  bird  flying 
over  on  his  autumn  voyage  to  the  Floridas  would 
never  mention  having  seen  it  in  his  travels.  It  is  a 
glorious  tree,  the  elm — and  those  of  the  place  I  speak 
of  are  famous,  even  in  our  land  of  trees,  for  their  sur 
prising  size  and  beauty.  With  the  curve  of  their 
stems  in  the  sky,  the  long  weepers  of  their  outer  and 
lower  branches  drop  into  the  street,  fanning  your  face 
as  you  pass  under  with  their  geranium-like  leaves  ; 
and  close  overhead,  interwoven  like  the  trellice  of  a 
vine,  they  break  up  the  light  of  the  sky  into  golden 
flecks,  and  make  you,  of  the  common  highway,  a 
bower  of  the  most  approved  secludedness  and  beauty. 
The  houses  are  something  between  an  Italian  palace 
and  an  English  cottage — built  of  wood,  but,  in  the 
dim  light  of  those  overshadowing  trees,  as  fair  to  the 
eye  as  marble  with  their  triennial  coats  of  paint ;  and 
each  stands  in  the  midst  of  its  own  encircling  grass- 
plot,  half  buried  in  vines  and  flowers,  and  facing  out 
ward  from  a  cluster  of  gardens  divided  by  slender 
palings,  and  filling  up  with  fruit-trees  and  summer- 
houses  the  square  on  whose  limit  it  stands.  Then, 
like  the  vari-colored  parallelograms  upon  a  chess 
board,  green  openings  are  left  throughout  the  town, 
fringed  with  triple  and  interweaving  elm-rows,  the  long 
and  weeding  branches  sweeping  downward  to  the 
grass,  and  with  their  enclosing  shadows  keeping  moist 
and  cool  the  road  they  overhang;  and  fair  forms  (it  is 
the  garden  of  American  beauty — New- Haven)  flit 
Hheurin  the  green  light  in  primitive  security  and  free 
dom,  and  you  would  think  the  place,  if  you  alit  upon 
it  in  a  summer's  evening — what  it  seems  to  me  now 
in  memory,  and  what  1  have  made  it  in  this  Rosa- 
MatilJa  description — a  scene  from  Boccacio,  or  a 
vision  from  long  lost  Arcady. 

New  Haven  may  have  eight  thousand  inhabitants. 
Its  steamers  run  to  New  York  in  six  hours  (or  did  in 
my  time — I  have  ceased  to  be  astonished  on  that  sub 
ject,  and  should  not  wonder  if  they  did  it  now  in  one 
— a  trifle  of  seventy   miles  up   the   sound),  and   the 
ladies  go  up  in  the  morning  for  a  yard  of  bobbin  and 
return  at  night,  and  the  gentlemen  the    same  for  a 
stroll  in  Broadway  ;  and  it  is  to  this  circumstance  that, 
while  it  preserves  its  rural  exterior,  it  is  a  very  metro- 
,    politan  place  in  the   character  of  its   society.     The 
I  Armaryllis  of  the  petty  cottage  you  admire  wears  the 
fashion  twenty  days  from  Paris,  and  her  shepherd  has 
a  coat  from  Nugee,  the  divine  peculiarity  of  which  is 
1  not  yet  suspected  east  of  Bond  street ;  and,  in   the 


40 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


newspaper  hanging  half  out  of  the  window,  there  is 
news,  red-hot  with  the  velocity  of  its  arrival,  from 
Russia  and  the  Rocky  Mountains,  from  the  sources  of 
the  Mississippi  and  the  brain  of  Monsieur  Herbault. 
Distance  is  an  imaginary  quantity,  and  Time,  that 
used  to  give  everything  the  go-by,  has  come  to  a 
stand-still  in  his  astonishment.  There  will  be  a  prop 
osition  in  congress  ere  long  to  do  without  him  alto 
gether — every  new  thing  "  saves  time"  so  marvel 
lously. 

Bright  as  seems  to  me  thrs  seat  of  my  Alma 
Mater,  however,  and  gayly  as  I  describe  it,  it  is  to 
me,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  a  picture  of  memory 
glazed  and  put  away ;  if  I  see  it  ever  again,  it  will 
be  but  to  walk  through  its  embowered  streets  by 
a  midnight  rnoon.  It  is  vain  and  heart-breaking  to  go 
back,  after  absence,  to  any  spot  of  earth  of  which  tin 


men  of  from  eighteen  to  twenty -four — every  one  of 
whom  was  passing  the  last  evening  of  the  four  most 
impressible  and  attaching  years  of  his  life,  with  the 
family  in  which  he  had  been  most  intimate,  in  a  town 
where  refinement  and  education  had  done  their  ut 
most  upon  the  society,  and  which  was  renowned 
throughout  America  for  the  extraordinary  beauty  of 
its  women.  They  had  come  from  every  state  in  the 
Union,  and  the  Georgian  a-nd  the  Vermontese,  the 
Kentuckian  and  the  Virginian,  were  to  start  alike  on 
the  morrow-night  with  a  lengthening  chain  for  home, 
each  bearing  away  the  hearts  he  had  attached  to  him 
(one  or  more!)  and  leaving  his  own,  till,  like  the  mag- 
:  netized  needle,  it  should  drop  away  with  the  weak 
ened  attraction  ;  and  there  was  probably  but  one  that 
night  in  the  departing  froop  who  was  not  whispering 
in  some  throbbing  ear  the  passionate  but  vain  and 


interest  was  the  human  love  whose  home  and  cradle  it  \\  mocking  avowal  of  fidelity  in  love  !  And  yet  I  had 
had  been.  But  there  is  a  period  in  our  lives  when  I  j  had  my  attachments  too;  nnd  there  was  scarce  a 
the  heart  fuses  and  compounds  with  the  things  about  jl  house  in  tlwit  leafy  and  muramring  paradise  of  friend- 
it,  and  the  close  enamel  with  which  it  overruns  and  j  ship  and  trees,  that  would  not  have  hailed  me  with 
binds  in  the  affections,  and  which  hardens  in  the]'  acclamation  had  I  entered  the  door;  and  I  make  this 
lapse  of  years  till  the  immortal  germ  within  is  noti|  record  of  kindness  and  hospitality  (unforgolten  after 
more  durable  and  unwasting,  warms  never  again,  nor  j]  long  years  of  vicissitude  and  travel),  with  the  hope 
softens;  and  there  is  nothing  on  earth  so  mournful  j  that  there  m;iy  yet  live  some  memory  as  constant  as 


and  unavailing  as  to  return  to  the  scenes  which  are 
unchanged,  and  look  to  return  to  ourselves  and  others 
as  we  were  when  we  thus  knew  them. 

Yet  we  think  (I  judge  you  by  my  own  soul,  gentle 
reader)  that  it  is  others — not  we — who  are  changed  ! 
We  meet  the  friend  that  we  loved  in  our  youth,  and  it 
is  ever  he  who  is  cold  and  altered  !  We  take  the 
hand  that  we  bent  over  with  our  passionate  kisses  in 
boyhood,  and  our  raining  tears  when  we  last  parted, 
and  it  is  ever  hers  that  returns  not  the  pressure,  and 
her  eyes,  and  not  ours— oh,  not  ours! — that  look  back 
the  moistened  and  once  familiar  regard  with  a  dry  lid 


mine,  and  that  some  eye  will  read  it  with  a  warmth  in 
its  lid,  and  some  lip — some  one  at  least — murmur,  "/ 
remember  him!"  There  are  trees  in  that  town  whose 
drooping  leaves  I  could  press  to  my  lips  with  an  affec 
tion  as  passionate  as  if  they  were  human,  though  the- 
lips  and  voices  that  have  endeared  them  to  me  are  as 
changed  as  the  foliage  upon  the  branch,  and  would 
recognise  my  love  as  coldly. 

There  was  one,  I  say,  who  walked  the  thronged 
pavement  alone  that  night,  or  but  with  such  company 
as  Uhland's  ;*  yet  the  heart  of  that  solitary  senior  was 
far  from  lonel\r.  The  ualm  of  years  of  ambition  was 


and  a  gaze  of  stone  !  Oh  God!  it  is  ever  he— the  j!  in  his  grasp— the  reward  of  daily  self-denial  ;md  mid- 
friend  you  have  worshipped — for  whom  you  would  (;  night  watching — the  prize  of  a  straining  mind  and 
have  died — who  gives  you  the  tips  of  his  ringers,  and  j  a  yearning  desire  ;  and  there  was  not  one  of  the  many 
greets  you  with  a  phrase  of  fashion,  when  you  would  j  who  spoke  of  him  that  night  in  those  crowded  rooms, 
rush  into  his  bosom  and  break  your  heart  with  weep-  j  either  to  rejoice  in  his  success  or  to  wonder  at  its  at- 
ing  out  the  imprisoned  tenderness  of  years  !  I  could  j  tainment,  who  had  the  shadow  of  an  idea  what  spirit 
carve  out  the  heart  from  my  bosom,  and  fling  it  with  j  sat  uppermost  in  his  bosom.  Oh!  how  common  is 
a  malison  into  the  sea,  when  I  think  how  utterly  and  i  this  ignorance  of  human  motives  !  How  distant,  and 
worse  than  useless  it  is  in  this  world  of  mocking  j  slight,  and  unsuspected,  are  the  springs  often  of  the 
names !  Yet  "  love"  and  "  friendship"  are  words 


that  read  well.     You   could  scarce  spare   them   in 
poetry. 

II. 

It  was,  as  I  hare  said,  a  moonlight  night  of  unpar 
alleled  splendor.  The  morrow  was  the  college  anni 
versary—the  day  of  the  depvu-ture  of  the  senior  class 


nd  the  town,  which  is,  as 


it  were,  a  part  of  the  uni 


versity,  was  in  the  usual  tumult  of  the  gayest  and 
saddest  evening  of  the  year.  The  night  was  warm, 
and  the  houses,  of  which  the  drawing-rooms  are  ali 
on  a  level  with  the  gardens  in  the  rear,  and  through 
which  a  long  hall  stretches  like  a  ball-room,  were 
thrown  open,  doors  and  windows,  and  the  thousand 
students  of  the  university,  and  the  crowds  of  their 
friends,  and  the  hosts  of  strangers  drawn  to  the  place 
at  this  season  by  the  annual  festivities,  and  the  fami 
lies,  every  one  with  a  troop  of  daughters  (as  the  leaves 
on  our  trees,  compared  with  those  of  old  countries  — 
three  to  one  —  so  are  our  sons  and  daughters)  were  all 
sitting  without  lamps  in  the  moon-lit  rooms,  or  strol 
ling  together,  lovers  and  friends,  in  the  fragrant  gar 
dens,  or  looking  out  upon  the  street,  returning  the 
greetings  of  the  passers-by,  or,  with  heads  uncovered, 
pacing  backward  and  forward  beneath  the  elms  before 
the  door  —  the  whole  scene  one  that  the  angels  in 
heaven  might  make  a  holyday  to  see. 

There  were  a  hundred  of  my  fellow-seniors—  young 


most  desperate  achievement!  How  little  the  world 
knows  for  what  the  poet  writes,  the  scholar  toils,  the 
politician  sells  his  soul,  and  the  soldier  perils  his  life  ! 
And  how  insignificant  and  unequal  to  the  result  would 
seem  these  invisible  wires,  could  they  be  traced  back 
from  the  hearts  whose  innermost  resource  and  faculty 
they  have  waked  and  exhausted  !  It  is  a  startling 
thing  to  question  even  your  own  soul  for  its  motive. 
Ay,  even  in  trifles.  Ten  to  one  you  are  surprised  at 
the  answer.  I  have  asked  myself,  while  writing  this 
sentence,  whose  eye  it  is  most  meant  to  please;  and, 
as  I  live,  the  face  that  is  conjured  up  at  my  bidding  is 
of  one  of  whom  I  have  not  had  a  definite  thought  for 
years.  I  would  lay  my  life  she  thinks  at  this  instant 
I  have  forgotten  her  very  name.  Yet  I  know  she 
will  read  this  page  with  an  interest  no  other  could 
awaken,  striving  to  trace  in  it  the  changes  that  have 
come  over  me  since  we  parted.  I  know  (and  I  knew 
then,  though  we  never  exchanged  a  word  save  in 
friendship),  that  she  devoted  her  innermost  soul  when 
we  strayed  together  by  that  wild  river  in  the  West, 
(dost  thou  remember  it,  dear  friend  ?  for  now  I  speak 
to  thee  !)  to  the  study  of  a  mind  and  character  of  which 

»  Almost  the  sweetest  thing  I  remember  is  the  German, 
poet's  thought  when  crossing  the  lerry  to  his  wile  and 
child  ;— 

"  Take,  O  boatman  !  thrice  thy  fee, 
Take,  I  give  it  willingly  : 
For,  invisMy  to  tkee, 
Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me." 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


4i 


she  thought  better  than  the  world  or  their  possessor ; 
and  I  know— oh,  how  well  I  know! — that  with  hus 
band  and  children  around  her,  whom  she  loves  and 
to  whom  she  is  devoted,  the  memory  of  me  is  laid 
away  in  her  heart  like  a  fond  but  incomplete  dream 
of  what  once  seemed  possible— the  feeling  with  which 
the  mother  looks  on  her  witless  boy,  and  loves  him 
more  for  what  he  might  have  been,  than  his  brothers 
for  what  they  are! 

I  scarce  know  what  thread  I  dropped  to  take  up  this 
improvista  digression  (for,  like  "Opportunity  and  the 
Hours,"  I  "  never  look  back  :"*)  but  let  us  return  to 
the  shadow  of  the  thousand  elms  of  New  Haven. 

The  Gascon  thought  his  own  thunder  and  lightning 
superior  to  that  of  other  countries,  but  I  must  run  the  ! 
hazard  of  your  incredulity  as  well,  in  preferring  an 
American  moon.  In  Greece  and  Asia  Minor,  perhaps 
(ragione — she  was  first  worshipped  there),  Cytheris 
shines  as  brightly ;  but  the  Ephesian  of  Connecticut 
sees  the  flaws  upon  the  pearly  buckler  of  ihe  goddess,  ! 
as  does  the  habitant  of  no  other  clime.  His  eye  lies  j 
close  to  the  moon.  There  is  no  film,  and  no  visible 
beam  in  the  clarified  atmosphere.  Her  light  is  less  ! 
an  emanation  than  a  presence — the  difference  between  ' 
the  water  in  a  thunder-shower  and  the  depths  of  i 
the  sea.  The  moon  struggles  to  you  in  England — ; 
she  is  all  about  you,  like  an  element  of  the  air,  in  ' 
America. 

The  night  was  breathless,  and  the  fragmented  light 
lay  on  the  pavement  in  motionless  stars,  as  clear  and  j 
definite  in  their  edges  as  if  the  "  patines  of  bright  gold''  ; 
had  dropped  through  the  trees,  and   lay  glittering  be-  i 
neath  my  feet.     There  was  a  kind  of  darkness  visible 
in  the  streets,  overshadowed  as  they  were  by  the  massy  I 
and  leaf-burthened  elms,  and  as  1  looked  through  the  | 
houses,   standing   in    obscurity   myself,    the   gardens ! 
seemed    full    of   daylight — the    unobstructed    moon  I 
poured  with  such  a  flood  of  radiance  on  the  flowery- 
alleys  within,  and   their  gay  troops  of  promenaders. 
And  as  I  distinguished  one  and  another  familiar  friend, 
with  a  form  as  familiar  clinging  to  his  side,  and,  with 
drooping  head  and  faltering  step,  listening  or  replying  : 
(I  well  knew),  to  the  avowals  of  love  and  truth,  ]  mur 
mured  in  thought  to  my  own  far  away,  but  never-for 
gotten   Edith,  a  vow  as  deep — ay,  deeper  than  theirs, 
as  my  spirit  and   hers  had  been  sounded  by  the  pro-  , 
founder  plummet  of  sorrow  and  separation.     How  the 
very  moonlight — how  the  stars  of  heaven — how  the 
balm  in  the  air,  and  the  languor  of  summer  night  in 
my  indolent  frame,  seemed,  in  those  hours  of  loneli 
ness,  ministers  at  the  passionate  altar-fires  of  my  love!  ; 
Forsworn  and  treacherous  Edith !  do  I  live  to  write  ; 
this  for  thine  eye? 

I  linger  upon  these  trifles  of  the  past — these  hours  I 
for  which  I  would  have  borrowed  wings  when,  they 
were  here — and,  as  then  they  seemed  but  the  flowering 
promise  of  happiness,  they  seem  now  like  the  fruit, 
enjoyed  and  departed.  Past  and  future  bliss  there 
would  seem  to  be  in  the  world — knows  any  one  of 
such  a  commodity  in  the  present  ?  I  have  not  seen 
it  in  my  travels. 

III. 

I  was  strolling  on  through  one  of  the  most  fashion 
able  and  romantic  streets  (when  did  these  two  words 
ever  before  find  themselves  in  a  sentence  together  ?) 
when  a  drawing-room  with  which  I  was  very  'familiar, 
lit,  unlike  most  others  on  that  bright  night,  by  a  sus 
pended  lamp,  and  crowded  with  company,  attracted 
my  attention  for  a  moment.  Between  the  house  and 
the  street  there  was  a  slight  shrubbery  shut  in  by  a 
white  paling,  just  sufficient  to  give  an  air  of  seclusion 
to  the  low  windows  without  concealing  them  from  the 
passer-by,  and,  with  the  freedom  of  an  old  visiter,  I 
•  Walter  Savage  Landor. 


unconsciously  stopped,  and  looked  unobserved  into 
the  /ooms.  It  was  the  residence  of  a  magnificent 
girl,  who  was  generally  known  as  the  Connecticut 
beauty — a  singular  instance  in  America  of  what  is 
called  in  England  a  fine  woman.  (With  us  that  word 
applies  wholly  to  moral  qualities.)  She  was  as  large 
as  Juno,  and  a  great  deal  handsomer,  if  the  painters 
have  done  that  much-snubbed  goddess  justice.  She 
was  a  "book  of  beauty"  printed  with  virgin  type; 
and  that,  by  the  way,  suggests  to  me  what  I  have  all 
my  life  been  trying  to  express — that  some  women 
seem  wrought  of  new  material  altogether,  apropos  to 
others  who  seem  mortal  n'chavffes — as  if  every  limb 
and  feature  had  been  used,  and  got  out  of  shape  in 
some  other  person's  service.  The  lady  I  speak  of 
looked  new — and  her  name  was  Isidora. 

She  was  standing  just  under  the  lamp,  with  a  single 
rose  in  her  hair,  listening  to  a  handsome  coxcomb  of 
a  classmate  of  mine  with  evident  pleasure.  She  was 
a  great  fool,  (did  I  mention  that  before?)  bnt  weak, 
and  vacant,  and  innocent  of  an  idea  as  she  was, 
Faustina  was  not  more  naturally  majestic,  nor  Psyche 
(soil  elle  en  grande)  more  divinely  and  meaningly 
graceful.  Loveliness  and  fascination  came  to  her  as 
dew  and  sunshine  to  the  flowers,  and  she  obeyed  her 
instinct,  as  they  theirs,  and  was  helplessly,  and  with 
out  design,  the  loveliest  thing  in  nature.  I  do  not 
see,  for  my  part,  why  all  women  should  not  be  so. 
They  are  as  useful  as  flowers  ;  they  perpetuate  our 
species. 

I  was  looking  at  her  with  irresistible  admiration, 
when  a  figure  stepped  out  from  the  shadow  of  a  tree, 
and  my  chum,  monster,  and  ally,  Job  Smith  (of  whom 
I  have  before  spoken  in  these  historical  papers),  laid 
his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  Job,"  I  said,  in  a  solemn 
tone  of  admonition,  "that  blind  John  was  imprisoned 
for  looking  into  people's  windows?" 

But  Job  was  not  in  the  vein  for  pleasantry.  The 
light  fell  on  his  face  as  I  spoke  to  him,  and  a  more 
haggard,  almost  blasted  expression  of  countenance,  I 
never  saw  even  in  a  madhouse.  I  well  knew  he  had 
loved  the  splendid  girl  that  stood  unconsciously  in  our 
sight,  since  his  first  year  in  college  ;  but  that  it  would 
ever  so  master  him,  or  that  he  could  link  his  mon 
strous  deformity,  even  in  thought,  with  that  radiant 
vision  of  beauty,  was  a  thing  that  I  thought  as  prob 
able  as  that  hirsute  Pan  would  tempt  from  her  sphere 
the  moon  that  kissed  Endymion. 

"  I  have  been  standing  here  looking  at  Isidora,  ever 
since  you  left  me,"  said  he.  (We  had  parted  three 
hours  before,  at  twilight.) 

"  And  why  not  go  in,  in  the  name  of  common 
sense  ?" 

"Oh!  God,  Phil! — with  this  demon  in  my  heart  ? 
Can  you  see  my  face  in  this  light  ?" 

It  was  too  true,  he  would  have  frightened  the 
household  gods  from  their  pedestals. 

"But  what  would  you  do,  my  dear  Job?  Why 
come  here  to  madden  yourself  with  a  sight  you  must 
have  known  you  would  see. 

"Phil?" 

"What,  my  dear  boy?" 

"Will  you  do  me  a  kindness?" 

"Certainly." 

"  Isidora  would  do  anything  you  wished  her  to  do.' 

"Um!  with  a  reservation,  my  dear  chum  !" 

"  But  she  would  give  you  the  rose  that  is  in  her 
hair." 

"  Without  a  doubt." 

"And  for  me — if  you  told  her  it  was  for  me. 
Would  she  not  ?" 

"  Perhaps.     But  will  that  content  you  ?" 

"  It  will  soften  my  despair.  I  will  never  look  on 
her  face  more  ;  but  I  should  like  my  last  sight  of  her 
to  be  associated  with  kindness  ?" 


42 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


Poor  Job!  how  true  it  is  that  "affection  is   a  fire 
which  kindleth  as  well  in  the  bramble  as  in  the  oak, 
and  catcheth  hold  where  it  first  lighteth,  not  where  it 
may  best   burn."     I  do  believe  in  my  heart  that  the 
soul  in  thee  was  designed  for  a  presentable  body — thy 
instincts  were   so  invariably  mistaken.     When   didst 
thou  ever  think  a  thought,  or  stir  hand  or  foot,  that  it 
did  not  seem  prompted,  monster  though  thou  wert,  by 
conscious  good-looking-ness!     What  a  lying  simili 
tude  it  was  thai  was  written   on  every  blank   page  in  j 
thy  Lexicon:  "Larks  that   mount  in   the  air,  build 
their  nests   below  in  the  earth  ;  and  women  that  cast  ! 
their  eyes  upon  kings,  may  place  their  hearts   upon 
vassals."     Apelles  must  have  been  better  looking  than  ; 
Alexander,  when  Campaspe  said  that ! 

As  a  general  thing  you  may  ask  a  friend  freely  to 
break  any  three  of  the  commandments  in  your  set  vice,  \ 
but  you  should  hesitate  to  require  of  friendship  a  vio 
lation  of  etiquette.     1  was  in  a  round  jacket  and  boots,  ] 
and  it  was  a  dress  evening  throughout  New  Haven.     I 
looked   at  my  dust-covered  feet,  when  Job  asked  me 
to   enter  a  soiree   upon   his  errand,  and    passed   my 
thumb  and  finger  around  the  edge  of  vny  white  jacket; 
but  I  loved  Job  as  the  Arabian  loves  his  camel,  and  for 
the  same  reason,  with  a  difference — the  imperishable 
well-spring  he  carried  in  his  heart  through  the  desert 
of  the  world,  and  which  I  well  knew  he  would  give  up 
his  life  to  offer  at  need,  as  patiently  as  the  animal 
whose  construction  (inner  and  outer)  he  so  remarkably 
resembled.     When  I  hesitated,  and   looked  down   at  ', 
my  boots,  therefore,  it  was  less  to  seek  for  an  excuse  i 
to  evade  the  sacrificing  office  required  of  me,  than  to 
beat  about  in  my  unprepared  mind  for  a  preface  to  my  \ 
request.     If  she  had  been  a  woman  of  sense,  I  should 
have  had   no  difficulty  ;  but  it  requires  caution  and 
skill  to  go  out  of  the  beaten  track  with  a  fool. 

"Would  not  the  rose  do  as  well,"  said  I,  in  despe 
rate  embarrassment,  "  if  she  does  not  know  that  it  is 
for  you,  my  dear  Job  ?"  It  would  have  been  very 
easy  to  have  asked  for  it  for  myself. 

Job  laid  his  hand  upon  his  side,  as  if  I  could  not 
comprehend  the  pang  my  proposition  gave  him. 

"Away  prop,  and  down,  scaffold,"  thought  I,  as  I 
gave  my  jacket  a  hitch,  and  entered  the  door. 

"Mr.  Slingsby,"  announced  the  servant. 

"  Mr.  Slingsby  ?"  inquired  the  mistress  of  the  house, 
seeing  only  a  white  jacket  in  the  clair  obscur  of  the 
hall. 

"Mr.  Slingsby!!!"  cried  out  twenty  voices  in 
amazement,  as  1  stepped  over  the  threshold  into  the 
light. 

It  has  happened  since  the  days  of  Thebet  Ben  Kho- 
rat,  that  scholars  have  gone  mad,  and  my  sanity  was 
evidently  the  uppermost  concern  in  the  minds  of  all 
present.  (I  should  observe,  that  in  those  days,  I  rel 
ished  rather  of  dandyism.)  As  1  read  the  suspicion 
in  their  minds,  however,  a  thought  struck  me.  I  went 
straight  up  to  Miss  Higgins,  and,  solto  voce,  asked  her 
to  take  a  turn  with  me  in  the  garden. 

"  Isidora,"  1  said,  "  I  have  Jong  known  your  supe 
riority  of  mindT(when  you  want  anything  of  a  wo 
man,  praise  her  for  that  in  which  she  is  most  deficient, 
says  La  Bruyere);  "and  I  have  great  occasion  to  rely 
on  it  in  the  request  I  am  about  to  make  of  you." 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  sailed  along  the  gravel- 
walk  with  heightened  majesty.  I  had  not  had  occa 
sion  to  pay  her  a  compliment  before  since  my  fresh 
man  year. 

"  What  is  it,  Mr.  Slingsby  ?" 

"You  know  Smith — my  chum." 

"Certainly." 

"  I  have  just  come  from  him." 

"Well!" 

"  He  is  gone  mad  !" 
"Mad!   Mr.  Slingsby?" 
"Stark  and  furious!" 


"  Gracious  goodness !" 

"And  all  for  you  !" 

"  For  me ! !" 

"For  you  !"  I  thought  her  great  blue  eyes  would 
have  become  what  they  call  in  America  "sot,"  at  this 
astounding  communication. 

"Now,  Miss  Higgins,"  I  continued,  "pray  listen; 
my  poor  friend  has  such  extraordinary  muscular 
strength,  that  seven  men  can  not  hold  him." 

"  Gracious!" 

"And  he  has  broken  away,  and  is  here  at  your 
door." 

"Good  gracious!" 

"  Don't  be  afraid  !  He  is  as  gentle  as  a  kitten  when 
I  am  present.  And  now  hear  my  request.  He  leaves 
town  to-morrow,  as  you  welj  know,  not  to  return.  I 
shall  take  him  home  to  Vermont  with  keepers.  He 
is  bent  upon  one  thing,  and  in  that  you  must  humor 
him." 

Miss  Hiagins  began  to  be  alarmed. 

"  He  has  looked  through  the  window  and  seen  you 
with  a  rose  in  your  hair,  and,  despairing  even  in  his 
madness  of  your  love,  he  says,  that  if  you  would  give 
him  that  rose,  with  a  kind  word,  and  a  farewell,  he 
should  be  happy.  You  will  do  it,  will  yon  not  ?" 

"  Dear  me  !  I  should  be  so  afraid  to  speak  to  him!" 

"But  will  you  ?   and  I'll  tell  you  what  to  say." 

Miss  Higgins  gave  a  reluctant  consent,  and  1  passed 
ten  minutes  in  drilling  her  upon  two  sentences,  which, 
with  her  fine  manner  and  sweet  voice,  really  sounded 
like  the  most  interesting  thing  in  the  world.  1  left  her 
in  the  summer-house  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  and 
returned  to  Job. 

"You  have  come  without  it!"  said  the  despairing 
lover,  falling  back  against  the  tree. 

"  Miss  Higgins'  compliments,  and  begs  you  will  go 
round  by  the  gate,  and  meet  her  in  ihe  summer-house. 
She  prefers  to  manage  her  own  affairs." 

"Good  God!   are  you  mocking  me?" 

"  I  will  accompany  you,  my  dear  boy." 

There  was  a  mixture  of  pathos  and  ludicrousness 
in  that  scene  which  starts  a  tear  and  a  laugh  together, 
whenever  I  recall  it  to  my  mind.  The  finest  heart  in 
the  world,  the  most  generous,  the  most  diffident  of 
itself,  yet  the  most  self  sacrificing  and  delicate,  was 
at  the  altar  of  its  devotion,  offering  its  all  in  passionate 
abandonment  for  a  flower  and  a  kind  word:  and  she, 
a  goose  in  the  guise  of  an  angel,  repeated  a  phrase  of 
kindness  of  which  she  could  not  comprehend  the 
meaning  or  the  worth,  but  which  was  to  be  garnered 
up  by  that  half-broken  heart,  as  a  treasure  that  repaid 
him  for  years  of  unrequited  affection!  She  recited  it 
really  very  well.  I  stood  at  the  latticed  door,  and  in 
terrupted"  them  the  instant  there  was  a  pause  in  the 
dialogue;  and  getting  Job  away  as  fast  as  possible,  I 
left  Miss  Hiirsiins  with  a  promise  of  secrecy,  and  re 
sumed  my  midnight  stroll. 

Apropos — among  Job's  letters  is  a  copy  of  verses, 
which,  spite  of  some  little  inconsistencies,  I  think 
were  written  on  this  very  occasion  : — 


Nay — smile  not  on  me — I  have  borne 

Indifference  nnd  repulse  from  thee  ; 
With  my  heart  sickening  I  have  worn 

A  brow,  as  thine  own  cold  one,  free  ; 
My  lip  has  been  as  guy  as  thine, 

Ever  thine  own  light  mirth  repeating, 
Though,  in  this  burning  brain  of  mine, 

A  throb  the  while,  like  death,  was  beating 
My  spirit  did  not  shrink  or  swerve— 
Thy  look— 1  thank  thee  .'—froze  the  nerve  ! 


But  now  again,  as  when  1  met 

And  loved  thee  in  my  happier  days, 
A  sin  le  upon  thy  bright  lip  plays, 

Aud  kindness  iu  thine  eye  is  set — 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


43 


And  tliis  I  can  not  hoar  ! 
It  melt*  the  manhood  from  my  pride, 
It  br  ngs  1110  closer  to  tliy  side — 

Bewilders  -chains  me  there — 
There—  where  my  dearest  hope  was  crushed  and  died 


Oh,  if  thou  couldsl  hut  know  the  deep 

Of  Jove  that  hope  has  nursed  for  years, 
How  in  th"  heart's  still  chambers  sleep 

Its  hoarded  thoughts,  its  trembling  fears- 
Treasure  that  love  has  brooded  o  er* 
Till  life,  than  this,  lias  nothing  more — 

And  Mtdcbt  thou— but  'tis  vain  ! — 
I  will  not,  can  not  lell  thee,  how 
That  hoard  consumes  its  coffer  now — 

I  may  not  write  of  piin 
That  sickens  in  the  heart,  and  maddens  in  the  brain  ! 


Then  smile  not  on  me  .'  pass  me  by 

Coldly,  and  with  a  careless  mien — 
'Twill  pierce  my  heart,  and  (ill  mine  eye, 
But  1  shall  be  as  I  have  been — 

Quiet  in  my  despair  ! 
'Tis  better  than  the  throbbing  fever, 
That  else  were  in  my  brain  for  ever, 

And  easier  to  bear  ! 
I'll  not  upbraid  the  coldest  look— 
The  bitterest  word  tliou  hast,  in  my  sad  pride  I'll  brook  ! 

If  Job  had  rejoiced  in  a  more  euphonious  nnme,  I 
shoul.I  have  bought  a  criticism  in  some  review,  and 
started  him  (airly  as  a  poet.  But  "  Job  Smith!" — 
"  Poems  by  Job  Smith  .'" — It  would  never  do  !  If  he 
wrote  like  :i  seraph,  and  printed  the  book  at  his  own 
expense,  illustrated  and  illuminated,  and  half-a-crown 
to  each  person  that  would  take  one  away,  the  critics 
would  damn  him  all  the  same!  Really,'one's  father 
and  mother  have  a  great  deal  to  answer  for  ! 

But  Job  is  a  poet  who  should  have  lived  in  the 
middle  ages,  no  less  for  the  convenience  of  the  noni  de 
guerre,  fashionable  in  those  days,  than  because  his 
poetry,  being  chie-fly  the  mixed  product  of  feeling  and 
courtesy,  is  particularly  susceptible  to  ridicule.  The 
philosophical  and  iron  wire  poetry  of  our  day  stands 
an  attack  like  a  fortification,  and  comes  down  upon 
tlie  besieger  with  reason  and  logic  as  good  as  his  own. 
But  the  more  delicate  offspring  of  tenderness  and  chiv 
alry,  intending  no  violence,  and  venturing  out  to  sea 
upon  a  rose-leaf,  is  destroyed  and  sunk  beyond  diving- 
bells  by  half  a  breath  of  scorn.  I  would  subscribe 
liberally  myself  to  a  private  press  and  a  court  of  honor 
in  poetry — critics,  if  admitted,  to  be  dumb  upon  a 
penalty.  Will  no  Howard  or  Wilberforce  act  upon 
this  hint  ?  Poets  now-a-days  are  more  slaves  and 
felons  than  your  African,  or  your  culprit  at  the  old 
Bailey  ! 

I  would  go  a  great  way.  privately,  to  find  a  genuine 
spark  of  chivalry,  and  Job  lit  his  every-day  lamp  with 
it.  See  what  a  redolence  of  old  time  there  is  in  these 
verses,  which  I  copied  long  ago  from  a  lady's  album. 
Yet,  you  may  ridicule  them  if  you  like  ! — 

.There  is  a  story  I  have  met, 

Of  a  high  angel,  pure  and  true, 
With  eyes  that  tears  had  never  wet, 

And  lips  that  pity  never  knew; 
But  ever  on  his  throne  he  sate, 

Will'  his  white  pinions  proudly  furled, 
And,  looking  from  his  high  estate, 

Beheld  the  errors  of  a  world : 
Yet,  never,  as  they  rose  to  heaven, 
Plead  even  for  one  to  be  forgiven. 

God  looked  at  last  upon  his  pride, 
And  bade  him  fold  his  shining  wing, 

An;l  o'er  .1  land  where  tempters  bide, 
He  made  the  heartless  angel  king. 

'Tis  lovely  reading  in  the  tale, 
_  The  glorious  spells  they  tried  on  him, 
Ere  grew  his  heavenly  birth-star  pale, 
Ere  grew  his  frontlet  jewel  dim- 


Cups  of  such  rare  and  ravishing  wines 

As  even  a  god  might  drink  and  bless, 
Gems  from  tmsearched  and  central  mines, 

Whose  light  than  heaven's  was  scarcely  less — 
Gold  of  a  sheen  like  crystal  spars, 

And  silver  whiter  than  the  moon's, 
And  music  like  the  songs  of  stars, 

And  perfume  like  a  thousand  Junes, 
And  breezes,  soft  as  heaven's  own  air 

Like  fingers  playing  in  his  hair  ! 
He  shut  his  eyes— he  closed  his  ears — 

H"  bade  them,  in  God's  name,  begone  ! 
And,  through  the  yet  eternal  years, 

Had  stood,  the  tried  and  sinlrss  one: 
But  there  was  yet  one  untried  spell — 
A  woman  tempted— and  he  fell  ! 

And  I— if  semblance  I  may  find 

Between  such  glorious  sphere  and  mine — 
Am  not  to  the  high  honor  blind, 

Ot'  filling  this  fair  page  of  thine — 
Writing  my  unheard  n  .me  among 
Sages  and  sires  and  men  of  song  ; 

Hut  honor,  though  the  best  eVr  given, 
And  glory,  though  it  were  a  king's, 

And  power,  though  loving  it  like  heaven, 
Were,  to  my  seeming,  lesser  things, 

And  less  temptation,  far,  to  me/ 

Than  half  a  hope  of  serving  thee  I 

am  mounted  upon  my  hobby  now,  dear  reader ; 
for  Job  Smith,  though  as  'hideous  an  idol  as  ever  was 
worshipped  on  the  Indus,  was  still  my  idol.  Here  is 
a  little  touch  of  his  quality  : — 

I  look  upon  the  fadin?  flowers 

Thou  giv'st  me,  1  idy,  in  thy  mirth, 
And  mourn,  that,  with" the  perishing  hours 

Such  fair  things  perish  from  the  earth — 
For  thus,  I  know,  the  moment's  feeling 

Its  own  light  web  of  life  unweaves, 
The  deepest  trace  from  memory  stealing, 

Like  perfume  from  these  dying  leaves — 
The  thought  that  gave  it,  anil  the  flower, 
Alike  the  creatures  of  an  hour. 

And  thus  it  better  were,  perhaps, 

For  feel:ng  is  the  nurse  of  pain, 
And  joys  that  linger  in  their  laj  se, 

Must  die  at  last,  and  so  are  vain  ! 
Could  I  revive  these  faded  flowers, 

Could  I  call  back  departed  bliss, 
I  would  not,  though  this  world  of  ours 

Were  ten  times  brighter  than  it  is  ! 
They  must — and  let  them — pass  away  ! 
We  are  forgotten — even  as  they  ! 

I  think  I  must  give  Edith  another  reprieve.  I  have 
no  idea  why  I  have  digressed  this  time  from  the  story 

I  which  (you  may  see  by  the  motto  at  the  beginning  of 
the  paper)  I  have  not  yet  told.  I  can  conceive  easily 

I  how  people,  who  have  nothing  to  do,  betake  them- 

||  selves  to   autobiography — it  is  so   pleasant   rambling 

I  about  over  the  past,  and  regathering  only  the  flowers. 

j  Why  should  pain  and  mortification  he  unsepultured  ? 

,|  The  world  is  no  wiser  for  these  written  experiences. 

|  "  The  best  book."  said  Southey,  "does  but  little  good 
to  the  world,  and  much  harm  to  the  author."  I  shall 
deliberate  whether  to  enlighten  the  world  as  to  Edith's 
metempsychosis,  or  no. 


PART  IV. 


SCENKRY    AND    A    SCENE. 


"  Truth  is  no  doctoresse  ;  she  takes  no  degrees  at  Paris  or  Oxford 
among  great  clerks,  disputants,  subtle  Aristotles,  men  nodnxi  inge- 
nii,  nb'e  to  take  J.ully  by  the  chin  ;  but  oftenlimes.  to  such  a  one 
as  myself,  an  idiota  or  common  person,  no  preat  things,  rnelancho  i- 
zing  in  woods  where  water*  are,  quiet  places  by  livers,  rmintains  • 


how  best  to  delectate  and  refresh  his  myn 
ture,  her  pleasaunt  scenes,  woods,  waterf 
goddess  herself.  Truth  has  appeared  wiih 
sparkhn?  countenance,  so  as  ye  may  not  be  able  lightly  to  resist 


continually  with  na 
lls  :   on  a  sudden  the 
hining  light  and  a 


44 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


"  Ever  thus 

Drop  from  us  treasures  one  by  one : 

They  who  have  been  from  youth  with  us, 
Whose  every  look,  whose  every  tone, 

Is  linked  to  us  like  leaves  to  flowers — 

They  who  have  shared  our  pleasant  hours— 
Whose  voices,  so  familiar  grown. 
They  almost  seem  to  us  our  own— 

The  echoes  of  each  breath  of  ours— 
They  who  have  ever  been  our  pride, 

Yet  in  their  hours  of  triumph  dearest — 
They  whom  we  must  have  known  and  tried, 

And  loved  the  most  when  tried  the  nearest — 
They  pass  from  us,  like  stars  that  wane, 

The  brightest  still  before, 
Or  gold  links  broken  from  a  chain 

That  can  be  joined  no  more  !" 

JOB  SMITH  and  myself  were  on  the  return  from  Ni 
agara.  It  was  in  the  slumberous  and  leafy  midst  of 
•Tune.  Lake  Erie  had  lain  with  a  silver  glaze  upon 
its  bosom  for  days;  the  ragged  trees  upon  its  green 
shore  dropping  their  branches  into  the  stirless  water, 
as  if  it  were  some  rigid  imitation — the  lake  glass,  and 
the  leaves  emerald  ;  "the  sky  was  of  an  April  blue,  as 
if  a  night-rain  had  washed  out  its  iniikiness,  till  you 
could  see  through  its  clarified  depths  to  the  gates  of 
heaven  ;  and  yet  breathless  and  sunny  as  was  the 
face  of  the  earth,  there  was  a  nerve  and  a  vitality  in 
the  air  that  exacted  of  every  pulse  its  full  compass — 
searched  every  pore  for  its  capacity  of  the  joy  of  ex 
istence. 

No  one  can  conceive,  who  has  not  had  his  imagina 
tion  stretched  at  the  foot  of  Niagara,  or  in  the  Titanic 
solitudes  of  rhe  west,  the  vastness  of  the  unbroken 
phases  of  nature  ;  where  every  tree  looks  a  king,  and 
every  flower  a  marvel  of  glorious  form  and  color — 
where  the  rocks  are  rent  every  one  as  by  the  "  tenth" 
thunderbolt — and  lake,  mountain,  or  river,  ravine  or 
waterfall,  cave  or  eagle's  nest,  whatever  it  maybe  that 
feeds  the  eye  or  the  fancy,  is  as  the  elements  have 
shaped  and  left  it — where  the  sculpture,  and  the  paint 
ing,  and  the  poetry,  and  the  wonderful  alchymy  of 
nature,  go  on  under  the  naked  eye  of  the  Almighty, 
and  by  his  own  visible  and  uninterrupted  hand,  and 
where  the  music  of  nature,  from  the  anthem  of  the 
torrent  and  storm,  broken  only  by  the  scream  of  the 
vulture,  to  the  trill  of  the  rivulet  with  its  accompani 
ment  of  singing  birds  and  winds,  is  for  ever  ringing  its 
changes,  as  if  for  the  stars  to  hear — in  such  scenes,  I 
say,  and  in  such  scenes  only,  is  the  imagination  over 
tasked  or  stretched  to  the  capacity  of  a  seraph's  ;  and 
while  common  minds  sink  beneath  them  to  the  mere 
inanition  of  their  animal  senses,  the  loftier  spirit  takes 
their  color  and  stature,  and  outgrows  the  common  and 
pitiful  standards  of  the  world.  Cooper  and  Leather- 
stocking  thus  became  what  they  are — the  one  a  high- 
priest  of  imagination  and  poetry,  and  the  other  a  sim 
ple-hearted  but  mere  creature  of  instinct;  and  Cooper 
is  no  more  a  living  man,  liable  to  the  common  laws  of 
human  nature,  than  Leatherstocking  a  true  and  life 
like  transcript  of  the  more  common  effect  of  those 
overpowering  solitudes  on  the  character. 

We  got  on  board  the  canal-boat  at  noon,  and  Job 
and  myself,  seated  on  the  well-cushioned  seats,  with 
the  blinds  half-turned  to  give  us  the  prospect  and  ex 
clude  the  sun,  sat  disputing  in  our  usual  amicable  way. 
He  was  the  only  man  I  ever  knew  with  whom  I  could 
argue  without  losing  my  temper ;  and  the  reason  was, 
that  I  always  had  the  last  word,  and  thought  myself 
victorious. 

"  We  are  about  to  return  into  the  bosom  of  society, 
my  dear  Job,"  said  I,  "  looking  with  unctuous  good 
nature  on  the  well-shaped  boot  I  had  put  on  for  the 
first  time  in  a  month  thai  morning.  (It  is  an  unsen 
timental  fact  that  hob-nailed  shoes  are  indispensable  on 
the  most  poetical  spots  of  earth.) 

"  Yes,"  said  Job ;  "  but  how  superior  is  the  society 
we  leave  behind  !  Niagara  and  Erie  !  What  in  your 
crowded  city  is  comparable  to  these  ?" 

"  Nothing,  for  size ! — but  for  society — you  will  think 


me  a  pagan,  dear  chum — but,  on  my  honor,  straight 
from  Niagara  as  I  come,  I  feel  a  most  dissatisfied  yearn 
ing  for  the  society  of  Miss  Popkins  "' 
"  Oh,  Phil !" 
"  On  my  honor  !" 

"  You,  who  were  in  such  raptures  at  the  falls  !" 
"And  real  ones — but  I  wanted  a  woman  at  my  el 
bow  to  listen  to  them.  Do  you  know,  Job,  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  on  a  great  principle  since  we  have 
been  on  our  travels  ?  Have  you  observed  that  1  was 
pensive  ?" 

"  Not  particularly — but  what  is  your  principle  ?" 
"  That  a  man  is  a  much  more  interesting  object  than 
a  mountain." 

"A  man  !  did  you  say  ?" 
"  Yes — but  I  meant  a  woman  !" 
"  I  don't  think  so." 

"  I  do  ! — and  I  judge  by  myself.  When  did  I  ever 
see  wonder  of  nature — tree,  sunset,  waterfall,  rapid, 
lake,  or  river — that  I  would  not  rather  have  been  talk 
ing  to  a  woman  the  while  ?  Do  you  remember  the 
three  days  we  were  tramping  through  the  forest  with 
out  seeing  the  sun,  as  if  we  had  been  in  the  endless 
aisle  of  a  cathedral  ?  Do  you  remember  the  long  morn 
ing  when  we  lay  on  the  moss  at  the  foot  of  Niagara, 
and  it  was  a  divine  luxury  only  10  breathe  ?  Do  you 
jj  remember  the  lunar  rainbows  at  midnight  on  Goat 
||  island  ?  Do  you  remember  the  ten  thousand  glorious 
moments  we  have  enjoyed  between  weather  and  scene 
ry  since  the  bursting  of  these  summer  leaves  ?  Do 
you  ?" 

"  Certarnlv,  my  dear  boy  !" 

"  Well,  then,  much  as  i  iove  nature  and  you,  there 
has  not  been  an  hour  since  we  packed  our  knapsacks, 
that,  if  I  coul  1  have  distilled  a  charming  girl  out  of  a 
mixture  of  you  and  any  mountain,  river,  or  rock,  that 
I  have  seen,  I  would  not  have  flung  you,  without  re 
morse,  into  any  witch's  caldron  that  was  large  enough, 
and  would  boil  at  my  bidding." 
"  Monster !" 

"And  I  believe  I  should  have  the  same  feelings  in 
Italy  or  Greece,  or  wherever  people  go  into  raptures 
with  things  you  can  neither  eat  nor  make  love  to." 

"  Would  not  even  the  Venus  fill  your  fancy  for  a 
day?" 

"An  hour,  perhaps,  it  might ;  for  I  should  be  study 
ing,  in  its  cold  Parian  proportions,  the  warm  structure 
of  some  living  Musidora — but  I  should  soon  tire  of  it, 
and  long  for  my  lunch  or  my  love  ;  and  I  give  you  my 
honor  I  would  not  lose  the  three  meals  of  a  single  day 
to  see  Santa  Croce  and  St.  Peter's." 
"Both?" 
"Both." 

Job  disdained  to  argue  against  such  a  want  of  sen 
timental  principle,  and  pulling  up  the  blind,  he  fixed 
bis  eyes  on  the  slowly-gliding  panorama  of  rock  and 
'brest,  and  I  mounted  for  a  promenade  upon  the  deck. 
Mephistopheles  could  hardly  have  found  a  more 
striking  amusement  for  Faust  than  the  passage  of  three 
lundred  miles  in  the  canal  from  Lake  Erie  to  the 
Hudson.  As  I  walked  up  and  down  the  deck  of  the 
lacket-boat.  I  thought  to  myself,  that  if  it  were  not 
'or  thoughts  of  things  that  come  more  home  to  one's 
'  business  and  bosom"  (particularly  "  bosom"),  I  could 
>e  content  to  retake  my  berth  at  Schenectady,  and  re- 
:urn  to  Buffalo  for  amusement.  The  Erie  canal-boat 
s  a  long  and  very  pretty  drawing-room  afloat.  It  has 
i  library,  sofas,  a  tolerable  cook,  curtains  or  Venetian 
)linds,  a  civil  captain,  and  no  smell  of  steam  or  per 
ceptible  motion.  It  is  drawn  generally  by  three  horses 
it  a  fair  trot,  and  gets  you  through  about  a  hundred 
niles  a  day,  as  softly  as  if  you  were  witched  over  the 
ground  by  Puck  and  Mustard-seed.  The  company 
say  fifty  people)  is  such  as  pleases  Heaven  ;  though  I 
nust  say  (with  my  eye  all  along  the  shore,  collecting 
he  various  dear  friends  I  have  made  and  left  on  that 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


45 


long  canal)  there  are  few  highways  on  which  you  will 
meet  so  many  lovely  and  loving  fellow-passengers. 
On  this  occasion  my  star  was  bankrupt — Job  Smith 
being  my  only  civilized  companion — and  I  was  left  to 
the  unsatisfactory  society  of  my  own  thoughts  and  the 
scenery. 

Discontented  as  I  may  seem  to  have  been,  I  remem 
ber,  through  eight  or  ten  years  of  stirring  and  thickly- 
sown  manhood,  every  moment  of  that  lonely  evening. 
I  remember  the  progression  of  the  sunset,  from  the 
lengthening  shadows  and  the  first  gold  upon  the  clouds, 
to  the  deepening  twilight  and  the  new-sprung  star 
hung  over  the  wilderness.  And  1  remember  what  I 
am  going  to  describe — a  twilight  anthem  in  the  forest 
— as  you  remember  an  air  of  Rossini's,  or  a  transition 
in  the  half-fiendish,  half-heavenly  creations  of  Meyer 
beer.  I  thought  time  dragged  heavily  then,  but  I 
wish  I  had  as  light  a  heart  and  could  feel  as  vividly 
now  ! 

The   Erie   canal   is    cut  a   hundred   or  two  miles 
through   the   heart   of    the    primeval   wilderness   of 
America,  and  the  boat  was   gliding   on   silently  and 
swiftly,    and  never   sailed  a  lost  cloud  through   the 
abv*-,  of  space  on  a  course  more  apparently  new  and 
untrodden.     The  luxuriant  soil  had  sent  up  a  rank   j 
gtass  that   covered   the   horse-path   like   velvet;  the 
Erie  water  was  clear  as  a  brook  in  the  winding  canal ; 
the  old  shafts  of  the  gigantic  forest  spurred  into  the  j 
sky  by  thousands,  and  the  yet  unscared  eagle  swung  j 
off  from  the  dead  branch  of  the  pine,  and  skimmed  the 
tree-tops  for  another  perch,  as  if  he  had    grown  to 
believe  that  gliding  spectre  a  harmless  phenomenon 
of  nature.     The  horses  drew  steadily  and  unheard  at 
the  end  of  the  long  line  ;  the  steersman  stood  mo-  j 
tionless  at  the  tiller,  and   I  lay  on  a  heap  of  baggage  j 
in  the  prow,  attentive  to  the  slightest  breathing  of  na-  j 
ttire,  but  thinking,  with  an  ache  at  my  heart,  of  Edith  < 
Linsey,  to  whose  feet  (did  I  mention  it  ?)  I  was  has-  j 
tening  with  a  lover's  proper  impatience.     I  might  as  ! 
well  have  taken  another  turn  in  my  "  fool's  paradise."  j 

The  gold  of  the  sunset  had  glided  up  the  dark  pine  i 
tops  and  disappeared,  like  a  ring  taken  slowly  from  an  j 
Ethiop's  finger;  the  whip-poor-will  had  chanted  the 
first  st;ive  of  his  lament;  the  bat  was  abroad,  and  the  : 
screech-owl,  like  all  bad  singers,  commenced  without  ! 
waiting  to  be  importuned,  though  we  were  listening  ! 
for  the  nightingale.  The  air,  as  I  said  before,  had 
been  all  day  breathless;  but  as  the  first  chill  of  eve 
ning  displaced  the  warm  atmosphere  of  the  departed 
sun,  a  slight  breeze  crisped  the  mirrored  bosom  of  the 
canal,  and  then  commenced  the  night  anthem  of  the 
forest,  audible,  I  would  fain  believe,  in  its  soothing 
changes,  by  the  dead  tribes  whose  bones  whiten  amid 
the  perishing  leaves.  First,  whisperingly  yet  articu-  j 
lately,  the  suspended  and  wavering  foliage  of  the  birch  j 
was  touched  by  the  many-fingered  wind,  and,  like  a 
faint  prelude,  the  silver-lined  leaves  rustled  in  the  low 
branches;  and,  with  a  moment's  pause,  when  you 
could  hear  the  moving  of  the  vulture's  claws  upon 
the  bark,  as  he  turned  to  get  his  breast  to  the  wind, 
the  increasing  breeze  swept  into  the  pine-tops,  and 
drew  forth  from  their  fringe-like  and  myriad  tassels  a 
low  monotone  like  the  refrain  of  a  far-off  dirge;  and 
still  as  it  murmured  (seeming  to  you  sometimes  like 
the  confused  and  heart-broken  responses  of  the  peni 
tents  on  a  cathedral  floor),  the  blast  strengthened  and 
filled,  and  the  rigid  leaves  of  the  oak,  and  the  swaying 
fans  and  chalices  of  the  magnolia,  and  the  rich  cups 
of  the  tulip-trees,  stirred  and  answered  with  their  dif 
ferent  voices  like  many-toned  harps ;  and  when  the 
wind  was  fully  abroad,  and  every  moving  thing  on  the 
breast  of  the  earth  was  roused  from  its  daylight  repose, 
the  irregular  and  capricious  blast,  like  a  player  on  an 
organ  of  a  thousand  stops,  lulled  and  strengthened  by 
turns,  and  from  the  hiss  in  the  rank  grass,  low  as  the 
whisper  of  fairies,  to  the  thunder  of  the  impinging 


and  groaning  branches  of  the  larch  and  the  fir,  the 
anthem  went  ceaselessly  through  its  changes,  and  the 
harmony  (though  the  owl  broke  in  with  his  scream, 
and  though  the  over-blown  monarch  of  the  wood 
came  crashing  to  the  earth),  was  still  perfect  and  with 
out  ajar.  It  is  strange  that  there  is  no  sound  of  na 
ture  out  of  tune.  The  roar  of  the  waterfall  comes 
into  this  anthem  of  the  forest  like  an  accompaniment 
of  bassoons,  and  the  occasional  bark  of  the  wolf,  or 
the  scream  of  a  night-bird,  or  even  the  deep-throated 
croak  of  the  frog,  is  no  more  discordant  than  the  out 
burst  of  an  octave  flute  above  the  even  melody  of  an 
orchestra  ;  and  it  is  surprising  how  the  large  rain 
drops,  pattering  on  the  leaves,  and  the  small  voice  of 
the  nightingale  (singing,  like  nothing  but  himself, 
sweetest  in  the  darkness)  seems  an  intensitive  and  a 
low  burthen  to  the  general  anthem  of  the  earth— as 
it  were,  a  single  voice  among  instruments. 

I  had  what  Wordsworth  calls  a  "  couchant  ear"  in 
my  youth,  and  my  story  will  wait,  dear  reader,  while 
I  tell  you  of  another  harmony  that  I  learned  to  love 
in  the  wilderness. 

There  will  come  sometimes  in  the  spring — say  in 
May,  or  whenever  the  snow-drops  and  sulphur  butter 
flies  are  tempted  out  by  the  first  timorous  sunshine — 
there  will  come,  I  say,  in  that  yearning  and  youth- 
renewing  season,  a  warm  shower  at  noon.  Our  tent 
shall  be  pitched  on  the  skirts  of  a  forest  of  young 
pines,  and  the  evergreen  foliage,  jf  foliage  it  may  be 
called,  shall  be  a  daily  refreshment  to  our  eye  while 
watching,  with  the  west  wind  upon  our  cheeks,  the 
unclothed  branches  of  the  elm.  The  rain  descends 
softly  and  warm  ;  but  with  the  sunset  the  clouds  break 
away,  and  it  grows  suddenly  cold  enough  to  freeze. 
The  next  morning  you  shall  come  out  with  me  to  a 
hill-side  looking  upon  (he  south,  and  .lie  down  wit!, 
your  ear  to  the  earth.  The  pine  tassels  hold  in  every 
four  of  their  fine  fingers  a  drop  of  rain  frozen  like  a 
pearl  in  a  long  ear-ting,  sustained  in  their  loose  grasp 
by  the  rigidity  of  the  cold.  The  sun  grows  warm  at 
ten,  and  the  slight  green  fingers  begin  to  relax  and 
yield,  and  by  eleven  they  are  all  drooping  their  icy 
pearls  upon  the  dead  leaves  with  a  murmur  through 
the  forest  like  the  swarming  of  the  bees  of  Hybla. 
There  is  not  much  variety  in  its  music,  but  it  is  a 
pleasant  monotone  for  thought,  and  if  you  have  a 
restless  fever  in  your  boSom  (as  I  had,  when  I  learned 
to  love  it,  for  the  travel  which  has  corrupted  the  heart 
and  the  ear  that  it  soothed  and  satisfied  then)  you  may 
lie  down  with  a  crooked  root  under  your  head  in  the 
skirts  of  the  forest,  and  thank  Heaven  for  an  anodyne 
to  care.  And  it  is  better  than  the  voice  of  your  friend, 
or  the  song  of  your  lady-love,  for  it  exacts  no  grati 
tude,  and  will  not  desert  you  ere  the  echo  dies  upon 
the  wind. 

Oh,  how  many  of  these  harmonies  there  are  ! — how 
many  that  we  hear,  and  how  many  that  are  "  too 
constant  to  be  heard!"  I  could  go  back  to  my  youth, 
now,  with  this  thread  of  recollection,  and  unsepulture 
a  hoard  of  simple  and  long-buried  joys  that  would 
bring  the  blush  upon  my  cheek  to  think  how  my  senses 
ate  dulled  since  such  things  could  give  me  pleasure! 
Is  there  no  "  well  of  Kanathos"  for  renewing  the 
youth  of  the  soul  ?— no  St.  Hilary's  cradle  ?  no  elixir 
to  cast  the  slough  of  heart-sickening  and  heart-tar 
nishing  custom?  Find  me  an  alchymy  for  that,  with 
your  alembic  and  crucible,  and  you  may  resolve  t 
dross  again  your  philosopher's  stone  ! 

II. 

Everybody  who  makes  the  passage  of  the  Erie 
canal,  stops  at  the  half-way  town  of  Utica,  to  visit  a 
wonder  of  nature  fourteen  miles  to  the  west  of  it,  called 
Trenton  Falls.  It  would  be  becoming  in  me,  before 
mentioning  the  falls,  however,  to  sing  the  praises  of 


46 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


Utica  and  its  twenty  thousand  inhabitants — having 
received  much  hospitality  from  the  worthy  burghers, 
and  philandered  up  and  down  their  well-flagged  trot- 
toir  very  much  to  my  private  satisfaction.  I  should 
scorn  any  man's  judgment  who  should  attempt  to  con 
vince  me  that  the  Erie  water,  which  comes  down  the 
canal  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  and  passes  through 
the  market-place  of  that  pleasant  town,  has  not  com 
municated  to  the  hearts  of  its  citizens  the  expansion 
and  depth  of  the  parent  lake  from  which  it  is  drawn. 
1  have  a  theory  on  that  subject  with  which  I  intend  to 
surprise  the  world  whenever  politics  and  Mr.  Bulwer 
draw  less  engrossingly  on  its  attention.  Will  any  one 
tell  me  that  the  dark  eyes  I  knew  there,  and  whose 
like  for  softness  and  meaning  I  have  inquired  for  in 
vain  through  Italy,  and  the  voice  that  accompanied 
their  gaze — (that  Pasta,  in  her  divinest  out-gush  of 
melody  and  soul,  alone  recalls  to  me) — that  these,  and 
the  noble  heart,  and  high  mind,  and  even  the  genius, 
that  were  other  gifts  of  the  same  marvel  among  wo 
men — that  these  were  born  of  common  parentage,  and 
nursed  by  the  air  of  a  demi-metropolis  ?  We  were 
but  the  kindest  of  friends,  that  bright  creature  and  my 
self,  and  I  may  say,  without  charging  myself  with  the 
blindness  of  love,  that  I  believe  in  my  heart  she  was 
the  foster-child  of  the  water  spirits  on  whose  wander 
ing  streamlet  she  lived — that  the  thousand  odors  that 
swept  down  from  the  wilderness  upon  Lake  Erie,  and 
the  unseen  but  wild  and  innumerable  influences  of 
nature,  or  whatever  you  call  that  which  makes  the 
Indian  a  believer  iti  the  Great  Spirit — that  these 
came  down  with  those  clear  waters,  ministering  to  the 
mind  and  watching  over  the  budding  beauty  of  this 
noble  and  most  high-hearted  woman!  If  you  do  not 
believe  it,  1  should  like  you  to  tell  me  how  else  such 
a  creature  was  "raised."  as  they  phrase  it  in  Virginia. 
I  shall  hold  to  my  theory  till  you  furnish  me  with  a 
more  reasonable. 

We  heard  at  the  hotel  that  there  were  several  large 
parties  at  Trenton  Falls,  and  with   an  abridgment   of 


hood  of  scenery,  he  was  off  till  Heaven  knew  when, 
and  as  I  had  that  delicacy  for  his  feelings  never  to 
dine  without  him,  you  may  imagine  the  necessity  of 
my  hungry  manreuvre. 

We  dined  upon  the  trout  of  the  glorious  stream  we 
had  come  to  see  ;  and  as  our  host's  eldest  daughter 
waited  upon  us  (recorded  in  Job's  journal,  in  my  pos 
session  at  this  moment,  as  "  the  most  comely  and  gra 
cious  virgin"  he  had  seen  in  his  travels),  we  felt  bound 
to  adapt  our  conversation  to  the  purity  of  her  mind, 
and  discussed  only  the  philosophical  point,  whether 
the  beauty  of  the  stream  could  be  tasted  in  the  flavor 
of  the  fish — Job  for  it,  I  against  it.  The  argument 
was  only  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  an  apple- 
pudding,  so  hot  that  our  tongues  were  fully  occupied 
in  removing  it  from  place  to  place  as  the  mouth  felt 
its  heat  inconvenient,  and  then,  being  in  a  country 
of  liberty  and  equality,  and  the  damsel  in  waiting,  as 
Job  smilingly  remarked,  as  much  a  lady  as  the  Presi 
dent's  wife,  he  requested  permission  to  propose  her 
health  in  a  cool  tumbler  of  cider,  and  we  adjourned  to 
the  moonlight. 

III. 

Ten  or  fifteen  years  ago,  the  existence  of  Trenton 
Falls  was  not  known.     It  was  discovered,  like  Paestum, 
by  a  wandering  artist,  when   there  was  a  town  of  len 
thousand    inhabitants,   a    canal,  a    theatre,  a    liberty- 
pole,  and  forty  churches,  within  fourteen  miles  of  it. 
It  may  be  mentioned  to  the  credit  of  the  Americans, 
that  in  the  "hardness"  of  character  of  which  travel- 
j  lers  complain,  there  is  the  soft  trait  of  a  passion  for 
!  scenery ;  and   before  the  fact  of  its  discovery  had  got 
[well    into  the   "Cahawba   Democrat"   and  "Go-the- 
i  whole-hog-Courier,"   there    was   a   splendid    wooden 
hotel  on   the  edge  of  the   precipice,  with  a  French 
cook,  soda-water,  and  olives,  and  a  law  was  passed  by 
the  Kentucky  Travellers'  Club,  requiring  a  hanging- 
bird's  nest  from   the  trees  "frowning  down  the  awful 


our  toilets  in  our  pockets,  Job  and  I  galloped  out  of  !  abysm,"  (so  expressed  in  the  regulation),  as  a  qual- 
Utica  about  four  o'clock  of  as  bright  a  summer's  after-  ;  ification  for  membership.  Thenceforward  to  the  pres- 
noon  as  was  ever  promised  in  the  almanac.  We  drew  j  ent  time  it  has  been  a  place  of  fashionable  resort 
rein  a  mile  or  two  out  of  town,  and  dawdled  along  the  |!  during  the  summer  solstice,  and  the  pine  woods,  in 
wild  road  more  leisurely,  Job's  Green  mountain  pro-  j  which  the  hotel  stands,  being  impervious  to  the  sun, 
portions  fitting  to  the  saddle  something  in  the  manner  j!  it  is  prescribed  by  oculists  for  gentlemen  and  ladies 
and  relative  fitness  of  a  skeleton  on  a  poodle.  By  the  j  with  weak  eyes.  If  the  luxury  of  corn-cutters  had 
same  token  he  rode  safely,  the  looseness  of  his  bones 
accommodating  itself  with  singular  facility  to  the 
irregularities  in  the  pace  of  the  surprised  animal  be 
neath  him. 

I  dislike  to  pass  over  the  minutest  detail  of  a  period 
of  my  life  that  will  be  rather  interesting  in  my  biogra 
phy  (it  is  my  intention  to  be  famous  enough  to  merit 
that  distinction,  and  I  would  recommend  to  my  friends 
to  be  noting  my  "  little  peculiarities"),  and  with  this 
posthumous  benevolence  in  my  heart,  I  simply  record, 
that  our  conversation  on  the  road  turned  upon  Edith 
Linsey— at  this  time  the  lady  of  my  constant  love — for 
whose  sake  and  at  whose  bidding' I  was  just  conclu 
ding  (with  success  I  presumed)  a  probation  of  three 
years  of  absence,  silence,  hard  study,  and  rigid  morals, 
and  upon  whose  parting  promise  (God  forgive  her!)  I 
had  built  my  uttermost  gleaning  and  sand  of  earthly 
hope  and  desire.  I  tell  you  in  the  tail  of  this  mock 
ing  paragraph,  dear  reader,  that  the  bend  of  the  rain 
bow  spans  not  the  earth  more  perfectly  than  did  the 
love  of  that  woman  my  hopes  of  future  bliss;  and  the 
ephemeral  arc  does  not  sooner  melt  into  the  clouds — 
but  1  am  anticipating  my  story. 

Job's  extraordinary  appearance,  as  he  extricated 
himself  from  his  horse,  usually  attracted  the  entire  at 
tention  of  the  by-standers  at  a  strange  inn,  and  under 
cover  of  this,  T  usually  contrived  to  get  into  the  house 
and  commit  him  by  ordering  the  dinner  as  soon  as  it  i 
could  be  got  ready.  Else,  if  it  was  in  the  neighbor-  I 


penetrated  to  the  United  States,  it  might  be  prescribed 
for  tender  feet  as  well — the  soft  floor  of  pine-tassels 
spread  under  the  grassless  woods,  being  considered 
an  improvement  upon  Turkey  carpet?  and  green 
sward. 

Trenton  Falls  is  rather  a  misnomer.  I  scarcely 
know  what  you  would  call  it.  but  the  wonder  of  na 
ture  which  bears  the  name  is  a  tremendous  torrent, 
whose  bed,  for  several  miles,  is  sunk  fathoms  deep 
into  the  earth — a  roaring  and  dashing  stream,  so  far 
I  below  the  surface  of  the  forest  in  which  it  is  lost,  that 
I  you  would  think,  as  you  come  suddenly  upon  the 
edge  of  its  long  precipice,  that  it  was  a  river  in  some 
inner  world  (coiled  within  ours,  as  we  in  the  outer 
circle  of  the  firmament),  and  laid  open  by  some 
Titanic  throe  that  had  cracked  clear  asunder  the  crust 
of  this  "shallow  earth."  The  idea  is  rather  assisted 
if  you  happen  to  see  below  you,  on  its  abysmal  shore, 
a  party  of  adventurous  travellers;  for,  at  that  vast 
depth,  and  in  contrast  with  the  gigantic  trees  and 
rocks,  the  same  number  of  well-shaped  pismires, 
dressed  in  the  last  fashions,  and  philandering  upon 
your  parlor  floor,  would  be  about  of  their  apparent  size 
and  distinctness. 

They  showed  me  at  Eleusis  the  well  by  which 
Proserpine  ascends  to  the  regions  of  day  on  her  an 
nual  visit  to  the  plains  of  Thessaly — but  with  the 
genius  loci  at  my  elbow  in  the  shape  of  a  Greek  girl 
as  lovely  as  Phryne,  my  memory  reverted  to  the  bared 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


axle  of  the  earth  in  the  bed  of  this  American  river, 
and  1  was  persuaded  (looking  the  while  at  the  fero- 
tii^re  of  gold  sequins  on  the  Phidian  forehead  of  my 
Katinka)  that  supposing  Hade.s  in  the  centre  of  the 
earth,  you  are  nearer  to  it  by  some  fathoms  at  Tren 
ton.  1  confess  1  have  had,  since  my  first  descent  into 
those  depths,  an  uncomfortable  doubt  of  the  solidity 
of  the  globe — how  the  dense  it  can  hold  together  with 
such  a  crack  in  its  bottom  ! 

Jt  was  a  night  to  play  Endymion,  or  do  any  Tom 
foolery  that  could  be  l.iid  to  the  charge  of  the  moon, 
for  a  more  omnipresent  and  radiant  atmosphere  of 
moonlight  never  sprinkled  the  wilderness  with  silver. 
Ic  w;is  a  night  in  which  to  wish  it  might  never  be 
day  again — a  night  to  be  enamored  of  the  stars,  and 
bid  God  bless  them  like  human  creatures  on  their 
bright  journey — a  night  to  love  in,  to  dissolve  in — to 
do  everything  but  what  night  is  made  for — sleep  ! 
Oh  heaven  !  when  I  think  how  precious  is  life  in  such 
moments  ;  how  the  aroma — the  celestial  bloom  and 
flower  of  the  soul— the  yearning  and  fast-perishing 
enthusiasm  of  youth — waste  ihernselvetin  ihe  solitude 
of  uch  nights  on  the  senseless  and  unanswering  air ; 
vviien  1  wander  alone,  unloving  and  unloved,  beneath 
influences  that  could  inspire  me  with  the  elevation  of 
a  seraph,  were  1  at  the  ear  of  a  human  creature  that 
could  summon  forth  and  measure  my  limitless  capaci 
ty  of  devotion — when  1  think  this,  and  feel  this,  and 
so  waste  my  existence  in  vain  yearnings — I  could  ex 
tinguish  the  divine  spark  within  me  like  a  lamp  on  an 
unvisited  shrine,  and  thank  Heaven  for  an  assimila 
tion  to  the  animals  I  walk  among  !  And  that  is  the 
substance  of  a  speech  1  made  to  Job  as  a  sequitur  of  a 
well-meant  remark  of  his  own.  that  "  it  was  a  pity 
Edith  Linsey  was  not  there."  He  took  the  clause 
about  the  •'animals"  to  himself,  and  I  made  an  apology 
for  the  same  a  year  after.  We  sometimes  give  our 
friends,  quite  innocently,  such  terrible  knocks  in  our 
rhapsodies  ! 

Most  people  talk  of  the  sublimity  of  Trenton,  but  I 
have  haunted  it  by  the  week  together  for  its  mere 
loveliness.  The  river,  in  the  heart  of  that  fearful 
chasm,  is  the  most  varied  and  beautiful  assemblage  of 
the  thousand  forms  and  shapes  of  running  water  that 
I  know  in  the  world.  The  soil  and  the  deep-striking 
roots  of  the  forest  terminate  far  above  von,  looking  like 
a  black  rim  on  the  enclosing  precipices  ;  the  bed  of 
the  river  and  its  sky-sustaining  walls  are  of  solid  rock, 
and,  with  the  tremendous  descent  of  the  stream — 
forming  for  miles  one  continuous  succession  of  falls 
and  rapids — the  channel  is  worn  into  curves  and  cavi 
ties  which  throw  the  clear  waters  into  forms  of  in 
conceivable  brilliancy  and  variety.  It  is  a  sort  of 
half  twilight  below,  with  heie  and  there  a  long  beam 
of  sunshine  reaching  down  to  kiss  the  lip  of  an  eddy 
or  form  a  rainbow  over  a  fall,  and  the  reverbemting 
and  changing  echoes: — 

"  Like  a  ring  of  bells  whose  sound  the  wind  still  alters," 

maintain  a  constant  and  most  soothing  music,  varying 
at  every  step  with  the  varying  phase  of  the  current. 
Cascades  of  from  twenty  to  thirty  feet,  over  which 
the  river  flies  with  a  single  and  hurrying  leap  (not  a 
drop  missing  from  the  glassy  and  bending  sheet,)  oc 
cur  frequenily  as  you  ascend;  and  it  is  from  these 
that  the  place  takes  its  name.  Hut  the  falls,  though 
beautiful,  are  only  peculiar  from  the  dazzling  and  un 
equalled  rapidity  with  which  the  waters  come  to  the 
leap.  If  it  were  not  for  the  leaf  which  drops  waver 
ing  down  into  the  abysm  from  trees  apparently  painted 
on  the  sky,  and  which  is  caught  away  by  the  flashing 
current  as  if  the  lightning  had  suddenly  crossed  it, 
you  would  think  the  vault  of  the  steadfast  heavens  a 
flyins  element  as  soon.  The  spot  in  that  long  gulf  of 
beauty  that  1  best  remember  is  a  smooth  descent  ofsome 
hundred  yards,  where  the  river  iu  full  and  undivided 


I  volume  skims  over  a  plane  as  polished  as  a  table  of 

I  scagliola,  looking,  in  its  invisible  speed,  like  one  mir- 

j  ror  of  gleaming  but  motionless  crystal.     Just  above, 

I  there  is  a  sudden  turn  in  the  glen  which  sends  the 

w.iter  like  a  catapult  against  the  opposite  angle  of  the 

rock,  and,  in  the  action  of  years,  it  lias  worn  out  a 

cavern    of   unknown    depth,    into   which    the    whole 

j  mass  of  the  river  plunges  with  the  abandonment  of  a 

flying  fiend   into  hell,  and,  reappearing  like  the  an»el 

that  has  pursued  him,  glides  swiftly   but  with  divine 

serenity  on   its   way.       (I   am  indebted    for  that  last 

figure  to  Job,   who  travelled    with  a    Milton    in    his 

pocket,   and    had   a   natural  redolence  of  "Paradise 

Lost"  in  his  conversation.) 

Much  as  1  detest  water  in  small  quantities  (to  drink), 
I  have  a  hydromania  in  the  way  of  lakes,  rivers,  and 
waterfalls.  It  is,  by  much,  the  belle  in  the  family  of 
the  elements.  Earth  is  never  tolerable  unless  dis 
guised  in  green.  Air  is  so  thin  as  only  to  be  visible 
when  she  borrows  drapery  of  water ;  and  Fire  is  so 
staringly  bright  as  to  be  unpleasant  to  the  eyesight ; 
but  water!  soil,  pure,  graceful  water!  there  is  no 
shape  into  which  you  can  throw  her  that  she  does  not 
seem  lovelier  than  before.  She  can  borrow  nothing 
of  her  sisters.  Earth  lias  no  jewels  in  her  lap  so  brif- 
liant  as  her  own  spray  pearls  and  emeralds;  Fire  has 
no  rubies  like  what  she  steals  from  the  sunset ;  Air 
has  no  robes  like  the  grace  of  her  fine-woven  and  ever- 
changing  drapery  of  silver.  A  health  (in  wine  !)  to 
WATER  ! 

Who  is  there  that  did  not  love  some  stream  in  his 
youth  ]  Who  is  there  in  whose  vision  of  the  past 
there  does  not  sparkle  up,  from  every  picture  of  child 
hood,  a  spring  or  a  rivulent  woven  through  the  darken 
ed  and  torn  woof  of  first  affections  like  a  thread  of 
unchanged  silver  1  How  do  you  interpret  the  in 
stinctive  yearning  with  which  you  search  for  the 
river-side  or  the  fountain  in  every  scene  of  nature-*", 
the  clinging  unaware  to  the  river's  course  when  a 
truant  iu  the  fields  in  June — the  dull  void  you  find  iu 
every  landscape  of  which  it  is  not  the  ornament  and 
the  centre  ]  For  myself,  I  hold  with  the  Greek  : 
"  Water  is  the  first  principle  of  all  things  :  we  were 
made  from  it  and  we  shall  be  resolved  into  it."* 


The  awkward  thing  in  all  story-telling  is  transition. 
Invention  you  do  not  need  if  you  have  experience ; 
for  fact  is  stranger  than  fiction.  A  beginning  in  these 
days  of  startling  abruptness  is  as  simple  as  open  your 
mouth  ;  and  when  you  have  once  begun  you  can  end 
whenever  you  like,  arid  leave  the  sequel  to  the  reader's 
imagination:  but  the  hinges  of  a  story — the  turning 
gracefully  back  from  a  digression  (it  is  easy  to  turn 
into  one) — is  the  pas  qui  coule.  My  education  on  that 
point  was  neglected. 

It  was,  as  I  said  before,  a  moonlight  night,  and 
Job  and  myself  having,  like  Sir  Fabian,  •'  no  mind 
to  sleep,"  followed  the  fashion  and  the  rest  of  the  com 
pany  at,,  the  inn,  and  strolled  down  to  see  the  falls  l/y 
moonlight.  I  had  been  there  before,  and  I  took  Job 
straight  to  the  spot  in  the  bed  of  the  river  which  I 
have  described  above  as  my  favorite,  and,  after  watch 
ing  it  for  a  few  minutes,  we  turned  back  to  a  dark 
cleft  in  the  rock  which  afforded  a  rude  seat,  and  sat 
musing  in  silence. 

Several  parties  had  strolled  past  without  seeing  us 
in  our  recess,  when  two  female  figures,  with  their 
arms  around  each  other's  waists,  sauntered  slowly 
around  the  julting  rock  below,  and  approached  us, 
eagerly  engaged  in  conversation.  They  came  on  to 
the  very  edge  of  the  shadow  which  enveloped  us, 
and  turned  to  look  back  at  the  scene.  As  the  head 
nearest  me  was  raised  to  the  light,  I  started  half  to 
*  The  Ionic  philosophy,  supported  by  Thales. 


48 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


my  feet:  it  was  Ediih  !  la  the  same  instant  her 
voice  of  music  broke  on  my  ear,  and  an  irresistible 
impulse  to  listen  unobserved  drew  me  down  again 
upon  my  seat,  and  Job,  with  a  similar  instinct,  laid  his 
hand  on  my  arm. 

"It  was  his  favorite  spot!"  said  Edith.  (We  had 
been  at  Trenton  together  years  before.)  "I  stood  here 
with  him,  and  I  wish  he  stood  here  now,  that  I  might 
tell  him  what  my  hand  hesitates  to  write." 

"  Poor  Philip  !"  said  her  companion,  whom  by  the 
voice  I  recognised  as  the  youngest  of  the  Flemings, 
"I  can  not  conceive  how  you  can  resolve  so  coldly  to 
bieak  his  heart." 

1  felt  a  dagger  entering  my  bosom,  but  still  I  listen 
ed.  Edith  went  on. 

"  Why,  I  will  tell  you,  my  dear  little  innocent.  I 
loved  Pljilip  Slingsby  when  I  thought  I  was  going  to 
die.  It  was  then  a  fitting  attachment,  for  I  never 
thought  to  need,  of  the  goods  of  this  world,  more 
than  a  sick  chamber  and  a  nurse  ;  and  Phil  wns  kind- 
hearted  and  devoted  to  me,  and  I  lived  at  home. 
But,  with  returned  health,  a  thousand  ambitious  de 
sires  have  sprung  up  in  my  heart,  and  I  find  myself 
admired  by  whom  I  will,  and  every  day  growing 
more  selfish  and  less  poetical.  Philip  is  poor,  and 
love  in  a  cottage,  though  very  well  for  vou  if  you 
like  it,  would  never  do  for  me.  I  should  like  him 
very  well  for  a  friend,  for  he  is  gentlemanlike  and 
devoted,  but,  with  my  ideas,  I  should  only  make  him 
miserable,  and  so — I  think  I  had  better  put  him  out  of 
misery  at  once — don't  you  think  ? 

A  half-smothered  groan  of  anguish  escaped  my  lips ; 
but  it  was  lost  in  the  roar  of  the  waters,  and  Edith's 
voice,  as  she  walked  on,  lessened  and  became  inaudi 
ble  to  my  ear.  As  her  figure  was  lost  in  the  shadow 
of  the  rocks  beyond,  I  threw  myself  on  the  bosom  of 
my  friend,  and  wept  in  the  unutterable  agony  of  a 
^crushed  heart.  I  know  not  how  that  night  was  spent, 
but  I  awoke  at  noon  of  the  next  day,  in  my  bed,  with 
Job's  hand  clasped  tenderly  in  my  own. 

V. 

I  kept  my  tryst.  I  was  to  meet  Edith  Linsey  at 
Saratoga  in  July — the  last  month  of  the  probation  by 
which  I  had  won  a  right  to  her  love.  I  had  not  spo 
ken  to  her,  or  written,  or  seen  her  (save,  unknown  to 
Ler,  in  the  moment  I  have  described),  in  the  three 
long  years  to  which  my  constancy  was  devoted.  I 
had  gained  the  usual  meed  of  industry  in  my  profes 
sion,  and  was  admitted  to  its  practice.  I  was  on  the 
threshold  of  manhood;  and  she  had  promised,  before 
heaven,  here  to  give  me  heart  and  hand. 

I  had  parted  from  her  at  twelve  on  that  night  three 
years,  and,  as  the  clock  struck,  I  stood  again  by  her 
side  in  the  crowded  ballroom  of  Saratoga. 

"  Good  God  !  Mr.  Slingsby  !"  she  exclaimed,  as  I 
put  out  my  hand. 

"  Am  I  so  changed  that  you  do  not  know  me,  Miss 
Linsey  ?"  I  asked,  as  she  still  looked  with  a  wonder 
ing  gaze  into  my  face — pressing  my  hand,  however, 
with  real  warmth,  and  evidently  under  the  control, 
for  the  moment,  of  the  feelings  with  which  we  had 
parted. 

"  Changed,  indeed  !  Why,  you  have  studied  your 
self  to  a  skeleton  !  My  dear  Philip,  you  are  ill  !" 

I  was — but  it  was  only  for  a  moment.  I  asked  her 
hand  for  a  waltz,  and  never  before  or  since  came  wit 
and  laughter  so  freely  to  my  lip.  I  was  collected,  but, 
at  the  same  time,  I  was  the  gayest  of  the  gay ;  and 
when  everybody  had  congratulated  me,  in  her  hear 
ing,  on  the  school  to  which  I  had  put  my  wits  in  my 
long  apprenticeship  to  the  law,  I  retired  to  the  gallery 
looking  down  upon  the  garden,  and  cooled  my  brow 
and  rallied  my  sinking  heart. 

The  candles  were  burning  low,  and  the  ball  was 


nearly  over,  when  I  entered  the  room  again,  and  re 
quested  Kdith  to  take  a  turn  with  me  on  the  colon 
nade.  She  at  once  assented,  and  I  could  feel  by  her 
arm  in  mine,  and  see  by  the  fixed  expression  on  her 
lip,  that  she  did  so  with  the  intention  of  revealing  to 
me  what  she  little  thought  I  could  so  well  anticipate. 

"  My  probation  is  over,"  I  said,  breaking  the  si 
lence  which  she  seemed  willing  to  prolong,  and  which 
had  lasted  till  we  had  twice  measured  the  long  colon 
nade. 

"  It  was  three  years  ago  to-night,  I  think,  since  we 
parted."  She  spoke  in  an  absent  and  careless  tone,  as 
if  trying  to  work  out  another  more  prominent  thought 
in  her  mind. 

"  Do  you  find  me  changed  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes — oh,  yes  !  very  !" 

"  But  I  am  more  changed  than  I  seem,  dear  Edith  !" 

She  turned  to  me  as  if  to  ask  me  to  explain  my 
self. 

"  Will  you  listen  to  me  while  I  tell  you  how  ?" 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?     Certainly." 

"  Then  listen,  for  I  fear  I  can  scarce  bring  myself 
to  repeat  what  I  am  going  to  say.  When  I  first  learned 
to  love  you,  and  when  I  promised  to  love  you  for 
life,  you  were  thought  to  be  dying,  and  I  was  a  boy. 
I  did  not  count  on  the  future,  for  I  despaired  of  your 
living  to  share  it  with  me,  and,  if  I  had  done  so,  I 
was  still  a  child,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  world.  I 
have  since  grown  more  ambitious,  and,  I  may  as  well 
say  at  once,  more  selfish  and  less  poetical.  You  will 
easily  divine  my  drift.  You  are  poor,  and  I  find  my 
self,  as  you  have  seen  to-night,  in  a  position  which 
will  enable  me  to  marry  more  to  my  advantage  ;  and, 
with  these  views,  I  am  sure  ]  should  only  make  you 
miserable  by  fulfilling  my  contract  with  you,  and  you 
will  agree  with  me  that  1  consult  our  mutual  happi- 
i  ness  by  this  course — don't  you  think  ?" 

At  this  instant  I  gave  a  signal  to  Job,  who  approached 
and  made  some  sensible  remarks  about  the  weather; 
I  and,  after  another  turn  or  two,  I  released  Miss  Linsey's 
arm,  and  cautioning  her  against  the  night  air,  left  her 
to  finish  her  promenade  and  swallow  her  own  project 
ed  speech  and  mine,  and  went  to  bed. 

And  so  ended  my  first  love  ! 

. 


SCENES  OF  FEAR, 

No.  I. 


THE    DISTURBED    VIGIL. 


"  Antonio. — Get  me 
lets  out  devils  !" 


out  a  man  that 
OLD  PLA.Y. 


SUCH  a  uight !  It  was  like  a  festival  of  Dian.  A 
burst  of  a  summer  shower  at  sunset,  with  a  clap  or 
two  of  thunder,  had  purified  the  air  to  an  intoxicating 
rareness,  and  the  free  breathing  of  the  flowers,  and 
the  delicious  perfume  from  the  earth  and  grass,  and 
the  fresh  foliage  of  the  new  spring,  showed  the  delight 
and  sympathy  of  inanimate  Nature  in  the  night's  beau- 

!  ty.  There  was  no  atmosphere — nothing  between  the 
eye  and  the  pearly  moon — and  she  rode  through  the 
heavens  without  a  veil,  like  a  queen  as  she  is,  giving  a 

i  glimpse  of  her  nearer  beauty  for  a  festal  favor  to  the 

I  worshipping  stars. 

I  was  a  student  at  the  famed  university  of  Connecti 
cut,  and  the  bewilderments  of  philosophy  and  poetry 

j  were  strong  upon  me,  in  a  place  where  exquisite  natu 
ral  beauty,  and  the  absence  of  all  other  temptation, 
secure  to  the  classic  neophite  an  almost  supernatural 
wakefulness  of  fancy.  I  contracted  a  taste  for  the 
horrible  in  those  days,  which  still  clings  to  me.  I 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


49 


have  travelled  the  world  over,  with  no  object  but  gen-  ||  for  a  moment,  and  she  immediately  leaped  again  upon 
eral  observation,  and  have  dawdled  my  hour  at  courts  j|  the  corpse,  and  had  covered  her  feet  and  face  with 
and  operas  with  little  interest,  while  the  sacking  and  ;  blood  before  I  could  recover  my  hold  upon  her.  The 

body  was  no  longer  in  a  situation  to  be  spared,  and  I 


drowning  of  a  woman  in  the  Bosphorus,  the  impale 
ment  of  a  robber  on  the  Nile,  and  the  insane  hospitals 
from  Liverpool  to  Cathay,  are  described  in  my  capri 
cious  journal  with  the  vividness  of  the  most  stirring 
adventure. 

There  is  a  kind  of  crystallization  in  the  circum 
stances  of  one's  life.  A  peculiar  turn  of  mind  draws 
to  itself  events  fitted  to  its  particular  nucleus,  and  it  is 
frequently  a  subject  of  wonder  why  one  man  meets 
with  more  remarkable  things  than  another,  when  it  is 
owing  merely  to  a  difference  of  natural  character. 

It  was,  as  I  was  saying,  a  night  of  wonderful  beauty. 
I  was  watching  a  corpse.  In  that  part  of  the  United 
States,  the  dead  are  never  left  alone  till  the  earth  is 
thrown  upon  them ;  and,  as  a  friend  of  the  family,  I 
had  been  called  upon  for  this  melancholy  service  on 
the  night  preceding  the  interment.  It  was  a  death 
which  had  left  a  family  of  broken  hearts  ;  for,  beneath 
the  sheet  which  sank  so  appallingly  to  the  outline  of 
a  human  form,  lay  a  wreck  of  beauty  and  sweetness 
whose  loss  seemed  to  the  survivors  to  have  darkened 
the  face  of  the  earth.  The  ethereal  and  touching 
loveliness  of  that  dying  girl,  whom  I  had  known  only 
a  hopeless  victim  of  consumption,  springs  up  in  my 
memory  even  yet,  and  mingles  with  every  conception 
of  female  beauty. 

Two  ladies,  friends  of  the  deceased,  were  to  share 
my  vigils.  I  knew  them  but  slightly,  and,  having  read 
them  to  sleep  an  hour  after  midnight,  I  performed 
my  half-hourly  duty  of  entering  the  room  where  the 
corpse  lay,  to  look  after  the  lights,  and  then  strolled 
into  the  garden  to  enjoy  the  quiet  of  the  summer  night. 
The  flowers  were  glittering  in  their  pearl-drops,  and 
the  air  was  breathless. 

The  sight  of  the  long,  sheeted  corpse,  the  sudden 
flare  of  lights  as  the  long  snuffs  were  removed  from 
the  candles,  the  stillness  of  the  close-shuttered  room, 
and  my  own  predisposition  to  invest  death  with  a  su 
pernatural  interest,  had  raised  my  heart  to  my  throat. 
I  walked  backward  and  forward  in  the  garden-path  ; 
and  the  black  shadows  beneath  the  lilacs,  and  even 
the  glittering  of  the  glow-worms  within  them,  seemed 
weird  and  fearful. 

The  clock  struck,  and  I  re-entered.  My  compan 
ions  still  slept,  and  I  passed  on  to  the  inner  chamber. 
I  trimmed  the  lights,  and  stood  and  looked  at  the  1 1  and,  with  the  facility  which  belongs  to  his  country! 


seized  her  with  a  desperate  grasp  to  draw  her  off  ;  but 
1  to  my  horror,  the  half-covered  and  bloody  corpse  rose 
upright  in  her  fangs,  and,  while  I  paused  in  fear,  sat 
with  drooping  arms,  and  head  fallen  with  ghastly  help 
lessness  over  the  shoulder.  Years  have  not  removed 
that  fearful  spectacle  from  my  eyes. 

The  corpse  sank  back,  and  I  succeeded  in  throttling 
the  monster,  and  threw  her  at  last  lifeless  from  the 
window.  I  then  composed  the  disturbed  limbs,  laid 
the  hair  away  once  more  smoothly  on  the  forehead, 
and,  crossing  the  hands  over  the  bosom,  covered  the 
violated  remains,  and  left  them  again  to  their  repose. 
My  companions,  strangely  enough,  slept  on,  and  I  paced 
the  garden-walk  alone,  till  the  day,  to  my  inexpressible 
relief,  dawned  over  the  mountains. 


No.  II. 


THK    MAD    SENIOR. 

I  WAS  called  upon  in  my  senior  year  to  watch  with 
an  insane  student.  He  was  a  man  who  had  attracted 
a  great  deal  of  attention  in  college.  He  appeared  in 
an  extraordinary  costume  at  the  beginning  of  our 
freshman  term,  and  wrote  himself  down  as  Washing 
ton  Greyling,  of ,  an  unheard-of  settlement 

somewhere  beyond  the  Mississippi.  His  coat  and  oth 
er  gear  might  have  been  the  work  of  a  Chickasaw 
tailor,  aided  by  the  superintending  taste  of  some  white 
huntsman,  who  remembered  faintly  the  outline  of  ha 
biliments  he  had  not  seen  for  half  a  century.  It  was 
a  body  of  green  cloth,  eked  out  with  wampum  and 
otter-skin,  and  would  have  been  ridiculous  if  it  had 
not  encased  one  of  the  finest  models  of  a  manly  frame 
that  ever  trod  the  earth.  \Vith  close-curling  black 
hair,  a  fine  weather-browned  complexion,  Spanish  fea 
tures  (from  his  mother — a  frequent  physiognomy  in 
the  countries  bordering  on  Spanish  America),  and 
the  port  and  lithe  motion  of  a  lion,  he  was  a  figure  to 
look  upon  in  any  disguise  with  warm  admiration. 
He  was  soon  put  into  the  hands  of  a  tailor-proper, 


white  heap  lying  so  fearfully  still  within  the  shadow 
of  the  curtains  ;  and  my  blood  seemed  to  freeze.     At 


nen,  became  in  a  month  the  best-dressed  man  in  col 
lege.    His  manners  were  of  a  gentleman-like  mildness, 


the  moment  when  I  was  turning  away  with  a  strong  j   energetic,  but  courteous  and  chivalresque,  and,  unlike 
effort  at  a  more  composed  feeling,  a  noise  like  a  flutter  !  most  savages  and  all  coins,  he  polished  without  "  losing 

—  'his  mark."  At  the  end  of  his  first  term,  he  would 
have  been  called  a  high-bred  gentleman  at  any  court 
in  Europe. 

The  opening  of  his  mind  was  almost  as  rapid  and 
extraordinary.  He  seized  everything  with  an  ardor 
and  freshness  that  habit  and  difficulty  never  deadened. 
He  was  like  a  man  who  had  tumbled  into  a  new  star, 
and  was  collecting  knowledge  for  a  world  to  which  he 
was  to  return.  The  first  in  all  games,  the  wildest  in 
all  adventure,  the  most  distinguished  even  in  the  ele 
gant  society  for  which  the  town  is  remarkable,  and 
unfailingly  brilliant  in  his  recitations  and  college  per 
formances,  he  was  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of  admirable 


of  wings,  followed  by  a  rush  and  a  sudden  silence, 
struck  on  my  startled  ear.  The  street  was  as  quiet  as 
death,  and  the  noise,  which  was  far  too  audible  to  be  a 
deception  of  the  fancy,  had  come  from  the  side  toward 
an  uninhabited  wing  of  the  house.  My  heart  stood 
still.  Another  instant,  and  the  fire-screen  was  dashed 
down,  and  a  white  cat  rushed  past  me,  and  with  the 
speed  of  light  sprang  like  an  hyena  upon  the  corpse. 
The  flight  of  a  vampyre  into  the  chamber  would  not 
have  more  curdled  my  veins.  A  convulsive  shudder 
ran  cold  over  me,  but  recovering  my  self-command,  I 
rushed  to  the  animal  (of  whose  horrible  appetite  for 
the  flesh  of  the  dead  \  had  read  incredulously),  and  at 
tempted  to  tear  her  from  the  body.  With  her  claws 
fixed  in  the  breast,  and  a  yowl  like  the  wail  of  an  infer 
nal  spirit,  she  crouched  fearlessly  upon  it,  and  the  I  his  sensations  at  coming  fresh  from  a  wild  western 
stains  already  upon  the  sheet  convinced  me  that  it  j1  prairie,  and,  at  the  first  measure  of  his  capacities  with 
would  be  impossible  to  remove  her  without  shockingly  I  men  of  better  advantages,  finding  himself  so  uniformly 

i.    f          .          .1  -r      _•     _  i   i.      _    i       .1   _    .1  .     .  .  .  i  i  _ _^- • i__   j_i:_ i_*r..i         T~  •      _ 


J  phenomenon,  and  neither  envied  nor  opposed  in  any 
thing.     I  have  often  thought,  in  looking  on  him,  that 


disfiguring  the  corpse.  I  seized  her  by  the  throat,  in 
the  hope  of  choking  her ;  but  with  the  first  pressure 
of  my  fingers,  she  flew  into  my  face,  and  the  infuriated 
animal  seemed  persuaded  that  it  was  a  contest  for  life. 
Half  blinded  by  the  fury  of  her  attack,  I  loosed  her 


superior,  must  have  been  stirringly  delightful.  It  is  a 
wonder  he  never  became  arrogant ;  but  it  was  the  last 
foible  of  which  he  could  have  been  accused. 

We  were  reading  hard  for  the  honors  in  the  senior 
year,  when  Greyling  suddenly  lost  his  reason.     He 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


had  not  been  otherwise  ill,  and  had,  apparently  in  the 
nrdst  of  high  health,  gone  mad  at  a  moment's  warn 
ing.  The  physicians  scarce  knew  how  to  treat  him. 
The  confinement  to  which  he  was  at  first  subjected, 
however,  was  thought  inexpedient,  and  he  seemed  to 
justify  their  lenity  by  the  gentlest  behavior  when  at 
liberty.  He  seemed  oppressed  by  a  heart-breaking 
melancholy.  We  took  our  turns  in  guarding  and 
watching  with  him,  and  it  was  upon  my  first  night  of 
duty  that  the  incident  happened  which  I  have  thus 
endeavored  to  inttoduce. 

It  was  scarce  like  a  vigil  with  a  sick  man,  for  our 
patient  went  regularly  to  bed,  and  usually  slept  well. 
I  took  my  "  Lucretius"  and  the  "  Book  of  the  Mar 
tyrs,"  which  was  just  then  my  favorite  reading,  and 
with  hot  punch,  a  cold  chicken,  books,  and  a  fire,  I 
looked  forward  to  it  as  merely  a  studious  night ;  and, 
as  the  wintry  wind  of  January  rattled  in  at  the  old 
college  windows,  I  thrust  my  feet  into  slippers,  drew 
my  dressing-gown  about  me,  and  congratulated  my 
self  on  the  excessive  comfortableness  of  my  position. 
The  Sybarite's  bed  of  roses  would  have  been  no  temp 
tation. 

It  had  snowed  all  day,  but  the  sun  had  set  with  a 
red  rift  in  the  clouds,  and  the  face  of  the  sky  was 
swept  in  an  hour  to  the  clearness  of — I  want  a  com 
parison — your  own  blue  eye,  dear  Mary  !  The  all- 
glorious  arch  of  heaven  was  a  mass  of  sparkling  stars. 

Greyling  slept,  and  I,  wearied  of  the  cold  philosophy 
of  the  Latin  poet,  took  to  my  "Book  of  Martyrs."  I 
read  on,  and  read  on.  The  college  clock  struck,  it 
seemed  to  me,  the  quarters  rather  than  the  hours. 
Time  flew  :  it  was  three. 

"  Horrible  !  most  horrible  !"  I  started  from  my  chair 
with  the  exclamation,  and  felt  as  if  my  scalp  were 
self-lifted  from  my  head.  It  was  a  description  in  the 
harrowing  faithfulness  of  the  language  of  olden  time, 
painting  almost  the  articulate  groans  of  an  impaled 
Christian.  I  clasped  the  old  iron-bound  book,  and 
rushed  to  the  window  as  if  my  heart  was  stifling  for 
fresh  air. 

Again  at  the  fire.  The  large  walnut  fagots  had 
burnt  to  a  bed  of  bright  coals,  and  I  sat  gazing  into  it, 
totally  unable  to  shake  off  the  fearful  incubus  from  I 
my  breast.  The  martyr  was  there — on  the  very  hearth  ! 
— with  the  stakes  scornfully  crossed  in  his  body  ;  and 
as  the  large  coals  cracked  asunder  and  revealed  the 
prightness  within,  I  seemed  to  follow  the  nerve-rending 
instrument  from  hip  to  shoulder,  and  suffer  with  him 
pang  for  pang,  as  if  the  burning  redness  were  the  pools 
of  his  fevered  blood. 

"Aha!" 

It  struck  on  my  ear  like  the  cry  of  an  exulting  fiend. 

"Aha!" 

I  shrunk  into  the  chair  as  the  awful  cry  was  re 
peated,  and  looked  slowly  and  with  difficult  courage 
over  my  shoulder.  A  single  fierce  eye  was  fixed  upon 
me  from  the  mass  of  bed-clothes,  and,  for  a  moment, 
the  relief  from  the  fear  of  some  supernatural  presence 
was  like  water  to  a  parched  tongue.  I  sank  back  re 
lieved  into  the  chair. 

There  was  a  rustling  immediately  in  the  bed,  and, 
starting  again,  I  found  the  wild  eyes  of  my  patient 
fixed  still  steadfastly  upon  me.  He  was  creeping 
stealthily  out  of  bed.  His  bare  foot  touched  the  floor, 
and  his  toes  worked  upon  it  as  if  he  was  feeling  its 
strength,  and  in  a  moment  he  stood  upright  on  his 
feet,  and,  with  his  head  forward  and  his  pale  face  livid 
with  rage,  stepped  toward  me.  I  looked  to  the  door. 
He  observed  the  glance,  and  in  the  next  instant  he 
sprang  clear  over  the  bed,  turned  the  key,  and  dashed 
it  furiously  through  the  window. 

"Now!"  said  he. 

"  Greyling !"  I  said.  1  had  heard  that  a  calm  and 
fixed  gaze  would  control  a  madman,  and  with  the  most 
difficult  exertion  of  nerve,  I  met  his  lowering  eye,  and 


we  stood  looking  at  each  other  for  a  full  minute,  like 
men  of  marble. 

"  Why  have  you  left  your  bed  ?"     I  mildly  asked. 

"  To  kill  you!"  was  the  appalling  answer;  and  in 
another  moment  the  light-stand  was  swept  from  be 
tween  us,  and  he  struck  me  down  with  a  blow  that 
would  have  felled  a  giant.  Naked  as  he  was,  I  had 
no  hold  upon  him,  even  if  in  muscular  strength  I  had 
been  his  match ;  and  with  a  minute's  struggle  I  yielded, 
for  resistance  was  vain.  His  knee  was  now  upon  my 
breast  and  his  left  hand  in  my  hair,  and  he  seemed 
by  the  tremulousness  of  his  clutch  to  be  hesitating 
whether  he  should  dash  my  brains  out  on  the  hearth. 
I  could  scarce  breathe  with  his  weight  upon  my  chest, 
but  I  tried,  with  the  broken  words  I  could  command, 
to  move  his  pity.  He  laughed,  as  only  maniacs  can, 
and  placed  his  hand  on  my  throat.  Oh  God!  shall  I 
ever  forget  the  fiendish  deliberation  with  which  he 
closed  those  feverish  fingers? 

"  Greyling  !  for  God's  sake !  Greyling  !" 

"Die!  curse  you!" 

In  the  agonies  of  suffocation  I  struck  out  my  arm, 
and  almost  buried  it  in  the  fire  upon  the  hearth. 
With  an  expiring  thought,  I  grasped  a  handful  of  the 
red-hot  coals,  and  had  just  strength  sufficient  to  press 
them  hard  against  his  side. 

"Thank  God!"  I  exclaimed  with  my  first  breath, 
as  my  eyes  recovered  from  their  sickness,  and  I  looked 
upon  the  familiar  objects  of  my  chamber  once  more. 

The  madman  sat  crouched  like  a  whipped  dog  in 
the  farthest  corner  of  the  room,  gibbering  and  moan 
ing,  with  his  hands  upon  his  burnt  side.  ~I  felt  that  I 
had  escaped  death  by  a  miracle. 

The  door  was  locked,  and,  in  dread  of  another  at 
tack,  I  threw  up  the  broken  window,  and  to  my 
unutterable  joy  the  figure  of  a  man  was  visible  upon 
the  snow  near  the  out-buildings  of  the  college.  It 
was  a  charity-student,  risen  before  day  to  labor  in  the 
wood-yard.  I  shouted  to  him,  and  Greyling  leaped 
to  his  feet.. 

"There  is  time  yet!"  said  the  madman;  but  as  he 
came  toward  me  again  with  the  same  panther-like 
caution  as  before,  I  seized  a  heavy  stone  pitcher 
standing  in  the  window-seat,  and  hurling  it  at  him 
with  a  fortunate  force  and  aim,  he  fell  stunned  and 
bleeding  on  the  floor.  The  door  was  burst  opon  at 
the  next  moment,  and,  calling  for  assistance,  we  tied 
the  wild  Missourian  into  his  bed,  bound  up  his  head 
and  side,  and  committed  him  to  fresh  watchers.  .  .  . 

We  have  killed  bears  together  at  a  Missouri  salt 
lick  since  then;  but  I  never  see  Wash.  Greyling  with 
a  smile  off  his  face,  without  a  disposition  to  look 
around  for  the  door. 


No.  III. 

THE    LUNATIC'S    SKATE. 

I  HAVE  only,  in  my  life,  known  one  lunatic — prop 
erly  so  called.  In  the  days  when  I  carried  a  satchel 
on  the  banks  of  the  Shawsheen  (a  river  whose  half- 
lovely,  half-wild  scenery  is  tied  like  a  silver  thread 
about  my  heart),  Larry  Wynn  and  myself  were  the 
farthest  boarders  from  school,  in  a  solitary  farm-house 
on  the  edge  of  a  lake  of  some  miles  square,  called  by 
the  undignified  title  of  Pomp's  pond.  An  old  negro, 
who  was  believed  by  the  boys  to  have  come  over  with 
Christopher  Columbus,  was  the  only  other  human 
being  within  anything  like  a  neighborhood  of  the 
lake  (it  took  its  name  from  him),  and  the  only  ap 
proaches  to  its  waters,  girded  in  as  it  was  by  an  almost 
impenetrable  forest,  were  the  path  through  old  Pomp's 
clearing,  and  that  by  our  own  door.  Out  of  school, 
Larry  and  I  were  inseparable.  He  was  a  pale,  sad- 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


51 


faced  boy,  and,  in  the  first  days  of  our  intimacy,  he 
had  confided  a  secret  to  me  which,  from  its  uncom 
mon  nature,  and  the  excessive  caution  with  which  he 
kept  it  from  every  one  else,  bound  me  to  him  with 
more  than  the  common  ties  of  schoolfellow  attach 
ment.  We  built  wigwams  together  in  the  woods,  had 
our  tomahawks  made  of  the  same  fashion,  united  our 
property  in  fox-traps,  and  played  Indians  with  perfect 
contentment  in  each  other's  approbation. 

I  had  found  out,  soon  after  my  arrival  at  school, 
that  Larry  never  slept  on  a  moonlight  night.  With 
the  first  slender  horn  that  dropped  its  silver  and  grace 
ful  shape  behind  the  hills,  his  uneasiness  commenced, 
and  by  the  time  its  full  and  perfect  orb  poured  a  flood 
of  radiance  over  vale  and  mountain,  he  was  like  one 
haunted  by  a  pursuing  demon.  At  early  twilight  lie 
closed  the  shutters,  stuffing  every  crevice  that  could 
admit  a  ray;  and  then,  lighting  as  many  candles  as 
he  could  beg  or  steal  from  our  thrifty  landlord,  he  sat 
down  with  his  book  in  moody  silence,  or  paced  the 
room  with  an  uneven  step,  and  a  solemn  melancholy 
in  his  fine  countenance,  of  which,  with  all  my  famil 
iarity  with  him,  I  was  almost  afraid.  Violent  exer 
cise  seemed  the  only  relief,  and  when  the  candles 
burnt  low  after  midnight,  and  the  stillness  around  the 
lone  farm-house  became  too  absolute  to  endure,  he 
would  throw  up  the  window,  and,  leaping  desperately 
out  into  the  moonlight,  rush  up  the  hill  into  the 
depths  of  the  wild  forest,  and  walk  on  with  supernatural 
excitement  till  the  day  dawned.  Faint  and  pale  he 
would  then  creep  into  his  bed,  and,  begging  me  to 
make  his  very  common  and  always  credited  excuse  of 
illness,  sleep  soundly  till  I  returned  from  school.  I 
soon  became  used  to  his  way,  ceased  to  follow  him, 
as  I  had  once  or  twice  endeavored  to  do,  into  the 
forest,  and  never  attempted  to  break  in  on  the  fixed 
and  wrapt  silence  which  seemed  to  transform  his  lips 
to  marble.  And  for  all  this  Larry  loved  me. 

Our  preparatory  studies  were  completed,  and,  to 
our  mutual  despair,  we  were  destined  to  different 
universities.  Larry's  father  was  a  disciple  of  the  great 
Channing,  and  mine  a  Trinitarian  of  uncommon  zeal; 
and  the  two  institutions  of  Yale  and  Harvard  were  in 
the  hands  of  most  eminent  men  of  either  persuasion, 
and  few  are  the  minds  that  could  resist  a  four  years' 
ordeal  in  either.  A  student  was  as  certain  to  come 
forth  a  Unitarian  from  one  as  a  Calvinist  from  the 
other;  and  in  the  New  England  states  these  two  sects 
are  bitterly  hostile.  So,  to  the  glittering  atmosphere 
of  Channing  and  Everett  went  poor  Larry,  lonely 
and  dispirited;  and  I  was  committed  to  the  sincere 
zealots  of  Connecticut,  some  two  hundred  miles  off, 
to  learn  Latin  and  Greek,  if  it  pleased  Heaven,  but 
the  mysteries  of  "  election  and  free  grace,"  whether 
or  no.  • 

Time  crept,  ambled,  and  galloped,  by  turns,  as  we 
were  in  love  or  out,  moping  in  term-time,  or  revelling 
in  vacation,  and  gradually,  I  know  not  why,  our  cor 
respondence  had  dropped,  and  the  four  years  had 
come  to  their  successive  deaths,  and  we  had  never 
met.  I  grieved  over  it ;  for  in  those  days  I  believed 
with  a  school-boy's  fatuity, 

"  That  two,  or  one,  are  almost  what  they  seem  ;" 
and  I  loved  Larry  Wynn,  as  I  hope  I  may  never  love 
man  or  woman  again — with  a  pain  at  my  heart.  I 
wrote  one  or  two  reproachful  letters  in  my  senior 
years,  but  his  answers  were  overstrained,  and  too  full 
of  protestations  by  half;  and  seeing  that  absence  had 
done  its  usual  work  on  him,  I  gave  it  up,  and  wrote 
an  epitaph  on  a  departed  friendship.  I  do  not  know, 
by  the  way,  why  I  am  detaining  you  with  all  this,  for 
it  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  story ;  but  let  it  pass  as 
an  evidence  that  it  is  a  true  one.  The  climax  of  things 
in  real  life  has  not  the  regular  procession  of  incidents 
in  a  tragedy. 


Some  two  or  three  years  after  we  had  taken  "the 
irrevocable  yoke"  of  life  upon  us  (not  matrimony, 
but  money-making),  a  winter  occurred  of  uncom 
monly  fine  sleighing — sledging,  you  call  it  in  Eng 
land.  At  such  times  the  American  world  is  all 
abroad,  either  for  business  or  pleasure.  The  roads 
are  passable  at  any  rate  of  velocity  of  which  a  horse 
is  capable ;  smooth  as  montagnes  Jtusses,  and  hard 
as  is  good  for  hoofs;  and  a  hundred  miles  is  dimin 
ished  to  ten  in  facility  of  locomotion.  The  hunter 
brings  down  his  venison  to  the  cities,  the  western 
trader  takes  his  family  a  hundred  leagues  to  buy 
calicoes  and  tracts,  and  parties  of  all  kinds  scour  the 
country,  drinking  mulled  wine  and  "flip,"  and  shaking 
the  very  nests  out  of  the  fir-trees  with  the  ringing  of 
their  horses'  bells.  You  would  think  death  and  sor 
row  were  buried  in  the  snow  with  the  leaves  of  the 
last  autumn. 

I  do  not  know  why  I  undertook,  at  this  time,  a 
journey  to  the  west;  certainly  not  for  scenery,  for  it 
was  a  world  of  waste,  desolate,  and  dazzling  white 
ness,  fora  thousand  unbroken  miles.  The  trees  were 
weighed  down  with  snow,  and  the  houses  were 
thatched  and  half-buried  in  it.  and  the  mountains  and 
valleys  were  like  the  vast  waves  of  an  illimitable  sea, 
congealed  with  its  yesty  foam  in  the  wildest  hour  of  a 
tempest.  The  eye  lost  its  powers  in  gazing  on  it. 
The  "  spirit-bird"  that  spread  his  refreshing  green 
wings  before  the  pained  eyes  of  Thalaba  would  have 
been  an  inestimable  fellow-traveller.  The  worth  of 
the  eyesight  lay  in  the  purchase  of  a  pair  of  green 
goggles. 

In  the  course  of  a  week  or  two,  after  skimming  over 
the  buried  scenery  of  half  a  dozen  states,  each  as 
large  as  Great  Britain  (more  or  less),  I  found  myself 
in  a  small  town  on  the  border  of  one  of  our  western 
lakes.  It  was  some  twenty  years  since  the  bears  had 
found  it  thinly  settled  enough  for  their  purposes,  and 
now  it  contained  perhaps  twenty  thousand  souls. 
The  oldest  inhabitant,  born  in  the  town,  was  a  youth 
in  his  minority.  With  the  usual  precocity  of  new 
settlements,  it  had  already  most  of  the  peculiarities  of 
an  old  metropolis.  The  burnt  stumps  still  stood  about 
among  the  houses,  but  there  was  a  fashionable  circle, 
at  the  head  of  which  were  the  lawyer's  wife  and  the 
member  of  Congress's  daughter;  and  people  ate  their 
peas  with  silver  forks,  and  drank  their  tea  with  scan 
dal,  and  forgave  men's  many  sins  and  refused  to  for 
give  woman's  one,  very  much  as  in  towns  whose  his 
tory  is  written  in  black  letter.  I  dare  say  there  were 
not  more  than  one  or  two  offences  against  the  moral 
and  Levitical  law,  fashionable  on  this  side  the  water, 
which  had  not  been  committed,  with  the  authentic 

aggravations,  in  the  town  of ;  I  would  mention 

the  name  if  this  were  not  a  true  story. 

Larry  Wynn  (now  Lawrence  Wynn,  Esq.)  lived 
here.  He  had,  as  they  say  in  the  United  States,  "  hung 
out  a  shingle"  (Londonice,  put  up  a  sign)  as  attorney- 
at-law,  and  to  all  the  twenty  thousand  innocent  in 
habitants  of  the  place,  he  was  the  oracle  and  the  squire. 
He  was  besides  colonel  of  militia,  churchwarden, 
and  canal  commissioner;  appointments  which  speak 
volumes  for  the  prospects  of  "  rising  young  men"  in 
our  flourishing  republic. 

Larry  was  glad  to  see  me — very.  I  was  more  glad 
to  see  him.  I  have  a  soft  heart,  and  forgive  a  wrong 
generally,  if  it  touches  neither  my  vanity  nor  my 
purse.  I  forgot  his  neglect,  and  called  him  "  Larry." 
By  the  same  token  he  did  not  call  me  "  Phil."  (There 
are  very  few  that  love  me,  patient  reader ;  but  those 
who  do,  thus  abbreviate  my  pleasant  name  of  Philip. 
I  was  called  after  the  Indian  sachem  of  that  name, 
whose  blood  runs  in  this  tawny  hand.)  Larry  looked 
upon  me  as  a  man.  I  looked  on  him,  with  all  his 
dignities  and  changes,  through  the  sweet  vista  of 
memory — as  a  boy.  His  mouth  had  acquired  the 


52 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


pinched  corners  of  caution  and  mistrust  common  to 
those  who  know  their  fellow-men  ;  but  I  never  saw  it 
unless  when  speculating  as  I  am  now.  He  was  to  me 
the  pale-faced  and  melancholy  friend  of  my  boyhood; 
and  I  could  have  slept,  as  I  used  to  do,  with  my  arm 
around  his  neck,  and  feared  to  stir  lest  I  should  wake 
him.  Had  my  last  earthy  hope  lain  in  the  palm  of 
my  hand,  I  could  have  given  it  to  him,  had  he  needed 
it,  but  to  make  him  sleep  ;  and  yet  he  thought  of  me 
but  as  a  stranger  under  his  roof,  and  added,  in  his 
warmest  moments,  a  "Mr."  to  my  name!  There  is 
but  one  circumstance  in  my  life  that  has  wounded  me 
more.  Memory  avaunt ! 

Why  should  there  be  no  unchangeableness  in  the 
world?  why  no  friendship?  or  why  ami,  and  you, 
gentle  reader  (for  by  your  continuing  to  pore  over 
these  idle  musings,  you  have  a  heart  too),  gifted  with 
this  useless  and  restless  organ  beating  in  our  bosoms, 
if  its  thirst  for  love  is  never  to  be  slaked,  and  its  ach 
ing  self-fulness  never  to  find  flow  or  utterance  ?  I 
would  positively  sell  my  whole  stock  of  affections  for 
three  farthings.  Will  you  say  "  two?" 

"You  are  come  in  good  time,"  said  Larry  one  morn 
ing,  with  a  half-smile,  "  and  shall  be  groomsman  to 
me.  I  am  going  to  be  married." 

"  Married  ?" 

"  Married." 

I  repeated  the  word  after  him,  for  I  was  surprised. 
He  had  never  opened  his  lips  about  his  unhappy  luna 
cy  since  my  arrival,  and  I  had  felt  hurt  at  this  ap 
parent  unwillingness  to  renew  our  ancient  confidence, 
but  had  felt  a  repugnance  to  any  forcing  of  the  topic 
upon  him,  and  could  only  hope  that  he  had  outgrown 
or  overcome  it.  I  argued,  immediately  on  this  infor 
mation  of  his  intended  marriage,  that  it  must  be  so. 
No  man  in  his  senses,  I  thought,  would  link  an  im 
pending  madness  to  the  fate  of  a  confiding  and  lovely 
woman. 

He  took  me  into  his  sleigh,  and  we  drove  to  her 
father's  house.  She  was  a  flower  in  the  wilderness,  I 
Of  a  delicate  form,  as  all  my  countrywomen  are,  and 
lovely,  as  quite  all  certainly  are  not,  large-eyed,  soft 
in  her  manners,  and  yet  less  timid  than  confiding  and 
sister-like,  with  a  shade  of  melancholy  in  her  smile, 
caught,  perhaps,  with  the  "  trick  of  sadness"  from  him 
self,  and  a  patrician  slightness  of  reserve,  or  pride, 
which  Nature  sometimes,  in  very  mockery  of  high 
birth,  teaches  her  most  secluded  child — the  bride  elect 
was,  as  I  said  before,  a  flower  in  the  wilderness.  She 
was  one  of  those  women  we  sigh  to  look  upon  as  they 
pass  by,  as  if  there  went  a  fragment  of  the  wreck  of 
some  blessed  dream. 

The  day  arrived  for  the  wedding,  and  the  sleigh- 
bells  jingled  merrily  into  the  village.  The  morning 
was  as  soft  and  genial  as  June,  and  the  light  snow  on 
the  surface  of  the  lake  melted,  and  lay  on  the  breast 
of  the  solid  ice  beneath,  giving  it  the  effect  of  one  white 
silver  mirror,  stretching  to  the  edge  of  the  horizon. 
It  was  exquisitely  beautiful,  and  I  was  standing  at  the 
window  in  the  afternoon,  looking  off  upon  the  shining 
expanse,  when  Larry  approached,  and  laid  his  hand 
familiarly  on  my  shoulder. 

"What  glorious  skating  we  shall  have,"  said  I,  "if 
thi*  smooth  water  freezes  to-night !" 

I  lurned  the  next  moment  to  look  at  him;  for  we 

had  not  skated  together  since  I  went  out,  at  his  earnest 

^treaty,  at  midnight,  to  skim  the  little  lake  where  we 

"  oassed  our  boyhood,  and  drive  away  the  fever  from 
;n,  under  the  light  of  a  full  moon. 

"•embered  it,  and  so  did  I ;  and  I  put  my  arm 
for  the  color  fled  from  his  face,  and  I 
"ild  have  sunk  to  the  floor. 

full  to-night,"  said  he,  recovering  in- 
""-possession. 

haud  firmly,  and,  in  as  kind  a 
spoke  of  our  early  friend 


ship,  and  apologizing  thus  for  the  freedom,  asked  if  he 
had  quite  overcome  his  melancholy  disease.  His  face 
worked  with  emotion,  and  he  tried  to  withdraw  his 
hand  from  my  clasp,  and  evidently  wished  to  avoid  an 
answer. 

"  Tell  me,  dear  Larry,"  said  I. 

"  Oh  God  !  No  .'"  said  he,  breaking  violently  from 
me,  and  throwing  himself  with  his  face  downward  upon 
the  sofa.  The  tears  streamed  through  his  fingers  upon 
the  silken  cushion. 

"Not  cured  ?     And  does  she  know  it  ?" 

"  No  !  no  !  thank  God  !  not  yet !" 

I  remained  silent  a  few  minutes,  listening  to  his 
suppressed  moans  (for  he  seemed  heart-broken  with 
the  confession),  and  pitying  while  I  inwardly  con 
demned  him.  And  then  the  picture  of  that  lovely  and 
fond  woman  rose  up  before  me,  and  the  impossibility 
of  concealing  his  fearful  malady  from  his  wife,  and 
the  fixed  insanity  in  which  it  must  end,  and  the  whole 
wreck  of  her  hopes  and  his  own  prospects  and  happi 
ness — and  my  heart  grew  sick. 

I  sat  down  by  him,  and,  as  it  was  too  late  to  remon 
strate  on  the  injustice  he  was  committing  toward  her, 
I  asked  how  he  came  to  appoint  the  night  of  a  full 
moon  for  his  wedding.  He  gave  up  his  reserve,  calm 
ed  himself,  and  talked  of  it  at  last  as  if  he  were  relieved 
by  the  communication.  Never  shall  I  forget  the 
doomed  pallor,  the  straining  eye,  and  feverish  hand, 
of  my  poor  friend  during  that  half  hour. 

Since  he  had  left  college  he  had  striven  with  the 
whole  energy  of  his  soul  against  it.  He  had  plunged 
into  business — he  had  kept  his  bed  resolutely  night 
after  night,  till  his  brain  seemed  on  the  verge  of  phrensy 
with  the  effort — he  had  taken  opium  to  secure  to  him 
self  an  artificial  sleep  ;  but  he  had  never  dared  to  con 
fide  it  to  any  one,  and  he  had  no  friend  to  sustain  him 
in  his  fearful  and  lonely  hours  ;  and  it  grew  upon  him 
rather  than  diminished.  He  described  to  me  with  the 
most  touching  pathos  how  he  had  concealed  it  for 
j  years — how  he  had  stolen  out  like  a  thief  to  give  vent 
to  his  insane  restlessness  in  the  silent  streets  of  the  city 
at  midnight,  and  in  the  more  silent  solitudes  of  the 
forest — how  he  had  prayed,  and  wrestled,  and  wept 
over  it— and  finally,  how  he  had  come  to  believe  that 
there  was  no  hope  for  him  except  in  the  assistance  and 
constant  presence  of  some  one  who  would  devote  life 
to  him  in  love  and  pity.  Poor  Larry !  I  put  up  a  silent 
prayer  in  my  heart  that  the  desperate  experiment  might 
not  end  in  agony  and  death. 

The  sun  set,  and,  according  to  my  prediction,  the 
wind  changed  suddenly  to  the  north,  and  the  whole 
surface  of  the  lake  in  a  couple  of  hours  became  of  the 
lustre  of  polished  steel.  It  was  intensely  cold. 

The  fires  blazed  in  every  room  of  the  bride's  pater 
nal  mansion,  and  I  was  there  early  to  fulfil  my  office 
of  master  of  ceremonies  at  the  bridal.  My  heart  was 
weighed  down  with  a  sad  boding,  but  I  shook  off  at 
least  the  appearance  of  it,  and  superintended  the  con 
coction  of  a  huge  bowl  of  punch  with  a  merriment 
which  communicated  itself  in  the  shape  of  most  joyous 
hilarity  to  a  troop  of  juvenile  relations.  The  house 
resounded  with  their  shouts  of  laughter. 

In  the  midst  of  our  noise  in  the  small  inner  room 
entered  Larry.  I  started  back, for  he  looked  more  like 
a  demon  possessed  than  a  Christian  man.  He  had  walk 
ed  to  the  house  alone  in  the  moonlight,  not  daring  to 
trust  himself  in  company.  I  turned  out  the  turbulent 
troop  about  me,  and  tried  to  dispel  his  gloom,  for  a  face 
like  his  at  that  moment  would  have  put  to  flight  the 
rudest  bridal  party  ever  assembled  on  holy  ground. 
He  seized  on  the  bowl  of  strong  spirits  which  I  had 
mixed  for  a  set  of  hardy  farmers,  and  before  I  could 
tear  it  from  his  lips  had  drank  a  quantity  which,  in  an 
ordinary  mood,  would  have  intoxicated  him  helplessly 
in  an  hour.  He  then  sat  down  with  his  face  buried  in 
his  hands,  and  in  a  few  minutes  rose,  his  eyes  spark- 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


ling  with  excitement,  and  the  whole  character  of  his 
face  utterly  changed.     I  thought  he  had  gone  wild. 

"  Now,  Phil,"  said  he  ;  "  now  for  my  bride  !"  And 
with  an  unbecoming  levity  he  threw  open  the  door, 
and  went  half  dancing  into  the  room  where  the  friends 
were  already  assembled  to  witness  the  ceremony. 

I  followed  with  fear  and  anxiety.  He  took  his  place 
by  the  side  of  the  fair  creature  on  whom  he  had  placed 
his  hopes  of  life,  and,  though  sobered  somewhat  by 
the  impressiveness  of  the  scene,  the  wild  sparkle  still 
danced  in  his  eyes,  and  I  could  see  that  every  nerve 
in  his  frame  was  excited  to  the  last  pitch  of  tension. 
If  he  had  fallen  a  gibbering  maniac  on  the  floor,  I  ! 
should  not  have  been  astonished. 

The  ceremony  proceeded,  and  the  first  tone  of  his 
voice  in  the  response  startled  even  the  bride.     If  it  had  | 
rung  from  the  depths  of  a  cavern,  it  could  not  have 
been  more  sepulchral.     I  looked  at  him  with  a  shud 
der.     His  lips  were  curled  with  an  exulting  expres 
sion,  mixed  with  an  indefinable  fear ;  and  all  the  blood 
in  his  face  seemed  settled  about  his  eyes,  which  were  j 
so  bloodshot  and  fiery,  that  I  have  ever  since  wondered  ' 
he  was  not,  at  the  first  glance,  suspected  of  insanity.  | 
But  oh  !  the  heavenly  sweetness  with  which  that  love-  j 
liest  of  creatures  promised  to  love  and  cherish  him,  in  ! 
sickness  and  in  "health  !     I  never  go  to  a  bridal  but  it  j 
half  breaks   my  heart ;  and  as  the  soft  voice  of  that 
beautiful   girl  fell  with  its  eloquent  meaning  on  my 
ear,  and  I  looked  at  her,  with  lips  calm  and  eyes  moist-  j 
ened,  vowing  a  love  which  I  knew  to  be  stronger  than  i 
death,  to  one  who,  I  feared,  was  to  bring  only  pain  and 
sorrow  into  her  bosom,  my  eyes  warmed  with  irrepres 
sible  tears,  and  I  wept. 

The  stir  in  the  room  as  the  clergyman  closed  his 
prayer,  seemed   to   awake  him   from  a   trance.     He  j 
looked  around  with  a  troubled  face  for  a  moment ;  and  ; 
then,  fixing  his  eyes  on  his  bride,  he  suddenly  clasped 
his  arms  about  her,  and  straining  her  violently  to  his 
bosom,  broke  into  an  hysterical  passion  of  tears  and 
laughter.    Then  suddenly  resuming  his  self-command, 
he  apologized  for  the  over-excitement  of  his  feelings, 
and  behaved  with  forced  and  gentle  propriety  till  the 
guests  departed. 

There  was  an  apprehensive  gloom  over  the  spirits 
of  the  small  bridal  party  left  in  the  lighted  rooms  ;  and  j 
as  they  gathered  round  the  fire,  1  approached,  and  en-  ! 
deavored   to  take  a  gay  farewell.     Larry  was  sitting  . 
with  his  arm  about  his  wife,  and  he  wrung  my  hand  in  ' 
silence  as  I  said,  "  Good-night,"  and  dropped  his  head 
upon  her  shoulder.     I  made  some  futile  attempt  to 
rally  him,  but  it  jarred  on  the  general  feeling,  and  I  I 
left  the  house. 

It  was  a  glorious  night.  The  clear  piercing  air  had 
a  vitreous  brilliancy,  which  I  have  never  seen  in  any 
other  climate,  the  rays  of  the  moonlight  almost  visi 
bly  splintering  with  the  keenness  of  the  frost.  The 
moon  herself  was  in  the  zenith,  and  there  seemed 
nothing  between  her  and  the  earth  but  palpable  and 
glittering  cold. 

I  hurried  home  :   it  was  but  eleven  o'clock  ;   and, 
heaping  up  the  wood  in  the  large  fireplace,  I  took  a  j 
volume  of"  Ivanhoe,"  which  had  just  then  appeared, 
and   endeavored    to    rid    myself   of   my   unpleasant  j 
thoughts.     I  read  on  till  midnight ;   and  then,  in  a  I 
pause  of  the  story,  I  rose  to  look  out  upon  the  night,  j 
hoping,   for  poor  Larry's  sake,  that  the   moon  was  j 
buried   in  clouds.     The  house  was  near  the  edge  of  j 
the  lake  ;  and  as  I  looked  down  upon  the  glassy  waste,  ! 
spreading  away  from  the  land,  I  saw  the  dark  figure  ' 
of  a  man  kneeling  directly  in  the  path  of  the  moon's 
rays.     In  another  moment  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and 
the  tall,  slight  form  of  my  poor  friend  was  distinctly 
visible,  as,  with  long  and  powerful  strokes,  he  sped 
away  upon  his  skates  along  the  shore. 

To  take  my  own  Hollanders,  put  a  collar  of  fur 
around  my  mouth,  and  hurry  after  him,  was  the  work 


of  but  a  minute.  My  straps  were  soon  fastened  ;  and, 
following  in  the  marks  of  the  sharp  irons  at  the  top  of 
my  speed,  I  gained  sight  of  him  in  about  half  an  hour, 
and  with  great  effort  neared  him  sufficiently  to  shout 
his  name  with  a  hope  of  being  heard. 

"  Larry  !  Larry  !" 

The  lofty  mountain-shore  gave  back  the  cry  in  re 
peated  echoes — but  he  redoubled  his  strokes,  and 
sped  on  faster  than  before.  At  my  utmost  speed  I 
followed  on  ;  and  when,  at  last,  I  could  almost  lay 
my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  I  summoned  my  strength 
to  my  breathless  lungs,  and  shouted  again — "  Larry  ! 
Larry !" 

He  half  looked  back,  and  the  full  moon  at  that  in 
stant  streamed  full  into  his  eyes.  I  have  thought 
since  that  he  could  not  have  seen  me  for  its  dazzling 
brightness  ;  but  I  saw  every  line  of  his  features  with 
the  distinctness  of  daylight,  and  I  shall  never  forget 
them.  A  line  of  white  foam  ran  through  his  half- 
parted  lips  ;  his  hair  streamed  wildly  over  his  forehead, 
on  which  the  perspiration  glittered  in  large  drops;  and 
every  lineament  of  his  expressive  face  was  stamped  with 
unutterable  and  awful  horror.  He  looked  back  no 
more  ;  but,  increasing  his  speed  with  an  energy  of 
which  I  did  not  think  his  slender  frame  capable,  he 
began  gradually  to  outstrip  me.  Trees,  rocks,  and 
hills,  fled  back  like  magic.  My  limbs  began  to  grow 
numb  ;  my  fingers  had  lost  all  feeling,  but  a  strong 
northeast  wind  was  behind  us,  and  the  ice  smoother 
than  a  mirror  ;  and  I  struck  out  my  feet  mechanically, 
and  still  sped  on. 

For  two  hours  we  had  kept  along  the  shore.  The 
branches  of  the  trees  were  reflected  in  the  polished 
ice,  and  the  hills  seemed  hanging  in  the  air,  and  float 
ing  past  us  with  the  velocity  of  storm-clouds.  Far 
down  the  lake,  however,  there  glimmered  the  just 
visible  light  of  a  fire,  and  I  was  thanking  God  that 
we  were  probably  approaching  some  human  succor, 
when,  to  my  horror,  the  retreating  figure  before  me 
suddenly  darted  oft*  to  the  left,  and  made  swifter  than 
before  toward  the  centre  of  the  icy  waste.  Oh,  God  ! 
what  feelings  were  mine  at  that  moment !  Follow  him 
far  I  dared  not ;  for,  the  sight  of  land  once  lost,  as  it 
would  be  almost  instantly  with  our  tremendous  speed, 
we  perished,  without  a  possibility  of  relief. 

He  was  far  beyond  my  voice,  and  to  overtake  him 
was  the  only  hope.  I  summoned  my  last  nerve  for 
the  effort,  and  keeping  him  in  my  eye,  struck  across 
at  a  sharper  angle,  with  the  advantage  of  the  wind  full 
in  my  back.  I  had  taken  note  of  the  mountains,  and 
knew  that  we  were  already  forty  miles  from  home,  a 
distance  it  would  be  impossible  to  retrace  against  the 
wind  ;  and  the  thought  of  freezing  to  death,  even  if 
I  could  overtake  him,  forced  itself  appallingly  upon 
me. 

Away  I  flew,  despair  giving  new  force  to  my  limbs, 
and  soon  gained  on  the  poor  lunatic,  whose  efforts 
seemed  flagging  and  faint.  I  neared  him.  Another 
struggle  !  I  could  have  dropped  down  where  I  was, 
and  slept,  if  there  were  death  in  the  first  minute,  so 
stiff  and  drowsy  was  every  muscle  in  my  frame. 

"  Larry  !"  I  shouted.     "  Larry  !" 

He  started  at  the  sound,  and  I  could  hear  a  smoth 
ered  and  breathless  shriek,  as,  with  supernatural 
strength,  he  straightened  up  his  bending  figure,  and, 
leaning  forward  again,  sped  away  from  me  like  a 
phantom  on  the  blast. 

I  could  follow  no  longer.  I  stood  stiff  on  my  skates, 
still  going  on  rapidly  before  the  wind,  and  tried  to 
look  after  him,  but  the  frost  had  stiffened  my  eyes, 
and  there  was  a  mist  before  them,  and  they  felt  like 
glass.  Nothing  was  visible  around  me  but  moonlight 
and  ice,  and  dimly  and  slowly  I  began  to  retrace  the 
slight  path  of  semicircles  toward  the  shore.  It  was 
painful  work.  The  wind  seemed  to  divide  the  very 
fibres  of  the  skin  upon  my  face.  Violent  exercise  no 


54 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


longer  warmed  ray  body,  and  I  felt  the  cold  shoot 
sharply  into  my  loins,  and  bind  across  my  breast  like 
a  chain  of  ice;  and,  with  the  utmost  strength  of  mind 
at  my  command,  I  could  just  resist  the  terrible  incli 
nation  to  lie  down  and  sleep.  I  forgot  poor  Larry. 
Life — dear  life  ! — was  now  my  only  thought!  So  self 
ish  are  we  in  our  extremity  ! 

With  difficulty  I  at  last  reached  the  shore,  and  then, 
unbuttoning  my  coat,  and  spreading  it  wide  for  a  sail, 
I  set  my  feet  together,  and  went  slowly  down   before  j 
the  wind,  till  the  fire  which  I  had  before  noticed  be 
gan  to  blaze  cheerily  in  the  distance.     It  seemed  an 
eternity  in  my  slow  progress.     Tree  after  tree  threw 
the  shadow  of  its  naked  branches  across  the  way  ;  hill 
after   hill    glided   slowly    backward ;    but   my   knees 
seemed  frozen  together,  and  my  joints  fixed  in  ice  ; 
and  if  my  life  had  depended  on  striking  out  my  feet, 
I  should  have  died  powerless.     My  jaws  were  locked,  ! 
my  shoulders  drawn  half  down  to  my  knees,  and  in  a  < 
few  minutes  more,  I  am  well  convinced,  the   blood 
would  have  thickened  in  my  veins,  and  stood  still,  for  [ 
ever. 

I  could  see  the  tongues  of  the  flames — I  counted 
the   burning  fagots — a  form  passed  between  me  and  I 
the  fire — I  struck,  and  fell  prostrate  on  the  snow ;  and  j 
I  remember  no  more. 

The  sun  was  darting  a  slant  beam  through  the  trees 
when  I  awoke.  The  genial  warmth  of  a  large  bed  of  j 
embers  played  on  my  cheek,  a  thick  blanket  enveloped 
me,  and  beneath  my  head  was  a  soft  cushion  of  with 
ered  leaves.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire  lay  four 
Indians  wrapped  in  their  blankets,  and,  with  her  head 
on  her  knees,  and  her  hands  clasped  over  her  ankles, 
sat  an  Indian  woman,  who  had  apparently  fallen  asleep 
upon  her  watch.  The  stir  I  made  aroused  her,  and, 
as  she  piled  on  fresh  fagots,  and  kindled  them  to  a 
bright  blaze  with  a  handful  of  leaves,  drowsiness  came 
over  me  again,  and  I  wrapped  the  blanket  about  me 
more  closely,  and  shut  my  eyes  to  sleep. 

I  awoke  refreshed.  It  must  have  been  ten  o'clock 
by  the  sun.  The  Indians  were  about,  occupied  in  va 
rious  avocations,  and  the  woman  was  broiling  a  slice 
of  deer's  flesh  on  the  coals.  She  offered  it  to  me  as  I 
rose ;  and  having  eaten  part  of  it  with  a  piece  of  a  cake 
made  of  meal,  1  requested  her  to  call  in  the  men,  and, 
with  offers  of  reward,  easily  induced  them  to  go  with 
me  in  search  of  my  lost  friend. 

We  found  him,  as  I  had  anticipated,  frozen  to  death, 
far  out  on  the  lake.  The  Indians  tracked  him  by  the 
marks  of  his  skate-irons,  and  from  their  appearance 
he  had  sunk  quietly  down,  probably  drowsy  and  ex 
hausted,  and  had  died  of  course  without  pain.  His 
last  act  seemed  to  have  been  under  the  influence  of 
his  strange  madness,  for  he  lay  on  his  face,  turned 
from  the  quarter  of  the  setting  moon. 

We  carried  him  home  to  his  bride.     Even  the  In 
dians  were  affected  by  her  uncontrollable  agony.     I  | 
can  not  describe  that  scene,  familiar  as  I  am  with  pic-  j 
tures  of  horror. 

I  made  inquiries  with  respect  to  the  position  of  his  i 
bridal  chamber.  There  were  no  shutters,  and  the  1 
moon  streamed  broadly  into  it :  and  after  kissing  his  j 
shrinking  bride  with  the  violence  of  a  madman,  he 
sprang  out  of  the  room  with  a  terrific  scream,  and  she 
saw  him  no  more  till  he  lay  dead  on  his  bridal  bed. 


INCIDENTS  ON  THE  HUDSON. 

M.  CHABERT,  the  fire-eater,  would  have  found  New 
York  uncomfortable.     I  would  mention  the  height  of 


I  had  fixed  upon  the  first  of  August  for  my  annual 
trip  to  Saratoga — and  with  a  straw  hat,  a  portmanteau, 
and  a  black  boy,  was  huddled  into  the  "  rather-faster- 
than-lightning"  steamer,  "  North  America,"  with  about 
seven  hundred  other  people,  like  myself,  just  in  time. 
Some  hundred  and  fifty  gentlemen  and  ladies,  thirty 
seconds  too  late,  stood  "  larding"  the  pine  chips  upon 
the  pier,  gazing  after  the  vanishing  boat  through  show 
ers  of  perspiration.  Away  we  "  streaked"  at  the  rate 
of  twelve  miles  in  the  hour  against  the  current,  and 
by  the  time  I  had  penetrated  to  the  baggage-closet, 
and  seated  William  Wilberforce  upon  my  portmanteau, 
with  orders  not  to  stir  for  eleven  hours  and  seven  min 
utes,  we  were  far  up  the  Hudson,  opening  into  its  hills 
and  rocks,  like  a  witches'  party  steaming  through  the 
Hartz  in  a  caldron. 

A  North-river  steamboat,  as  a  Vermont  boy  would 
phrase  it,  is  another  guess  sort  d1  thing  from  a  Brit 
isher.  A  coal-barge  and  an  eight-oars  on  the  Thames 
are  scarce  more  dissimilar.  Built  for  smooth  water 
only,  our  river  boats  are  long,  shallow,  and  graceful, 
of  the  exquisite  proportions  of  a  pleasure-yacht,  and 
painted  as  brilliantly  and  fantastically  as  an  Indian 
shell.  With  her  bow  just  leaning  up  from  the  surface 
of  the  stream,  her  cut-water  throwing  off  a  curved  and 
transparent  sheet  from  either  side,  her 'white  awnings, 
her  magical  speed,  and  the  gay  spectacle  of  a  thousand 
well-dressed  people  on  her  open  decks,  I  know  noth 
ing  prettier  than  the  vision  that  shoots  by  your  door 
as  you  sit  smoking  in  your  leaf-darkened  portico  on 
the  bold  shore  of  the  Hudson. 

The  American  edition  of  Mrs.  Trollope  (several 
copies  of  which  are  to  be  found  in  every  boat,  serving 
the  same  purpose  to  the  feelings  of  the  passengers  as 
the  escape-valve  to  the  engine)  lay  on  a  sofa  beside 
me,  and  taking  it  up,  as  to  say,  "  I  will  be  let  alone," 
I  commenced  dividing  my  attention  in  my  usual  quiet 
way  between  the  varied  panorama  of  rock  and  valley 
flying  backward  in  our  progress,  and  the  as  varied 
multitude  about  me. 

For  the  mass  of  the  women,  as  far  as  satin  slippers, 
hats,  dresses,  and  gloves,  could  go,  a  Frenchman  might 
have  fancied  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  transplantation 
from  the  Boulevards.  In  London,  French  fashions  are 
in  a  manner  Anglified  :  but  an  American  woman  looks 
on  the  productions  of  Herbault,  Boivin,  and  Maneuri, 
as  a  translator  of  the  Talmud  on  the  inspired  text.  The 
slight  figure  and  small  feet  of  the  race  rather  favor  the 
resemblance;  and  a  French  milliner,  who  would  prob 
ably  come  to  America  expecting  to  see  bears  and  buf 
faloes  prowling  about  the  landing-place,  would  rub  her 
eyes  in  New  York,  and  imagine  she  was  still  in  France, 
and  had  crossed,  perhaps,  only  the  broad  part  of  the 
Seine. 

The  men  were  a  more  original  study.  Near  me  sat 
aKentuckian  on  three  chairs.  He  had  been  to  the  me 
tropolis,  evidently  for  the  first  time,  and  had  "  looked 
round  sharp."  In  a  fist  of  no  very  delicate  propor 
tions,  was  crushed  a  pair  of  French  kid-gloves,  which, 
if  they  fulfilled  to  him  a  glove's  destiny,  would  flatter 
"  the  rich  man"  that  "the'  camel"  might  yet  give  him 
the  required  precedent.  His  hair  had  still  the  traces 
of  having  been  astonished  with  curling-tongs,  and 
across  his  Atlantean  breast  was  looped,  in  a  compli 
cated  zig-zag,  a  chain  that  must  have  cost  him  a  wil 
derness  of  rackoon-skins.  His  coat  was  evidently  the 
production  of  a  Mississippi  tailor,  though  of  the  finest 
English  material ;  his  shirt-bosom  was  ruffled  like  a 
swan  with  her  feathers  full  spread,  and  a  black  silk 
cravat,  tied  in  a  kind  of  a  curse-me-if-I-care-sort-of-a- 
knot,  flung  out  its  ends  like  the  arms  of  an  Italian 
improvisatore.  With  all  this  he  was  a  man  to  look 
upon  with  respect.  His  under  jaw  was  set  up  to  its 
fellow  with  an  habitual  determination  that  would 


the  thermometer,  but  for  an  aversion  I  have  to  figures,   j  throw  a  hickory-tree  into  a  shiver ;  but  frank  good- 
Broadway,  at  noon,  had  been  known  to  fry  soles.          !  nature,  and  the  most  absolute  freedom  from  susni- 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


cion,  lay  at  large  on  his  Ajacean  features,  mixed  with 
an  earnestness  that  commended  itself  at  once  Jo  your 
liking. 

In  a  retired  corner,  near  the  wheel,  stood  a  group 
of  Indians,  as  motionless  by  the  hour  together  as 
figures  carved  in  rosso  antico.  They  had  been  on 
their  melancholy  annual  visit  to  the  now-cultivated 
shores  of  Connecticut,  the  burial-place,  but  unforgot- 
ten  and  once  wild  home  of  their  fathers.  With  the 
money  given  them  by  the  romantic  persons  whose 
sympathies  are  yearly  moved  by  these  stern  and  poet 
ical  pilgrims,  they  had  taken  a  passage  in  the  "fire- 
canoe,"  which  would  set  them  two  hundred  miles  on 
their  weary  journey  back  to  the  prairies.  Their 
Apollo-like  forms  loosely  dressed  in  blankets,  their 
gnudy  wampum-belts  and  feathers,  the  muscular  arm 
and  close  clutch  upon  the  rifle,  the  total  absence  of 
surprise  at  the  unaccustomed  wonders  about  them, 
and  the  lowering  and  settled  scorn  and  dislike  ex 
pressed  in  their  copper  faces,  would  have  powerfully 
impressed  a  European.  The  only  person  on  whom 
they  deigned  to  cast  a  glance  was  the  Kentuckian, 
and  at  him  they  occasionally  stole  a  look,  as  if,  through 
all  his  metropolian  finery,  they  recognised  metal  with 
whose  ring  they  were  familiar. 

'There  were  three  foreigners  on  board,  two  of  them 
companions,  and  one  apparently  alone.  With  their 
coats  too  small  for  them,  their  thick-soled  boots  and 
sturdy  figures,  collarless  cravats,  and  assumed  uncon 
sciousness  of  the  presence  of  another  living  soul,  they 
were  recognisable  at  once  as  Englishmen.  To  most 
of  the  people  on  board  they  probably  appeared  equally 
well-dressed,  and  of  equal  pretensions  to  the  character 
of  gentlemen;  but  any  one  who  had  made  observations 
between  Temple  Bar  and  the  steps  of  Crockford's, 
would  easily  resolve  them  into  two  Birmingham  bag 
men  "sinking  the  shop,"  and  a  quiet  gentleman  on  a 
tour  of  information. 

The  only  other  persons  I  particularly  noted  were  a 
southerner,  probably  the  son  of  a  planter  from  Ala 
bama,  and  a  beautiful  girl,  dressed  in  singularly  bad 
taste,  who  seemed  his  sister.  I  knew  the  "specimen" 
well.  The  indolent  attitude,  the  thin  but  powerfully- 
jointed  frame,  the  prompt  politeness,  the  air  of  superi 
ority  acquired  from  constant  command  over  slaves,  the 
mouth  habitually  flexible  and  looking  eloquent  even 
in  silence,  and  the  eye  in  which  slept  a  volcano  of  vio 
lent  passions,  were  the  marks  that  showed  him  of  a 
race  that  I  had  studied  much,  and  preferred  to  all  the 
many  and  distinct  classes  of  my  countrymen.  His 
sister  was  of  the  slightest  and  most  fragile  figure, 
graceful  as  a  fawn,  but  with  no  trace  of  the  dancing 
master's  precepts  in  her  motions,  vivid  in  her  attention 
to  everything  about  her,  and  amused  with  all  she  saw; 
a  copy  of  Lalla  Kookh  sticking  from  the  pocket  of 
her  French  apron,  a  number  of  gold  chains  hung'out- 
side  her  travelling  habit,  and  looped  to  her  belt,  and  a 
glorious  profusion  of  dark  curls  broken  loose  from  her 
combs  and  floating  unheeded  over  her  shoulders. 

Toward  noon  we  rounded  West  Point,  and  shot 
suddenly  into  the  overshadowed  gorge  of  the  moun 
tains,  as  if  we  were  dashing  into  the  vein  of  a  silver 
mine,  laid  open  and  molten  into  a  flowing  river  by  a 
flash  of  lightning.  (The  figure  should  be  Mont 
gomery's;  but  I  can  in  no  other  way  give  an  idea  of 
the  sudden  darkening  of  the  Hudson,  and  the  under 
ground  effect  of  the  sharp  over-hanging  mountains  as 
you  sweep  first  into  the  highlands.) 

The  solitary  Englishman,  who  had  been  watching 
the  southern  beauty  with  the  greatest  apparent  in 
terest,  had  lounged  over  to  her  side  of  the  boat,  and, 
with  the  instinctive  knowledge  that  women  have  of 
character,  she  had  shrunk  from  the  more  obtrusive 
attempts  of  the  Brummagems  to  engage  her  in  con 
versation,  and  had  addressed  some  remark  to  him, 
which  seemed  to  have  advanced  them  at  once  to  ac 


quaintances  of  a  year.     They  were  admiring  the  stu 
pendous  scenery  together  a  moment  before  the  boat 
stopped  for  a  passenger,  off  a  smaU  town  above  the 
point.     As  the  wheels  were  checked,  there  was  a  sud 
den  splash   in   the  water,  and  a  cry  of  "a  lady  over- 
!  board  !"     I  looked  for  the  fair  creature  who  had  been 
[  standing  before  me,  and  she  was  gone.     The  boat  was 
' 1  sweeping  on,  and  as  I  darted   to  the  railing  I  saw  the 
;  gurgling  eddy  where  something  had  just  gone  down; 
;  and    in   the   next    minute   the   Kentuckian   and    the 
i  youngest  of  the  Indians  rushed  together  to  the  stern, 
j  and  clearing  the  taffrail  with  tremendous  leaps,  dived 
side  by  side  into  the  very  centre  of  the  foaming  circle. 
ii  The  Englishman  had  coolly  seized  a  rope,  and,  by  the 
time  they  reappeared,  stood  on  the  railing  with  a  coil 
|  in  his  hand,   and   flung  it  with   accurate   calculation 
directly  over  them.     With  immovably  grave  faces,  and 
eyes  blinded  with  water,  the  two  divers  rose,  holding 
high  between  them — a  large  pine   fagot !     Shouts  of 
;  laughter  pealed  from  the   boat,  and  the   Kentuckian, 
ij  discovering  his  error,  gave  the  log  an  indignant  fling 
'i  behind,  and,  taking  hold  of  the  rope,  lay  quietly  to  be 
'I  drawn   in;    while   the    Indian,    disdaining   assistance, 
darted  through  the  wake   of  the   boat  with   arrowy 
swiftness,  and  sprang  up  the  side  with  the  agility  of  a 
tiger-cat.     The   lady  reappeared  from  the   cabin    as 
they  jumped  dripping  upon  the  deck  ;  the  Kentuckian 
shook  himself,  and   sat  down  in  the  sun  to  dry;  and 
j  the  graceful  and  stern  Indian,  too  proud  even  to  put 
I  the  wet   hair  away  from   his  forehead,  resumed   his 
'.  place,  and   folded   his  arms,  as  indifferent  and   calm, 
1  save  the  suppressed  heaving  of  his  chest,  as  if  he  had 
!|  never  stirred  from  his  stone-like  posture. 

An  hour  or  two  more  brought  us  to  the  foot  of  the 
!J  Catskills,  and  here  the  boat  lay  alongside  the  pier  to 
•j  discharge  those  of  her  passengers  who  were  bound  to 
the   house   on   the  mountain.     A  hundred  or  more 
moved  to  the  gangway  at  the  summons  to  get  ready, 
and  among  them  the  southerners  and  the  Kentuckian. 
I  had  begun  to  feel  an  interest  in  our  fair  fellow-pas 
senger,  and  I  suddenly  determined  to  join  their  party 
— a  resolution  which  the  Englishman  seemed  to  come 
to  at  the  same  moment,  and  probably  for  the  same 
i  reason. 

We  slept  at  the   pretty  village  on  the  bank  of  the 
I  river,  and  the  next  day  made  the  twelve  hours'  ascent 
'through   glen  and   forest,   our  way  skirted   with  the 
i  most  gorgeous  and  odorent  flowers,  and  turned  aside 
!  and   towered  over  the  trees  whose   hoary  and   moss- 
I  covered  trunks  would  have  stretched  the  conceptions 
j  of  the    "Savage   Rosa."     Everything   that   was   not 
lovely  was  gigantesque  and  awful.     The  rocks  were 
split  with  the  visible  impress  of  the  Almighty  power 
that  had   torn   them  apart,  and  the  daring  and  dizzy 
crags  spurred  into  the  sky,  as  if  the  arms  of  a  buried 
nd  phrensied   Titan  were  thrusting  them  from  the 
mountain's  bosom.     It  gave  one  a  kind  of  maddening 
desire  to   shout  and  leap — the  energy  with  which  it 
filled  the  mind  so  out-measured  the  power  of  the  frame. 
Near  the  end  of  our  journey,  we  stopped   together 
on  a  jutting  rock,  to  look  back   on   the  obstacles  we 
had  overcome.     The  view  extended  over  forty  or  fifty 
miles  of  vale  and  mountain,  and,  with  a  half-shut  eye, 
it  looked,  in  its  green  and  lavish  foliage,  like  a  near 
and  unequal  bed  of  verdure,  while  the  distant  Hudson 
crept  through  it  like  a  half-hid  satin  riband,  lost  as  if 
in   clumps  of  rnoss  among  the  broken  banks  of  the 
highlands.     I  was  trying  to  fix  the  eye  of  my  com 
panion  upon  West  Point,  when   a  steamer,  with  its 
black  funnel  and  retreating  line  of  smoke,  issued  as  if 
from  the  bosom  of  the  hills  into  an  open  break  of  the 
river.     It  was  as  small  apparently  as  the  white  hand 
that  pointed  to  it  so  rapturously. 

"Oh!"  said  the  half-breathless  girl,  "is  it  not  like 
some  fairy  bark  on  an  eastern  stream,  with  a  spice- 
lamp  alight  in  its  prow?" 


56 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


"More  like  an  old  shoe  afloat,  with  a  cigar  stuck  in 
it,"  interrupted  Kentucky. 

As  the  sun  began  to  kindle  into  a  blaze  of  fire,  the 
tumultuous  masses',  so  peculiar  to  an  American  sky, 
turning  every  tree  and  rock  to  a  lambent  and  rosy 
gold,  we  stood  on  the  broad  platform  on  which  the 
house  is  built,  braced  even  beyond  weariness  by  the 
invigorating  and  rarified  air  of  the  mountain.  A  hot 
supper  and  an  early  pillow,  with  the  feather  beds  and 
blankets  of  winter,  were  unromantic  circumstances, 
but  I  am  not  aware  that  any  one  of  the  party  made 
any  audible  objection  to  them;  I  sat  next  the  Ken- 
tuckian  at  table,  and  can  answer  for  two. 

A  mile  or  two  back  from  the  mountain-house,  on 
nearly  the  same  level,  the  gigantic  forest  suddenly 
sinks  two  or  three  hundred  feet  into  the  earth,  forming 
a  tremendous  chasm,  over  which  a  bold  stag  might 
almost  leap,  and  above  which  the  rocks  hang  on 
cither  side  with  the  most  threatening  and  frowning 
grandeur.  A  mountain-stream  creeps  through  the 
forest  to  the  precipice,  and  leaps  as  suddenly  over,  as 
if,  Arethusa-like,  it  fled  into  the  earth  from  the  pur 
suing  steps  of  a  satyr.  Thirty  paces  from  its  brink, 
you  would  never  suspect,  but  for  the  hollow  rever 
beration  of  the  plunging  stream,  that  anything  but  a 
dim  and  mazy  wood  was  within  a  day's  journey.  It 
is  visited  as  a  great  curiosity  in  scenery,  under  the 
name  of  Cauterskill  Falls. 

We  were  all  on  the  spot  by  ten  the  next  morning, 
after  a  fatiguing  tramp  through  the  forest;  for  the 
Kentuckian  had  rejected  the  offer  of  a  guide,  under 
taking  to  bring  us  to  it  in  a  straight  line  by  only  the 
signs  of  the  water- course.  The  caprices  of  the  little 
stream  had  misled  him,  however,  and  we  arrived  half- 
dead  with  the  fatigue  of  our  cross-marches. 

I  sat  down  on  the  bald  edge  of  the  precipice,  and 
suffered  my  more  impatient  companions  to  attempt 
the  difficult  and  dizzy  descent  before  me.  The  Ken 
tuckian  leaped  from  rock  to  rock,  followed  daringly 
by  the  southerner;  and  the  Englishman,  thoroughly 
enamored  of  the  exquisite  child  of  nature,  who  knew 
no  reserve  beyond  her  mnidenly  modesty,  devoted 
himself  to  her  assistance,  and  compelled  her  with 
anxious  entreaties  to  descend  more  cautiously.  I  lay 
at  my  length  as  they  proceeded,  and  with  my  head 
over  the  projecting  edge  of  the  most  prominent  crag, 
watched  them  in  a  giddy  dream,  half-stupified  by  the 
grandeur  of  the  scene,  half-interested  in  their  motions. 

They  reached  the  bottom  of  the  glen  at  last,  and 
shouted  to  the  two  who  had  gone  before,  but  they  had 
followed  the  dark  passage  of  the  stream  to  find  its 
vent,  and  were  beyond  sight  or  hearing. 

After  sitting  a  minute  or  two,  the  restless  but  over- 
fatigued  girl  rose  to  go  nearer  the  fall,  and  I  was  re 
marking  to  myself  the  sudden  heaviness  of  her  steps, 
when  she  staggered,  and  turning  toward  her  compan 
ion,  fell  senseless  into  his  arms.  The  closeness  of  the 
air  below,  combined  with  over-exertion,  had  been  too 
much  for  her. 

The  small  hut  of  an  old  man  who  served  as  a  guide 
stood  a  little  back  from  the  glen,  and  1  had  rushed 
into  it,  and  was  on  the  first  step  of  the  descent  with  a 
flask  of  spirits,  when  a  cry  from  the  opposite  crag,  in 
the  husky  and  choking  scream  of  infuriated  passion, 
suddenly  arrested  me.  On  the  edge  of  the  yawning 
chasm,  gazing  down  into  it  with  a  livid  and  death-like 
paleness,  stood  the  southerner.  I  mechanically  fol 
lowed  his  eye.  His  sister  lay  on  her  back  upon  a  flat 
rock  immediately  below  him,  and  over  her  knelt  the 
Englishman,  loosening  the  dress  that  pressed  close 
upon  her  throat,  and  with  his  face  so  near  to  hers  as  to 
conceal  it  entirely  from  the  view.  I  felt  the  brother's 
misapprehension  at  a  glance,  but  my  tongue  clung  to 
the  roof  of  my  mouth  ;  for  in  the  madness  of  his  fury 
he  stood  stretching  clear  over  the  brink,  and  every 
instant  I  looked  to  see  him  plunge  headlong.  Be 


fore  I  could  recover  my  breath,  he  started  back,  gazed 
wildly  round,  and  seizing  upon  a  huge  fragment  of 
rock,  heaved  it  up  with  supernatural  strength,  and 
hurled  it  into  the  abyss.  Giddy  and  sick  with  horror, 
I  turned  away  and  covered  up  my  eyes.  I  felt  assured 
he  had  dashed  them  to  atoms. 

The  lion  roar  of  the  Kentuckian  was  the  first  sound 
that  followed  the  thundering  crash  of  the  fragments. 

"  Hallo,  youngster !  what  in  tarnation  are  you  arter  ? 
You've  killed  the  gal,  by  gosh!" 

The  next  moment  I  heard  the  loosened  stones  as  he 
went  plunging  down  into  the  glen,  and  hurrying  after 
him  with  my  restorative,  I  found  the  poor  English 
man  lying  senseless  on  the  rocks,  and  the  fainting  girl, 
escaped  miraculously  from  harm,  struggling  slowly  to 
her  senses. 

On  examination,  the  new  sufferer  appeared  only 
stunned  by  a  small  fragment  which  had  struck  him 
on  the  temple,  and  the  Kentuckian,  taking  him  up  in 
his  arms  like  a  child,  strode  through  the  spray  of  the 
fall,  and  held  his  head  under  the  descending  torrent 
till  he  kicked  lustily  for  his  freedom.  With  a  draught 
from  the  flask,  the  pale  Alabamian  was  soon  perfectly 
restored,  and  we  stood  on  the  rock  together  looking 
at  each  other  like  people  who  had  survived  an  earth 
quake. 

We  climbed  the  ascent  and  found  the  brother  lying 
with  his  face  to  the  earth,  beside  himself  with  hia 
conflicting  feelings.  The  rough  tongue  of  the  Ken 
tuckian  to  whom  1  had  explained  the  apparent  cause 
of  the  rash  act,  soon  cleared  up  the  tempest,  and  he 
joined  us  presently,  and  walked  back  by  his  sister's 
side  in  silence. 

We  made  ourselves  into  a  party  to  pass  the  remain 
der  of  the  summer  on  the  lakes,  unwillingly  letting  off 
the  Kentuckian,  who  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  back  to 
propose  himself  for  the  legislature. 

Three  or  four  years  have  elapsed,  and  I  find  myself 
a  traveller  in  England.  Thickly  sown  as  are  the 
wonders  and  pleasures  of  London,  an  occasional  din 
ner  with  a  lovely  countrywoman  in Square,  and 

a  gossip  with  her  husband  over  a  glass  of  wine,  in 
which  Cauterskill  Falls  are  not  forgotten,  are  mem 
orandums  in  my  diary  never  written  but  in  "red 
letters." 


THE  GIPSY  OF  SAEDIS, 


.    .    .     .    "  And  thou  art  far, 
Asia  !  who,  when  my  being  overflowed, 
Wert  like  a  golden  chalice  to  bright  wine, 
Which  else  had  sunk  into  the  thirsty  dust." 
SHELLEY'S  PKOME 


OUR  tents  were  pitched  in  the  vestibule  of  the  house 
of  Croesus,  on  the  natural  terrace  which  was  once  the 
imperial  site  of  Sardis.  A  humpbacked  Dutch  artist, 
who  had  been  in  the  service  of  Lady  Hester  Stanhope 
as  a  draughtsman,  and  who  had  lingered  about  be 
tween  Jerusalem  and  the  Nile  till  he  was  as  much  at 
home  in  the  east  as  a  Hajji  or  a  crocodile  ;  an  Eng 
lishman  qualifying  himself  for  "The  Travellers';" 
a  Smyrniote  merchant  in  figs  and  opium  ;  Job  Smith 
(my  inseparable  shadow)  and  myself,  composed  a 
party  at  this  time  (August,  1834),  rambling  about 
Asia  Minor  in  turbans  and  Turkish  saddles,  and  pitch 
ing  our  tents,  and  cooking  our  pilau,  wherever  it 
pleased  Heaven  and  the  inexorable  suridji  who  was 
our  guide  and  caterer. 

I  thought  at  the  time  that  I  would  compound  to 
abandon  all  the  romance  of  that  renowned  spot,  for  a 
clean  shirt  and  something  softer  than  a  marble  frustrum 
for  a  pillow ;  but  in  the  distance  of  memory,  and  my- 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


self  at  this  present  in  a  deep  morocco  chair  in  the 
library  at  "  The  Travellers' ;"  the  same  scene  in  the 
ruins  of  Sardis  does  not  seem  destitute  of  interest. 

It  was  about  four  in  the  lazy  summer  afternoon. 
We  had   arrived  at   Sardis  at  mid-day,   and  after   a 
quarrel  whether  we  should  eat  immediately  or  wait  till 
the  fashionable  hour  of  three,  the  wooden  dish  con 
taining  two  chickens   buried  in  a   tumulus  of  rice, 
shaped  (in  compliment  to  the  spirit  of  the  spot)  like 
the  Mound  of  Alyattis  in  the  plain  below,  was  placed  | 
in  the  centre  of  a  marble  pedestal ;  and  with  Job  and  i 
the  Dutchman  seated  on  the  prostrate  column  dislodged 
for  our  benefit,  and  the  remainder  of  the  party  squatted 
in  the  high  grass,  which  grew  in  the  royal  palace  as  if 
it  had  no  memory  of  the  foot-prints  of  the  kings  of  ; 
Lydia,  we  spooned  away   at  the  saturated  rice,  and  I 
pulled  the  smothered  chickens  to  pieces  with  an  inde-  [ 
pendence  of  knives  and  forks  that  was  worthy  of  the 
4i  certain  poor  man  in  Attica."     Old   Solon  himself,  ' 
who  stood,  we  will  suppose,  while  reproving  the  osten-  j 
tatious  monarch,  at  the  base  of  that  very  column  now  j 
ridden  astride  by  an  inhabitant  of  a  country  of  which  j 
he  never  dreamed — (at  least  it  strikes  me  there  is  no 
mention  of  the  Yankees  in  his  philosophy) — the  old  I 
graybeard  of  the  Academy  himself,  I  say,  would  have  \ 
been  edified  at  the  primitive  simplicity  of  our  repast.  ! 
The  salt  (he  would  have  asked  if  it  was  Attic)  was  ; 
contained  in  a  ragged  play-bill,  which  the  Dutchman  j 
had  purloined  as  a  specimen  of  Modern  Greek,  from 
the  side  of  a  house  in  Corfu  ;  the  mustard  was  in  a  I 
cracked  powder-horn,  which  had  been  slung  at  the 
breast  of  old  Whalley  the  regicide,  in  the  American  J 
revolution,  and  which  Job  had  brought  from  the  Green 
mountains,  and  held,  till  its  present  base  uses,  in  re 
ligious  veneration  ;  the  ham  (I  should  have  mentioned 
that  respectable  entremet  before)  was  half  enveloped 
in   a  copy  of  the   "  Morning  Post ;"  and  the  bread, 
which  had  been  seven  days  out  from  Smyrna,  and  had 
been   kept  warm  in  the  suridji's  saddle   bags  twelve 
hours  in  the  twenty-four,  lay  in  disjecta  membra  around 
the  marble  table,  with  marks  of  vain  but  persevering 
attacks  in  its  nibbled  edges.     The  luxury  of  our  lar 
der  was  comprised  in  a  flask  which  had  once  held  Har 
vey's  sauce,  and  though  the  last  drop  had  served  as  a 
condiment  to  a  roasted  kid  some  three  months  before, 
in  the  Acropolis  at  Athens,  we  still  clung  to  it  with 
affectionate  remembrance,  and  it  was  offered  and  re-  ' 
fused  daily  around  the  table  for  the  melancholy  pleasure 
of  hearing  the  mention  of  its  name      It  was  unlucky 
that  the  only  thing  which  the  place  afforded  of  the 
best  quality,  and  in  sufficient  quanities*  was  precisely  ; 
the  one  thing  in  the  world  for  which  no  individual  of  ! 
the  party  had  any  particular  relish — water !     It  was  I 
brought  in  a  gourd  from  the  bed  of  the  "  golden-sand-  ! 
ed  Pactolus,"  rippling  away  to  the  plain  within  pistol-  ; 
shot  of  the  dining-room  ;  but,  to  the  shame  of  our  sim-  ! 
plicity  I  must  record,  that  a  high-shouldered  Jug  of  ! 
the  rough  wine  of  Samos,  trodden  out  by  the  feet  of  j 
the  lovely  slaves  of  the  jEgcan,  and  bought  for  a  far-  j 
thing  the  bottle,  went  oftener  to  the  unclassical  lips  of 
the  company.     Methinks,  now  (the  wind  east  in  Lon 
don,  and  the  day  wet  and  abominable),  I  could  barter 
the  dinner  that  I  shall  presently  discuss,  with  its  suite  i 
of  sherries  and  anchovy,  to  kneel  down  by  that  golden  i 
river  in  the  sunshine,   and  drink  a  draught  of  pure 
lymph  under  the  sky  of  effeminate  Asia.     Yet,  when 
I  was  there — so  rarely  do  we  recognise  happiness  till 
she  is  gone — I  wished  myself  (where  I  had  never  been) 
in  "  merry  England."     "  Merry,"  quotha  ?     Scratch 
it   out,  and   write    comfortable.      I   have   seen  none 
44  merry"  in  England,  save  those  who  have  most  cause 
to    be   sad — the    abandoned   of   themselves   and   the 
world  ! 

Out  of  the  reach  of  ladies  and  the  laws  of  society, 
the  most  refined  persons  return  very  much  to  the  na 
tural  instincts  from  which  they  have  departed  in  the  i 


progress  of  civilization.  Job  rolled  off  the  marble 
column  when  there  was  nothing  more  to  eat,  and  went 
to  sleep  with  the  marks  of  the  Samian  wine  turning 
up  the  corners  of  his  mouth  like  the  salacious  grin  of 
a  satyr.  The  Dutchman  got  his  hump  into  a  hollow, 
and  buried  his  head  in  the  long  grass  with  the  same  obe 
dience  to  the  prompting  of  nature,  and  idem  the  suridji 
and  the  fig-merchant,  leaving  me  seated  alone  among 
the  promiscuous  ruins  of  Sardis  and  the  dinner.  The 
dish  of  philosophy  I  had  with  myself  on  that  occasion 
will  appear  as  a  rechauffe  in  my  novel  (I  intend  to 
write  one) ;  but  meantime  I  may  as  well  give  you  the 
practical  inference  ;  that,  as  sleeping  after  dinner  is 
evidently  Nature's  law,  Washington  Irving  is  highly 
excusable  for  the  practice,  and  he  would  be  a  friend  of 
reason  who  should  introduce  couches  and  coffee  at  that 
somnolent  period,  the  digestive  nap  taking  the  place 
of  the  indigestible  politics  usually  forced  upon  the  com 
pany  on  the  disappearance  of  the  ladies.  Why  should 
the  world  be  wedded  for  ever  to  these  bigoted  incon 
veniences  ! 

The  grand  track  from  the  south  and  west  of  Asia 
Minor  passes  along  the  plain  between  the  lofty  Acropo 
lis  of  Sardis  and  the  tombs  of  her  kings ;  and  with 
the  snore  of  travellers  from  five  different  nations  in 
my  ear,  I  sat  and  counted  the  camels  in  one  of  the 
immense  caravans  never  out  of  sight  in  the  valley  of 
the  Hermus.  The  long  procession  of  those  brown 
monsters  wound  slowly  past  on  their  way  to  Smyrna, 
their  enormous  burthens  covered  with  colored  trap 
pings  and  swaying  backward  and  forward  with  their  dis 
jointed  gait,  and  their  turbaned  masters  dozing  on  the 
backs  of  the  small  asses  of  the  east,  leading  each  a 
score  by  the  tether  at  his  back  ;  the  tinkling  of  their 
hundred  bells  swarmed  up  through  the  hot  air  of  the 
afternoon  with  the  drowsiest  of  monotones  ;  the  native 
oleanders,  slender-leaved  and  tall,  and  just  now  in  all 
their  glory,  with  a  color  in  their  bright  flowers  stolen 
from  the  bleeding  lips  of  Houris,  brightened  the  plains 
of  Lydia  like  the  flush  of  sunset  lying  low  on  the  earth ; 
the  black  goats  of  uncounted  herds  browsed  along  the 
ancient  Sarabat,  with  their  bearded  faces  turned  every 
one  to  the  faintly  coining  wind  :  the  eagles  (that  abound 
now  in  the  mountains  from  which  Sardis  and  a  hundred 
silent  cities  once  scared  their  bold  progenitors)  sailed 
slowly  and  fearlessly  around  the  airy  citadel  that  flung 
open  its  gates  to  the  Lacedaemonian  ;  and,  gradually, 
as  you  may  have  lost  yourself  in  this  tangled  paragraph, 
dear  reader,  my  senses  became  confused  among  the 
objects  it  enumerates,  and  I  fell  asleep  with  the  speech 
of  Solon  in  my  ears,  and  my  back  to  the  crumbling 
portico  of  Croesus. 

The  Dutchman  was  drawing  my  picture  when  I 
awoke,  the  sun  was  setting,  and  Job  and  the  suridji 
were  making  tea.  I  am  not  a  very  picturesque  object, 
generally  speaking,  but  done  as  a  wild  Arab  lying  at 
the  base  of  a  column  in  a  white  turban,  with  a  stork's 
nest  over  my  head,  I  am  not  so  ill-looking  as  you  would 
suppose.  As  the  Dutchman  drew  for  gelt,  and  hoped 
to  sell  his  picture  to  some  traveller  at  Smyrna  who 
would  take  that  opportunity  to  affirm  in  his  book  that 
he  had  been  at  Sardis  (as  vide  his  own  sketch),  I  do 
not  despair  of  seeing  myself  yet  in  lithograph.  And, 
talking  of  pictures,  I  would  give  something  now  if  I 
had  engaged  that  hump-backed  draughtsman  to  make 
me  a  sketch  of  Job,  squat  on  his  hams  before  a  fire  in 
the  wall,  and  making  tea  in  a  tin  pot  with  a  "  malig 
nant  and  turbaned  Turk,"  feeding  the  blaze  with  the 
dry  thorn  of  Syria.*  It  would  have  been  consolation 
to  his  respectable  mother,  whom  he  left  in  the  Green 
mountains  (wondering  what  he  could  have  to  do  with 
following  such  a  scapegrace  as  myself  through  the 

*  It  has  the  peculiarity  of  a  hooked  thorn  alternating  with  the 
straight,  and  it  is  difficult  to  touch  it  without  lacerating  the 
hands.  It  is  the  common  thorn  of  the  east,  and  it  is  supposed 
that  our  Savior's  crown  at  his  crucifixion  was  made  of  it. 


58 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


world),  to  have  seen  him  in  the  turban  of  a  Hajji  tak 
ing  his  tea  quietly  in  ancient  Lydia.  The  green  tur 
ban,  the  sign  of  the  Hajji,  belonged  more  properly  to 
myself;  for  though  it  was  Job  who  went  bodily  to 
Jerusalem  (leaving  me  ill  of  a  fig-fever  at  Smyrna),  the 
sanctity  of  the  pilgrimage  by  the  Mohammedan  law 
falls  on  him  who  provides  the  pilgrim  with  scallop-shell 
and  sandals,  aptly  figured  forth  in  this  case,  we  will  sup 
pose,  by  the  sixty  American  dollars  paid  by  myself  for 
his  voyage  to  Jaffa  and  back.  The  suridji  was  a 
Hajji,  too,  and  it  was  amusing  to  see  Job,  who  respect 
ed  every  man's  religious  opinions,  and  had  a  little 
vanity  besides  in  sharing  with  the  Turk*  the  dignity  of 
a  pilgrimage  to  the  sacred  city,  washing  his  knees  and 
elbows  at  the  hour  of  prayer,  and  considerately,  but 
very  much  to  his  own  inconvenience,  transferring  the 
ham  of  the  unclean  beast  from  the  Mussulman's  sad 
dle-bags  to  his  own.  It  was  a  delicate  sacrifice  to  a 
pagan's  prejudices  worthy  of  Socrates  or  a  Christian. 

II. 

In  all  simple  states  of  society,  sunset  is  the  hour  of 
better  angels.  The  traveller  in  the  desert  remembers 
his  home — the  sea-tost  boy  his  mother  and  her  last 
words — the  Turk  talks,  for  a  wonder,  and  the  chatter 
ing  Greek  is  silent,  for  the  same — the  Italian  forgets 
his  mustache,  and  hums  la patria — and  the  English 
man  delivers  himself  of  the  society  of  his  companions, 
and  "  takes  a  walk."  It  is  something  in  the  influences 
of  the  hour,  and  I  shall  take  trouble,  some  day,  to 
maintain  that  morn,  noon,  and  midnight,  have  their 
ministry  as  well,  and  exercise  each  an  unobserved  but 
salutary  and  peculiar  office  on  the  feelings. 

We  all  separated  "  after  tea  ;"  the  Suridji  was  off  to 
find  a  tethering  place  for  his  horses;  the  Englishman 
strolled  away  by  himself  to  a  group  of  the  "  tents  of 
Kedar"  far  down  in  the  valley  with  their  herds  and 
herdsmen  ;  theSmyrniote  merchant  sat  by  the  camel- 
track  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  waiting  for  the  passing  of  a 
caravan;  the  Green-Mountaineer  was  wandering  around 
the  ruins  of  the  apostolic  church;  the  Dutchman  was 
sketching  the  two  Ionic  shafts  of  the  fair  temple  of 
Cybele  ;  and  I,  with  a  passion  for  running  water  which 
I  have  elsewhere  alluded  to,  idled  by  the  green  bank 
of  the  Pactolus,  dreaming  sometimes  of  Gyges  and 
Alexander,  and  sometimes  of  you,  dear  Mary! 

I  passed  Job  on  my  way,  for  the  four  walls  over 
which  the  "  Angel  of  the  Church  of  Sardis"  kept  his 
brooding  watch  in  the  days  of  the  Apocalypse  stand 
not  far  from  the  swelling  bank  of  the  Pactolus,  and 
nearly  in  a  line  between  it  and  the  palace  of  Croesus.  I 
must  say  that  my  heart  almost  stood  still  with  awe  as  I 
stepped  over  the  threshold.  In  the  next  moment,  the 
strong  and  never-wasting  under-current  of  early  reli 
gious  feeling  rushed  back  on  me,  and  I  involuntarily 
uncovered  my  head,  and  felt  myself  stricken  with  the 
spell  of  holy  ground.  My  friend,  who  was  never  with 
out  the  Bible  that  was  his  mother's  parting  gift,  sat  on 
the  end  of  the  broken  wall  of  the  vestibule  with  the 
sacred  volume  open  at  the  Revelation  in  his  hand. 

"  I  think,  Philip,"  said  he,  as  I  stood  looking  at  him 
in  silence,  "  I  think  my  mother  will  have  been  told  by 
an  .angel  that  I  am  here." 

He  spoke  with  a  solemnity  that,  spite  of  every  other 
feeling,  seemed  to  me  as  weighty  and  true  as  prophecy. 

"  Listen,  Philip,"  said  he,  "it  will  be  something  to 
tell  your  mother  as  well  as  mine,  that  we  have  read  the 
Apocalypse  together  in  the  Church  of  Sardis." 

I  listened  with  what  I  never  thought  to  have  heard 

•  The  Mussulmans  make  pilgrimages  to  Jerusalem,  and  pray 
at  all  the  places  consecrated  to  our  Savior  and  the  Virgin,  ex 
cept  only  the  tomb  of  Christ,  which  they  do  not  acknowledge. 
They  believe  that  Christ  did  not  die,  but  ascended  alive  into 
heaven ,  leaving  the  likeness  of  his  face  to  Judas,  who  was 
crucified  for  him. 


in  Asia — my  mother's  voice  loud  at  my  heart,  as  I  had 
heard  it  in  prayer  in  my  childhood  : — 

"  Thou  hast  a  few  names  even  in  Sardis  which  have 
not  defiled  their  garments ;  and  they  shall  walk  with 
me  in  white:  for  they  are  worthy." 

I  strolled  on.  A  little  farther  up  the  Pactolus  stood 
the  Temple  of  Cybele.  The  church  to  which  "  He" 
spoke  "  who  hath  the  seven  spirits  of  God  and  the  seven 
stars,"  was  a  small  and  humble  ruin  of  brick  and  mor 
tar  ;  but,  of  the  temple  of  the  Heathen  Mother  of  the 
world,  remained  two  fair  columns  of  marble  with  their 
curiously  carved  capitals,  and  the  earth  around  was 
strewn  with  the  gigantic  frusta  of  an  edifice,  stately 
even  in  the  fragments  of  its  prostration.  I  saw  for  a 
moment  the  religion  of  Jupiter  and  of  Christ  with  the 
eyes  of  Crcesus  and  the  philosopher  from  Athens;  and 
then  I  turned  to  the  living  nations  that  I  had  left  to 
wander  among  these  dead  empires,  and  looking  still 
on  the  eloquent  monuments  of  what  these  religions 
were,  thought  of  them  as  they  are,  in  wide-spread 
Christendom. 

We  visit  Rome  and  Athens,  and  walk  over  the  ruined 
temples  of  their  gods  of  wood  and  stone,  and  take  pride 
to  ourselves  that  our  imaginations  awake  the  •'  spirit 
of  the  spot."  But  the  primitive  church  of  Christ,  over 
which  an  angel  of  God  kept  watch — whose  undefiled 
members,  if  there  is  truth  in  Holy  Writ,  are  now 
"  walking  with  him  in  white"  before  the  face  of  the 
Almighty — a  spot  on  which  the  Savior  and  his  apos 
tles  prayed,  and  for  whose  weal,  with  the  other  church 
es  of  Asia,  the  sublime  revelation  was  made  to  John— 
this,  the  while,  is  an  unvisited  shrine,  and  the  "  classic" 
of  pagan  idolatry  is  dearer  to  the  memories  of  men 
than  the  holy  antiquities  of  a  religion  they  profess  ! 

III. 

The  Ionic  capitals  of  the  two  fair  columns  of  the 
fallen  temple  were  still  tinged  with  rosy  light  on  the 
side  toward  the  sunset,  when  the  full  moon,  rising 
in  the  east,  burnished  the  other  like  a  shaft  of  sil 
ver.  The  two  lights  mingled  in  the  sky  in  a  twilight 
of  opal. 

"  Job,"  said  I,  stooping  to  reach  a  handful  of  sand 
as  we  strolled  up  the  western  bank  of  the  river,  "  can 
you  resolve  me  why  the  poets  have  chosen  to  call  this 
pretty  stream  the  'golden-sanded  Pactolus?'  Did  you 
ever  see  sand  of  a  duller  gray  ?" 

"As  easy  as  give  you  a  reason,"  answered  Job, 
"  why  we  found  the  turbidus  Hermus,  yesterday,  the 
clearest  stream  we  have  forded — why  1  am  no  more 
beautiful  than  before,  though  I  have  bathed  like  Ve 
nus  in  the  Scamander — why  the  pumice  of  Naxos  no 
longer  reduces  the  female  bust  to  its  virgin  propor 
tions — and  why  Smyrna  and  Malta  are  not  the  best 
places  for  figs  and  oranges  !" 

"And  why  the  old  king  of  Lydia,  who  possessed 
the  invisible  ring,  and  kept  a  devil  in  his  dog's  collar, 
lies  quietly  under  the  earth  in  the  plain  below  us,  and 
his  ring  and  his  devil  were  not  bequeathed  to  his  suc 
cessors.  What  a  pleasant  auxiliary  to  sin  must  have 
been  that  invisible  ring  !  Spirit  of  Gyges,  thrust  thy 
finger  out  of  the  earth,  and  commit  it  once  more  to  a 
mortal !  Sit  down,  my  dear  monster,  and  let  us  spec 
ulate  in  this  bright  moonshine  on  the  enormities  we 
would  commit !" 

As  Job  was  proceeding,  in  a  cautious  periphrasis, 
to  rebuke  my  irreverent  familiarity  with  the  prince  of 
darkness  and  his  works,  the  twilight  had  deepened, 
and  my  eye  was  caught  by  a  steady  light  twinkling  far 
above  us  in  the  ascending  bed  of  the  river.  The  green 
valley  wound  down  from  the  rear  of  the  Acropolis,  and 
the  single  frowning  tower  stood  in  broken  and  strong 
relief  against  the  sky ;  and  from  the  mass  of  shadow  be 
low  peered  out,  like  a  star  from  a  cloud-rack,  the  steady 
blaze  of  a  lamp. 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


"Aliens!  Job  !"  said  I,  making  sure  of  an  adven 
ture,  "  let  us  see  for  whose  pleasure  a  lamp  is  lit  in 
the  solitude  of  this  ruined  city." 

"  I  could  not  answer  to  your  honored  mother,"  said 
my  scrupulous  friend,  "  if  I  did  not  remind  you  that 
this  is  a  spot  much  frequented  by  robbers,  and  that 
probably  no  honest  man  harbors  at  that  inconvenient 
altitude." 

I  made  a  leap  over  a  half-buried  frieze  that  had 
served  me  as  a  pillow,  and  commenced  the  ascent. 

"  I  could  as  ill  answer  to  your  anxious  parent,"  said 
Job,  following  with  uncommon  alacrity,  "  if  I  did  not 
partake  your  dangers  when  they  are  inevitable." 

We  scrambled  up  with  some  difficulty  in  the  dark 
ness,  now  rolling  into  an  unseen  hollow,  now  stumbling 
over  a  block  of  marble — held  fast  one  moment  by  the 
lacerating  hooked  thorn  of  Syria,  and  the  next  brought 
to  a  stand-still  by  impenetrable  thickets  of  brushwood. 
\Vith  a  half  hour's  toil,  however,  we  stood  on  a  clear 
platform  of  grass,  panting  and  hot ;  and  as  I  was  sug 
gesting  to  Job  that  we  had  possibly  got  too  high,  he 
laid  his  hand  on  my  arm,  and,  with  a  sign  of  silence, 
drew  me  down  on  the  grass  beside  him. 

In  a  small  fairy  amphitheatre,  half  encircled  by  a 
bend  of  the  Pactolus,  and  lying  a  few  feet  below  the 
email  platform  from  which  we  looked,  lay  six  low  tents,  j 
disposed  in  a  crescent  opposite  to  that  of  the  stream, 
and  enclosing  a  circular  area  of  bright  and  dewy  grass,  t 
of  scarce  ten  feet  in  diameter.     The  tents  were  round,  ! 
and  laced  neatly  with  wicker-work,  with  their  curtain-  j 
doors  opening  inward  upon  the  circle.     In  the  largest  j 
one,  which  faced  nearly  down  the  valley,  hung  a  small  j 
iron  lamp  of  an  antique  shape,  with  a  wick  alight  in  j 
one  of  its  two  projecting  extremities,  and  beneath  it 
swung  a  basket-cradle  suspended  between  two  stakes,  I 
and  kept  in  motion  by  a  woman   apparently  of  about 
forty,  whose  beauty,  but  for  another  more  attractive 
object,  would  have  rewarded  us  alone  for  our  toil.  The  | 
other  tents  were  closed  and  seemed  unoccupied,  but  the 
curtain  of  the  one  into  which  our  eyes  were  now  strain 
ing  with  intense  eagerness,  was  looped  entirely  back  to 
give  admission  to  the  cool  night  air;   and,  in  and  out, 
between  the  light  of  the  lamp  and  the  full  moon,  stole 
on  naked  feet  a  girl  of  fifteen,  whose  exquisite  symme 
try  and  unconscious   but  divine  grace  of  movement 
filled  my  sense  of  beauty  as  it  had  never  been  filled  by 
the  divinest  chisel  of  the  Tribune.     She  was  of  the 
height  and  mould  of  the  younger  water-nymph  in 
Gibson's  Hylas,*  with  limbs  and  lips  that,  had  I  cre 
ated  and  warmed  her  to  life  like  Pygmalion,  I  should 
have  just  hesitated  whether  or  not  they  wanted  anoth-  j 
er  half-shade  of  fulness.     The  large  shawl  of  the  east,  ' 
which  was  attached  to  her  girdle,  and  in  more  guard-  j 
ed  hours  concealed   all  but  her  eyes,  hung  in  loose 
folds  from  her  waist  to  her  heels,  leaving  her  bust  and 
smoothly-rounded  shoulders  entirely   bare ;   arftl,    in 
strong  relief  even  upon  her  clear  brown  skin,  the  flakes 
of  her  glossy  and  raven  hair  floated  over  her  back,  and 
swept  around  her  with  a  grace  of  a  cloud  in  her  indo 
lent  motions.     A  short  petticoat  of  striped  Brusa  silk 
stretched  to  her  knees,  and  below  appeared  the  full  j 
trowser  of  the  east,  (^  the  same  material,  narrowed  at 
the  ankle,  and  bound  with  what  looked  in  the  moon 
light  an  anklet  of  silver.  4t  profusion  of  rings  on  her 
fingers,  and  a  gold  sequin  on  her  forehead,  suspended 
from  a  colored  fillet,  completed  her  dress,   and  left 
nothing  to  be  added  by  the  prude  or  the  painter.    She 
was  at  that  ravishing  and  divinest  moment  of  female 
life,  when  almost  the  next  hour  would  complete  her 
womanhood — like  the   lotus  ere  it  lays  back  to  the 
prying  moonlight  the  snowy  leaf  nearest  its  heart. 

•  A  group  that  will  be  immortal  in  the  love  and  wonder  of 
the  world,  when  the  divine  hand  of  the  English  Praxiteles  has 
long  passed  from  the  earth.  Two  more  exquisite  shapes  of 
women  than  those  lily-crowned  nymphs  never  lay  in  the  womb 
— of  marble  or  human  mother.  Rome  is  brighter  for  them. 


She  was  employed  in  filling  a  large  jar  which  stood 
j  at  the  back  of  the  tent,  with  water  from  the  Pactolus, 
and  as  she  turned  with  her  empty  pitcher,  and  came 
j  under  the  full  blaze  of  the  lamp  in  her  way  outward, 
treading  lightly  lest  she  should  disturb  the  slumber  of 
the  child  in  the  cradle,  and  pressing  her  two  round 
hands  closely  to  the  sides  of  the  vessel,  the  gradual 
compression  of  my  arm  by  the  bony  hand  which  still 
held  it  for  sympathy,  satisfied  me  that  my  own  leaping 
pulse  of  admiration  found  an  answering  beat  in  the 
bosom  of  my  friend.     A  silent  nod  from  the  woman, 
whose  Greek  profile  was  turned  to  us  under  the  lamp 
light,  informed  the  lovely  water-bearer  that  her  labors 
I  were  at  an  end  ;  and  with  a  gesture  expressive  of  heat, 
'•  she  drew  out  the  shawl  from  her  girdle,  untied  the 
I  short  petticoat,  and  threw  them  aside,  and  then  trip 
ping  out  into  the  moonlight  with  only  the  full  silken 
'  trowsers  from  her  waist  to  her  ankles,  she  sat  down  on 
|  the  brink  of  the  small  stream,  and  with  her  feet  in  the 
i  water,  dropped  her  head  on  her  knees,  and  sat  as  mo 
tionless  as  marble. 

"  Gibson  should  see  her  now,"  I  whispered  to  Job, 
"with  the  glance  of  the  moonlight  on  that  dimpled 
and  polished  back,  and  her  almost  glittering  hair  veil 
ing  about  her  in  such  masses,  like  folds  of  gossamer  !" 
"And  those  slender  fingers  clasped  over  her  knees, 
and  the  air  of  melancholy  repose  which  is  breathed  into 
her  attitude,  and  which  seems  inseparable  from  those 
indolent  Asiatics.  She  is  probably  a  gipsy." 

The  noise  of  the  water  dashing  over  a  small  cascade 
a  little  farther  up  the  stream  had  covered  our  approach 
and  rendered  our  whispers  inaudible.  Job's  conjecture 
I  was  probably  right,  and  we  had  stumbled  on  a  small 
encampment  of-  gipsies — the  men  possibly  asleep  in 
those  closed  tents,  or  possibly  absent  at  Smyrna.  Af- 
|  ter  a  little  consultation,  I  agreed  with  Job  that  it  would 
be  impolitic  to  alarm  the  camp  at  night,  and  resolving 
on  a  visit  in  the  morning,  we  quietly  and  unobserved 
withdrew  from  our  position,  and  descended  to  our  own 
tents  in  the  ruins  of  the  palace. 

IV. 

The  suridji  had  given  us  our  spiced  coffee  in  the 
small  china  cups  and  filagree  holders,  and  we  sat  dis 
cussing,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  the  storks  over  our 
heads,  whether  we  should  loiter  another  day  at  Sardis, 
or  eat  melons  at  noon  at  Casabar  on  our  way  to  Con 
stantinople.  To  the  very  great  surprise  of  the  Dutch 
man,  who  wished  to  stay  to  finish  his  drawings,  Job  and 
myself  voted  for  remaining — a  view  of  the  subject  which 
was  in  direct  contradiction  to  our  vote  of  the  preceding 
evening.  The  Englishman,  who  was  always  in  a  hur 
ry,  flew  into  a  passion,  and  went  off  with  the  phleg 
matic  suridji  to  look  after  his  horse  ;  and  having  dis 
posed  of  our  Smyrniote,  by  seeing  a  caravan  (which 
was  not  to  be  seen)  coming  southward  from  Mount 
Tmolus,  I  and  my  monster  started  for  the  encamp 
ment  of  the  gipsies. 

As  we  rounded  the  battered  wall  of  the  Christian 
church,  a  woman  stepped  out  from  the  shadow ;  through 
a  tattered  dress,  and  under  a  turban  of  soiled  cotton  set 
far  over  her  forehead,  and  throwing  a  deep  shadow  into 
her  eyes,  I  recognised  at  once  the  gipsy  woman  whom 
we  had  seen  sitting  by  the  cradle. 

"  Buon  giorno,  signori,"  she  said,  making  a  kind  of 
salaam,  and  relieving  me  at  once  by  the  Italian  saluta 
tion  of  my  fears  of  being  unintelligible. 

Job  gave  her  the  good-morning,  but  she  looked  at 
him  with  a  very  unsatisfactory  glance,  and  coming 
I  close  to  my  ear,  she  wished  me  to  speak  to  her  out  of 
the  hearing  of  "  il  mio  domeslico  .'" 

"Amico  piu  (oslo  /"  I  added  immediately  with  a  con 
sideration  for  Job's  feelings,  which,  I  must  do  myself 
the  justice  to  say,  I  always  manifested,  except  in  very 
elegant  society.  I  gave  myself  the  greater  credit  in 


60 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


this  case,  as,  in  my  impatience  to  know  the  nature  of 
the  gipsy's  communication,  I  might  be  excused  for 
caring  little  at  the  moment  whether  my  friend  was 
taken  for  a  gentleman  or  a  gentleman's  gentleman. 

The  gipsy  looked  vexed  at  her  mistake,  and  with  a 
half-apologetic  inclination  to  Job,  she  drew  me  into 
the  shade  of  the  ruin,  and  perused  my  face  with  great 
earnestness.  "  The  same'  to  yourself,"  thought  I,  as 
I  gave  back  her  glance,  and  searched  for  her  meaning 
in  two  as  liquid  and  loving  eyes  as  ever  looked  out  of 
the  gates  of  the  Prophet's  paradise  for  the  coming  of 
a  young  believer.  It  was  a  face  that  had  been  divine, 
and  in  the  hands  of  a  lady  of  fashion  would  have  still 
made  a  bello  rifacimento. 

"  Inglese  ?"  she  said  at  last. 

"  No,  madre — Americano." 

She  looked  disappointed. 

"  And  where  are  you  going,  filio  mio  ?" 

"  To  Stamboul." 

"  Benissimo  !"  she  answered,  and  her  face  bright 
ened.  "  Do  you  want  a  servant  ?" 

"  Unless  it  is  yourself,  no  !" 

"  It  is  my  son." 

It  was  on  my  lips  to  ask  if  he  was  like  her  daughter, 
but  an  air  of  uneasiness  and  mystery  in  her  manner  put 
me  on  the  reserve,  and  I  kept  my  knowledge  to  myself. 
She  persevered  in  her  suit,  and  at  last  the  truth  came 
out,  thai  her  boy  was  bound  on  an  errand  to  Constan 
tinople,  and  she  wished  safe  conduct  for  him.  The 
rest  of  the  troop,  she  said,  were  at  Smyrna,  and  she 
was  left  in  care  of  the  tents  with  the  boy  and  an  infant 
child.  As  she  did  not  mention  the  girl,  who,  from  the 
resemblance,  was  evidently  her  daughter — I  thought  it 
unwise  to  allude  to  our  discovery  :  and-  promising  that, 
if  the  boy  was  mounted,  every  possible  care  should  be 
taken  of  him,  I  told  her  the  hour  on  the  following 
morning  when  we  should  be  in  the  saddle,  and  rid  my 
self  of  her  with  the  intention  of  stealing  a  march  on 
the  camp. 

I  took  rather  a  circuitous  route,  but  the  gipsy  was 
there  before  me,  and  apparently  alone.  She  had  sent 
the  boy  to  the  plains  for  a  horse,  and  though  I  pre- 
Bumed  that  the  loveliest  creature  in  Asia  was  concealed 
in  one  or  the  other  of  those  small  tents,  the  curtains 
were  closely  tied,  and  I  could  find  no  apology  for  in 
truding  either  my  eyes  or  my  inquiries.  The  hand 
some  Zingara,  too,  began  to  look  rather  becomingly 
fiere  ;  and  as  I  had  left  Job  behind,  and  was  always 
naturally  afraid  of  a  woman,  I  reluctantly  felt  myself 
under  the  necessity  of  comprehending  her  last  injunc 
tion,  and  with  a  promise  that  the  boy  should  join  us 
before  we  reached  the  foot  of  Mount  Sypilus,  she  fair 
ly  bowed  me  off  the  premises.  I  could  have  forsworn 
my  complexion  and  studied  palmistry  for  a  gipsy,  had 
the  devil  then  tempted  me  ! 


We  struck  our  tents  at  sunrise,  and  were  soon  dash 
ing  on  through  the  oleanders  upon  the  broad  plain  of 
the  Hermus,  the  dew  lying  upon  their  bright  vermeil 
flowers  like  the  pellucid  gum  on  the  petals  of  the  ice- 
plant,  and  nature,  and  my  five  companions,  in  their 
gayest  humor.  I  was  not.  My  thoughts  were  of 
moonlight  and  the  Pactolus,  and  two  round  feet 
ankle-deep  in  running  water.  Job  rode  up  to  my 

"  My  dear  Phil !  take  notice  that  you  are  nearing 
Mount  Sypilus,  in  which  the  magnetic  ore  was  first 
discovered." 

"  It  acts  negatively  on  me,  my  dear  chum  !  for  I 
drag  a  lengthening  chain  from  the  other  direction." 

Silence  once  more,  and  the  bright  red  flowers  still 
fled  backward  in  our  career.  Job  rode  up  again. 

"  You  must  excuse  my  interrupting  your  revery,  but 
I  thought  you  would  like  to  know  that  the  town  where 


we  sleep  to-night  is  the  residence  of  the  '  beys  of  Og- 
lou,'  mentioned  in  the  '  Bride  of  Abydos.'  " 

No  answer,  and  the  bright  red  blossoms  still  flew 
scattered  in  our  path  as  our  steeds  flew  through  the 
coppice,  and  the  shovel-like  blades  of  the  Turkish  stir 
rups  cut  into  them  right  and  left  in  the  irregular  gallop. 
Job  rode  again  to  my  side. 

"  My  dear  Philip,  did  you  know  that  this  town  of 
Magnesia  was  once  the  capital  of  the  Turkish  empire  — 
the  city  of  Timour  the  Tartar  ?" 

"  Well  !" 

"And  did  you  know  that  when  Themistocles  was 
in  exile,  and  Artaxerxes  presented  him  with  the  tribute 
of  three  cities  to  provide  the  necessaries  of  life,  Mag 
nesia*  found  him  in  bread?" 

"And  Lampascus  in  wine.     Don't  bore  me,  Job!" 

We  sped  on.  As  we  neared  Casabar  toward  noon, 
and  (spite  of  romance)  I  was  beginning  to  think  with 
complacency  upon  the  melons,  for  which  the  town  is 
famous,  a  rattling  of  hoofs  behind  put  our  horses  upon 
their  mettle,  and  in  another  moment  a  boy  dashed  into 
the  midst  of  our  troop,  and  reining  up  with  a  fine  dis 
play  of  horsemanship,  put  the  promised  token  into 
my  hand.  He  was  mounted  on  a  small  Arabian  mare, 
remarkable  for  nothing  but  a  thin  and  fiery  nostril, 
and  a  most  lavish  action,  and  his  jacket  and  turban 
were  fitted  to  a  shape  and  head  that  could  not  well 
be  disguised.'  The  beauty  of  the  gipsy  camp  was 
beside  me  ! 

It  was  as  well  for  my  self-command,  that  I  had 
sworn  Job  to  secrecy  in  case  of  the  boy's  joining  us, 
and  that  I  had  given  the  elder  gipsy,  as  a  token,  a  very 
voluminous  and  closely-written  letter  of  my  mother's. 
In  the  twenty  minutes  which  the  reading  of  so  appa 
rently  "lengthy"  a  document  would  occupy,  I  had 
leisure  to  resume  my  self-control,  and  resolve  on  my 
own  course  of  conduct  toward  the  fair  masquerader. 
My  travelling  companions  were  not  a  litlle  astonished 
to  see  me  receive  a  letter  by  courier  in  the  heart  of 
Asia,  but  that  was  for  their  own  digestion.  All  the 
information  I  condescended  to  give,  was  that  the  boy 
was  sent  to  my  charge  on  his  road  to  Constantinople  ; 
and  as  Job  displayed  no  astonishment,  and  entered 
simply  into  my  arrangements,  and  I  was  the  only  per 
son  in  the  company  who  could  communicate  with  the 
suridji  (I  had  picked  up  a  little  modern  Greek  in  the 
Morea),  they  were  compelled  (the  Dutchman,  John 
Bull,  and  the  fig-merchant)  to  content  themselves 
with  such  theories  on  the  subject  as  Heaven  might 
supply  them  withal. 

How  Job  and  I  speculated  apart  on  what  could  be 
the  errand  of  this  fair  ..creature  to  Constantinople  — 
how  beautifully  she  rode  and  sustained  her  character 
as  a  boy  —  how  I  requested  her,  though  she  spoke 
Italian  like  her  mother,  never  to  open  her  lips  in  any 
Christian  language  to  my  companions  —  how  she  slept 
at  my  feet  at  the  khans,  and  rode  at  my  side  on  the 
journey,  and,  at  the  end  of  seven  days,  -arriving  'at 
Scutari,  and  beholding  across  the  Bosphorus  the  golden 
spires  of  Stamboul,  how  she  looked  at  me  with  tears 
in  her  unfathomable  eyes,  and  sDurred  her  fleet  Arab 
to  his  speed  to  conceal  her  emotion,  and  how  1  felt 
that  I  could  bury  myself  with  -her  in  the  vizier's 
tomb  we  were  passing  at  tlH  moment,  and  be  fed  on 
rice  with  a  goule's  bodkin,  if  so  alone  we  might  not 
be  parted  —  all  these  are  matters  which  would  make 
sundry  respectable  chapters  in  a  novel,  but  of  which 
you  are  spared  the  particulars  in  a  true  story.  There 
was  a  convenience  both  to  the  dramatist  and  the  au 
dience  in  the  "  cetera  inlus  agentur"  of  the  Romans. 


We  emerged  from  the  pinnacled  cypresses  of  the 
cemetery  overlooking  Constantinople,  and  dismount- 

*  Not  pronounced  as  in  the  apothecary's  shop.    It  is  a  fine 
large  town  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Sypilus. 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


61 


ing  from  my  horse,  I  climbed  upon  the  gilded  turban 
crowning  the  mausoleum  of  a  royal  Ichoglan  (a  sul 
tan's  page,  honored  more  in  his  burial  than  in  his  life), 
and  feasted  my  eyes  on  the  desecrated  but  princely 
fair  birth-right  of  the  Palaeologi.  The  Nekropolis — 
the  city  of  the  dead — on  the  outermost  tomb  of  whose 
gloomy  precincts  I  had  profanely  mounted,  stands 
high  and  black  over  the  Bosphorus  on  one  side,  while 
on  the  other,  upon  similar  eminences,  stand  the  gleam 
ing  minarets  and  latticed  gardens  of  the  matchless  city 
of  the  living — as  if,  while  Europe  flung  up  her  laugh 
ing  and  breathing  child  to  the  sun,  expiring  Asia,  the 
bereaved  emperess  of  the  world,  lifted  her  head  to  the 
same  heavens  in  majestic  and  speechless  sorrow. 

But  oh!  how  fairer  than  Venice  in  her  waters — 
than  Florence  and  Rome  in  their  hills  and  habitations, 
than  all  the  cities  of  the  world  in  that  which  is  most 
their  pride  and  glory — is  this  fairest  metropolis  of  the 
Mahomets!  With  its  two  hundred  mosques,  each 
with  a  golden  sheaf  of  minarets  laying  their  pointed 
fingers  against  the  stars, andencircled  with  the  fretted 
galleries  of  the  callers  to  prayer,  like  the  hand  of  a 
cardinal  with  its  costly  ring — with  its  seraglio  gardens 
washed  on  one  side  by  the  sea,  and  on  the  other  by  the 
gentle  stream  that  glides  out  of  the  "Valley  of  Sweet 
Waters;"  men-of-war  on  one  side,  flaunting  their  red 
pennants  over  the  nightingale's  nest  which  sings  for 
the  delight  of  a  princgss,  and  the  swift  caique  on  the 
other  gliding  in  protected  waters,  where  the  same  im 
prisoned  fair  one  might  fling  into  it  a  flower  (so  slen 
der  is  the  dividing  cape  that  shuts  in  the  bay) — with 
its  Bosphorus,  its  radiant  and  unmatched  Bosphorus — 
the  most  richly-gemmed  river  within  the  span  of  the 
sun,  extending  with  its  fringe  of  palaces  and  castles 
from  sea  to  sea,  and  reflecting  in  its  glassy  eddies  a 
pomp  and  sumptuousness  of  costume  and  architecture 
^  which  exceeds  even  your  boyish  dreams  of  Bagdad 
_and  the  califs — Constantinople,  I  say,  with  its  tur- 
baned  and  bright-garmented  population — its  swarm- 
ing  sea  and  rivers — its  columns,  and  aqueducts,  and 
strange  ships  of  the  east — is  impenetrable  seraglio, 
and  its  close-shuttered  harems — its  bezestein  and  its 
Hippodrome — Constantinople  lay  before  me!  If  the 
star  I  had  worshipped  had  descended  to  my  hand  out 
of  the  sky — if  my  unapproachable  and  yearning  dream 
of  woman's  beauty  had  been  bodied  forth  warm  and 
real — if  the  mining  star  in  the  heel  of  Serpentarius, 
and  the  lost  sister  of  the  Pleiades  had  waltzed  back 
together  to  their  places — if  poets  were  once  more 
prophets,  not  felons,  and  books  were  read  for  the  good 
that  is  in  them,  not  for  the  evil — if  love  and  truth  had 
been  seen  again,  or  any  impossible  or  improbable  thing 
had  come  to  pass — I  should  not  have  felt  more  thril- 
lingly  than  now  the  emotions  of  surprise  and  wonder! 

While  I  stood  upon  the  marble  turban  of  theJcho- 
^l;ui,  my  companions  had  descended  the  streets  of 
..'  SciM-i,  and  I  was  left  alone  with  the  gipsy.  She  sat 
on  her' Arab  with  her  head  bowed  to  his  neck,  and 
when  I  withdrew  my  eye  from  the  scene  I  have  faintly 
described,  the  tear-drops  were  glistening  in  the  flow 
ing  mane,  and,  her  bj^ast  was  heaving  under  her  em 
broidered  jacket  \vitUjincontrollable  grief.  J  jumped 
to  the  ground,  and  taking  rujrhead  between  my  hands, 
•pressed  her  wet  cheek  to  my  lips. 

"We  part  here,  signer,"  said  she,  winding  around 
her  head  the  masses  of  hair  that  had  escaped  from 
'  her  turban,  and  raising  herself  in  the  saddle  as  if  to 
go  on. 

"  I  hope  not,  Maimuna!" 

She  bent  her  moist  eyes  on  me  with  a  look  or  ear 
nest  inquiry. 

"  You  are  forbidden  to  intrust  me  with  your  errand 
to  Constantinople,  and  you  have  kept  your  word  to 
your  mother.  But  whatever  that  errand  may  be,  I 
hope  it  does  not  involve  your  personal  liberty?" 

She  lookedffembarrassed,  but  did  not  answer. 


"You  are  very  young  to  be  trusted  so  far  from  your 
mother,  Maimuna !" 
"Signer,  si!" 

"But  I  think  she  can  scarce  have  loved  you  so  well 
as  I  do  to  have  suffered  you  to  come  here  alone !" 
"  She  intrusted  me  to  you,  signer." 
I  was  well  reminded   of  tny  promise.     I  had  given 
my  word  to  the  gipsy  that  I  would  leave  her  child  at 
the   Persian   fountain   of  Tophana.      Maimuna   was 
evidently  under  a  control  stronger  than  the  love  I  half- 
hoped  and  half-feared  I  had  awakened. 

"  Andiamo!"  she  said,  dropping  her  head  upon  her 
I  bosom  with  the  tears  pouring  once  more  over  it  like 
rain;  and  driving  her  stirrups  with  abandoned  energy 
into  the  sides  of  her  Arabian,  she  dashed  headlong 
down  the  uneven  streets  of  Scutari,  and  in  a  few  min 
utes  we  stood  on  the  limit  of  Asia. 

We  left  our  horses  in  the  "silver  city,"*  crossing  to 
the  "golden"  in  a  caique,  and  with  Maimuna  in  my 
j   bosom,  and  every  contending  emotion  at  work  in  my 
heart,  the  scene  about  me  still  made  an  indelible  im 
pression   on   my  memory.     The   star-shaped   bay,  a 
mile  perhaps  in  diameter,  was  one  swarm  of  boats  of 
every  most  slender  and  graceful  form,  the  caikjis,  in 
i  their  silken   shirts,  and  vari-colored   turbans,  driving 
j  them  through  the  water  with  a  speed  and  skill  which 
j  put  to  shame  the  gondolier  of  Venice,  and  almost  the 
j  Indian  in  his  canoe;  the  gilded  lattices  and  belvideres 
of  the  seraglio,  and  the  cypresses  and  flowering  trees 
that   mingle  their  gay  and  sad   foliage   above   them, 
were  already  so  near  that  I  could  count  the  roses  upon 
the  bars,  and  see  the  moving  of  the  trees  in  the  evening 
wind;  the   muezzins   were  calling   to   sunset-prayer, 
their  voices   coming   clear   and   prolonged    over   the 
water;  the  men-of-war  in  the  mouth  of  the  Bosphorus 
were   lowering   their  blood-red   flags;   the   shore   we 
|  were  approaching  was  thronged  with  veiled  women, 
||  and  bearded  old  men,  and  boys  with  the  yellow  slipper 
|j  and  red  scull-cap  of  the  east;  and  watching  our  ap- 
|  proach,  stood  apart,  a  group  of  Jews  and  Armenians, 
;  marked  by  their  costume  for  an  inferior  race,  but  look 
ing  to  my  cosmopolite   eye  as  noble    in  their  black 
robes  and  towering  caps  as  the  haughty  Mussulman 
that  stood  aloof  from  their  company. 

We  set  foot  in  Constantinople.  It  was  the  suburb 
of  Tophana,  and  the  suridji  pointed  out  to  Maimuna, 
as  we  landed,  a  fountain  of  inlaid  marble  and  brass, 
around  whose  projecting  frieze  were  traced  inscrip 
tions  in  the  Persian.  She  sprang  to  my  hand. 

"Remember,  Maimuna!"  I  said,  "that  I  offer  you 
a  mother  and  a  home  in  another  and  a  happier  land. 
I  will  not  interfere  with  your  duty,  but  when  your 
errand  is  done,  you  may  find  me  if  you  will.  Fare 
well." 

With  a  passionate  kiss  in  the  palm  of  my  hand,  and 
one  beaming  look  of  love  and  sorrow  in  her  large  and 
lustrous  eyes,  the  gipsy  turned  to  the  fountain,  and 
striking  suddenly  to  the  left  around  the  mosque  of 
Sultan  Selim,  she  plunged  into  the  narrow  street  run 
ning  along  the  water-side  to  Galata. 

VII. 

We  had  wandered  out  from  our  semi-European, 
semi-Turkish  lodgings  on  the  third  morning  after  our 
arrival  at  Constantinople,  and  picking  our  way  list 
lessly  over  the  bad  pavement  of  the  suburb  of  Pera, 
stood  at  last  in  the  small  burying-ground  at  the  sum 
mit  of  the  hill,  disputing  amicably  upon  what  quarter 
of  the  fair  city  beneath  us  we  should  bestow  our  share 
in  the  bliss  of  that  June  morning. 

"It  is  a  heavenly  day,"  said  Job,  sitting  down  un 
thinkingly  upon  a  large  sculptured  turban  that  formed 

*  Galata,  the  suburb  on  the  European  side,  was  the  Chrysop- 
olis,  and  Scutari,  on  the  Asian,  the  Argentopolis  of  the  an 
cients. 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


fhe  head-stone  to  the  grave  of  some  once-wealthy 
pagan,  and  looking  off  wistfully  toward  the  green  sum 
mit  of  Bulgurlu. 

The  difference  between  Job  and  myself  was  a  mania, 
on  his  part  for  green  fields,  and  on  mine  for  human 
faces.  I  knew  very  well  that  his  remark  was  a  leader 
to  some  proposition  for  a  stroll  over  the  wilder  hills  of 
the  Bosphorus,  and  I  was  determined  that  he  should 
enjoy,  instead,  the  pleasure  of  sympathy  in  my  never- 
tiring  amusement  of  wandering  in  the  crowded  bazars 
on  the  other  side  of  the  water.  The  only  way  to  ac 
complish  it,  was  to  appear  to  yield  the  point,  and  then 
rally  upon  his  generosity.  I  had  that  delicacy  for  his 
feelings  (I  had  brought  him  all  the  way  from  the  Green 
mountains  at  my  own  expense)  never  to  carry  my 
measures  too  ostentatiously. 

Job  was  looking  south,  and  my  face  was  as  resolute 
ly  turned  north.  We  must  take  a  caique  in  any  case 
at  Galata  (lying  just  below  us)  but  if  we  turned  the 
prow  south  in  the  first  instance,  farewell  at  every 
stroke  to  the  city  !  Whereas  a  northern  course  took 
us  straight  up  the  Golden  Horn,  and  I  could  appear  to 
change  my  mind  at  any  moment,  and  land  immediate 
ly  in  a  street  leading  to  the  bazars.  Luckily,  while 
I  was  devising  an  errand  to  go  up  the  channel  instead 
of  down,  a  small  red  flag  appeared  gliding  through  the 
forest  of  masts  around  the  curve  of  the  water-side  at 
Tophana,  and,  in  a  moment  more,  a  high-pooped 
vessel,  with  the  carved  railings  and  outlandish  rigging 
of  the  ships  from  the  far  east,  shot  out  into  the 
middle  of  the  bay  with  the  strong  current  of  the 
Bosphorus,  and  squaring  her  lateen  sail,  she  rounded 
a  vessel  lying  at  anchor  with  the  flag  of  Palestine,  and 
steered  with  a  fair  wind  up  the  channel  of  the  Golden 
Horn.  A  second  look  at  her  deck  disclosed  to  me  a 
crowd  of  people,  mostly  women,  standing  amid-ships, 
and  the  supposition  with  which  I  was  about  inducing 
Job  to  take  a  caique  and  pull  up  the  harbor  after  her 
seemed  to  me  now  almost  a  certainty. 

"  It  is  a  slave-ship  from  Trebizond,  ten  to  one,  my 
dear  Job !" 

He  slid  off  the  marble  turban  which  he  had  pro 
faned  so  unscrupulously,  and  the  next  minute  we 
passed  the  gate  that  divides  the  European  from  the 
commercial  suburb,  and  were  plunging  down  the  steep 
and  narrow  straits  of  Galata  with  a  haste  that,  to  the 
slippered  and  shuffling  Turks  we  met  or  left  behind, 
seemed  propably  little  short  of  madness.  Of  a  hun 
dred  slender  and  tossing  caiques  lying  in  the  disturbed 
waters  of  the  bay,  we  selected  the  slenderest  and  best 
manned  ;  and  getting  Job  in  with  the  usual  imminent 
danger  of  driving  his  long  legs  through  the  bottom  of 
the  egg-shell  craft,  we  took  in  one  of  the  obsequious 
Jews  who  swarm  about  the  pier  as  interpreters, coiled 
our  legs  under  us  in  the  hollow  womb  of  the  caique, 
and  shot  away  like  a  nautilus  after  the  slaver. 

The  deep-lying  river  that  coils  around  the  throbbing 
heart  of  Constantinople  is  a  place  of  as  delicate  navi 
gation  as  a  Venetian  lagoon  on  a  festa,  or  a  soiree  of 
middling  authors.  The  Turk,  like  your  plain-spoken 
friend,  rows  backward,  and  with  ten  thousand  egg 
shells  swarming  about  him  in  every  direction,  and  hi* 
own  prow  rounded  off  in  a  pretty  iron  point,  an  extra 
piastre  for  speed  draws  down  curses  on  the  caikji  and 
the  Christian  dogs  who  pay  him  for  the  holes  he  lets 
into  his  neighbors'  boats,  which  is  only  equalled  in  bit 
terness  and  profusion  by  the  execrations  which  follow 
what  is  called  "speaking  your  mind."  The  Jew 
laughed,  as  Jews  do  since  Shylock,  at  the  misfortunes 
of  his  oppressors  ;  and,  in  the  exercise  of  his  vocation, 
translated  us  the  oaths  as  they  came  in  right  and  left 
— most  of  them  very  gratuitous  attacks  on  those  (as 
Job  gravely  remarked),  of  whom  they  could  know  very 
little — our  respected  mothers. 

The  slackening  vessel  lost  her  way  as  she  got  oppo 
site  the  bazar  of  dried  fruits,  and,  as  her  yards  came 


down  by  the  run,  she  put  up  her  helm,  and  ran  her 
towering  prow  between  a  piratical-looking  Egyptian 
craft,  and  a  black  and  bluff  English  collier,  inscribed 
appropriately  on  the  stern  as  the  "  snow-drop"  from 
Newcastle.  Down  plumped  her  anchor,  and  in  the 
next  moment  the  Jew  hailed  her  by  our  orders,  and 
my  conjecture  was  proved  to  be  right.  She  was  from 
I  Trebizond,  with  slaves  and  spices. 

"  What  would  they  do  if  we  were  to  climb  up  her 
side  ?"  I  asked  the  Israelite. 

He  stretched  up  his  crouching  neck  till  his  twisted 
beard  hung  clear  off  like  a  waterfall  from  his  chin,  and 
looked  through  the  carved  railing  very  intently. 

"  The  slaves  are  Georgians,"  he  answered,  after 
awhile,  "and  if  there  were  no  Turkish  purchasers  on 
board,  they  might  simply  order  you  down  again." 

"  And  if  there  were " 

"  The  women  would  be  considered  damaged  by  a 
Christian  eye,  and  the  slave  merchant  might  shoot  you 
or  pitch  you  overboard." 

"Is  that  all?"  said  Job,  evolving  his  length  very 
deliberately  from  his  coil,  and  offering  me  a  hand  the 
next  moment  from  the  deck  of  the  slaver.  Whether 
the  precedence  he  took  in  all  dangers  arose  from  affec 
tion  for  me,  or  from  a  praiseworthy  indifference  to  the 
fate  of  such  a  trumpery  collection  as  his  own  body 
and  limbs,  I  have  never  decided  to  my  own  satisfac 
tion. 

In  the  confusion  of  port-officers  and  boats  alongside, 
all  hailing  and  crying  out  together,  we  stood  on  the 
outer  side  of  the  deck  unobserved,  and  I  was  soon  in 
tently  occupied  in  watching  the  surprise  and  wonder 
of  the  pretty  toys  who  found  themselves  for  the  first 
time  in  the  heart  of  a  great  city.  The  owner  of  their 
charms,  whichever  of  a  dozen  villanous  Turks  I  saw 
about  them  it  might  be,  had  no  time  to  pay  them  very 
particular  attention,  and  dropping  their  dirty  veils 
about  their  shoulders,  they  stood  open-mouthed  and 
staring — ten  or  twelve  rosy  damsels  in  their  teens,  with 
eyes  as  deep  as  a  well,  and  almost  as  large  and  liquid. 
Their  features  were  all  good,  their  skins  without  a 
flaw,  hair  abundant,  and  figures  of  a  healthy  plump 
ness — looking,  with  the  exception  of  their  eyes,  which 
were  very  oriental  and  magnificent,  like  the  great,  fat, 
pie-eating,  yawning,  boarding-school  misses  one  sees 
over  a  hedge  at  Hampstead.  It  was  delicious  to  see 
their  excessive  astonishment  at  the  splendors  of  the 
Golden  Horn — they  from  the  desert  mountains  of 
Georgia  or  Circassia,  and  the  scene  about  them 
(mosques,  minarets,  people,  and  men-of-war,  all  to 
gether),  probably  the  most  brilliant  and  striking  in  the 
world.  I  was  busy  following  their  eyes  and  trying  to 
divine  their  impressions,  when  Job  seized  me  by  "the 
arm.  An  old  Turk  had  just  entered  the  vessel  from 
the  land-side,  and  was  assisting  a  closely-veiled  female 
to  mount  after  him.  Haifa  glance  satisfied  me  that  it 
was  the  Gipsy  of  Sardis — the  lovely  companion  of  our 
journey  to  Constantinople. 

"  Maimuna  !"  I  exclaimed,  darting  forward  on  the 
instant. 

A  heavy  hand  struck  me  backAs  I  touched  her,  and 
as  I  returned  the  blow,  the  swarthy  crew  of  Arabs 
closed  about  us,  and  we  were  hurried  with  a  most  un 
ceremonious  haste  to  the  side  of  the  vessel.  J  scarce 
know,  between  my  indignation  and  the  stunning  effect 
of  the  blow  I  had  received,  how  I  got  into  the  caique, 
but  we  were  pulling  fast  up  the  Golden  Horn  by  the 
time  I  could  speak,  and  in  half  an  hour  were  set  ashore 
on  the  green  bank  of  the  Barbyses,  bound  on  a  solita 
ry  ramble  up  the  valley  of  Sweet  Waters. 

VIII. 

The  art  of  printing  was  introduced  into  the  Mo 
hammedan  empire  in  the  reigns  of  Achmet  III.  and 
Louis  XV.  I  seldom  state  a  statistical  fact,  but  this 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


is  one  I  happen  to  know,  and  I  mention  it  because  the 
most  fanciful  and  romantic  abode  with  which  I  am  ac 
quainted  in  the  world  was  originally  built  to  contain 
the  first  printing-press  brought  from  the  court  of  Ver 
sailles  by  Mehemet  Effendi,  ambassador  from  the 
"Brother  of  the  Sun."  It  is  now  a  maison  de  plais- 
ancc  for  the  sultan's  favorite  women,  and  in  all  the 
dreams  of  perfect  felicity  which  visit  those  who  have 
once  seen  it,  it  rises  as  the  Paradise  of  retreats  from 
the  world. 

The  serai  of  Khyat-Khana  is  a  building  of  gold  and 
marble,  dropped  down  unfenced  upon  the  green 
sward  in  the  middle  of  a  long  emerald  valley,  more 
like  some  fairy  vision,  conjured  and  forgotten  to  be 
dissolved,  than  a  house  to  live  in,  real  wealher-proof, 
and  to  be  seen  for  the  value  of  one  and  sixpence.  The 
Barbyses  falls  over  the  lip  of  a  sea-shell  (a  marble 
cascade  sculptured  in  that  pretty  device),  sending  up 
its  spray  and  its  perpetual  music  close  under  the  gilded 
lattice  of  the  sultana,  and  following  it  back  with  the 
eye,  like  a  silver  thread  in  a  broidery  of  green  velvet, 
it  comes  stealing  down  through  miles  of  the  tenderest 
verdure,  without  tree  or  shrub  upon  its  borders,  but 
shut  in  with  the  seclusion  of  an  enchanted  stream  and 
valley  by  mountains  which  rise  in  abrupt  precipices 
from  the  edges  of  its  carpet  of  grass,  and  fling  their 
irregular  shadows  across  it  at  every  hour  save  high 
noon — sacred  in  the  east  to  the  sleep  of  beauty  and 
idleness. 

In  the  loving  month  of  May  it  is  death  to  set  foot  in 
the  Khyat-Khana.  The  ascending  caique  is  stopped 
in  the  Golden  Horn,  and  on  the  point  of  every  hill  is 
stationed  a  mounted  eunuch  with  drawn  sabre.  The 
Arab  steeds  of  the  sultan  are  picketed  on  the  low-ly 
ing  grass  of  the  valley,  and  his  hundred  Circassians 
come  from  their  perfumed  chambers  in  the  seraglio, 
and  sun  their  untold  loveliness  on  the  velvet  banks  of 
the  Barbyses.  From  the  Golden  Horn  to  Belgrade, 
twelve  miles  of  greensward  (sheltered  like  a  vein  of 
ore  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth,  and  winding  away  after 
the  course  of  that  pebbly  river,  unseen,  save  by  the 
eye  of  the  sun  and  stars),  are  sacred  in  this  passion- 
born  month  from  the  foot  of  man,  and,  riding  in  their 
scarlet  ai'ubas  with  the  many-colored  ribands  floating 
back  from  the  horns  of  their  bullocks,  and  their  own 
snowy  veils  dropped  from  their  guarded  shoulders  and 
deep-dyed  lips,  wander,  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  these 
caged  birds  of  a  sultan's  delight,  longing  as  wildly 
(who  shall  doubt?)  to  pass  that  guarded  barrier  into 
the  forbidden  world,  as  we,  who  sigh  for  them  without, 
to  fly  from  falsehood  and  wrong,  and  forget  that  same 
world  in  their  bosoms! 

How  few  are  content!  How  restless  are  even  the 
most  spoiled  children  of  fortune  !  How  inevitably 
the  heart  sighs  for  that  which  it  has  not,  even  jhough 
its  only  want  is  a  cloud  on  its  perpetual  sunshine  ! 
We  were  not  of  those — Job  and  I — for  we  were  of 
that  school  of  philosophers*  who.  "had  little  and 
wanted  nothing  ;"  but  we  agreed,  as  we  sat  upon  the 
marble  bridge  sprung  like  a  wind-lifted  cobweb  over 
the  Barbyses,  that  \jac  envy  of  a  human  heart  would 
poison  even  the  content  of  a  beggar !  He  is  a  fool 
who  is  sheltered  from  hunger  and  cold  and  still  com 
plains  of  fortune ;  but  he  is  only  not  a  slave  or  a  seraph, 
who  feeling  on  the  innermost  fibre  of  his  sensibility  the 
icy  breath  of  malice,  utters  his  eternal  malison  on  the 
fiend  who  can  neither  be  grappled  with  nor  avoided. 
I  could  make  a  paradise  with  loveliness  and  sunshine, 
if  envy  could  be  forbidden  at  the  gate  ! 

We  had  walked  around  the  Serai  and  tried  all  its 
entrances  in  vain,  when  Job  spied,  under  the  shelter 
of  the  southern  hill,  a  blood-red  fla^  flying  at  the  top 
of  a  small  tent  of  the  Prophet's  green— —doubtless  con 
cealing  the  kervas,  who  kept  his  lonely  guard  over  the 

*  With  a  difference.  "  Nih.il  cat,  nihil  deest,"  was  their 
motto. 


precincts.  I  sent  my  friend  with  a  "  pinch  of  piastres" 
to  tempt  the  trowsered  infidel  to  our  will,  and  he  soon 
came  shuffling  in  his  tmmilitary  slippers,  with  keys, 
which,  the  month  before,  were  guarded  like  the  lamp 
of  Aladdin.  We  entered.  We  rambled  over  the 
chambers  of  the  chosen  houries  of  the  east ;  we  looked 
through  their  lattices,  and  laid  the  palms  of  our  hands 
on  the  silken  cushions  dimmed  in  oval  spots  by  the 
moisture  of  their  cheeks  as  they  slept ;  we  could  see  by 
the  tarnished  gold,  breast-high  at  the  windows,  where 
|  they  had  pressed  to  the  slender  lattices  to  look  forth 
I  upon  the  valley  ;  and  Job,  more  watchfully  alive  to 
the  thrilling  traces  of  beauty,  showed  me  in  the  dia 
mond-shaped  bars  the  marks  of  their  moist  fingers  and 
the  stain  as  of  lips  between,  betraying  where  they  had 
clung  and  laid  their  faces  against  the  trellis  in  the 
indolent  attitude  of  gazers  from  a  wearisome  prison. 
Mirrors  and  ottomans  were  the  only  furniture  ;  and 
never,  for  me,  would  the  wand  of  Cornelius  Agrippa 
have  been  more  welcome,  than  to  wave  back  into 
those  senseless  mirrors  the  images  of  beauty  they  had 
lost. 

I  sat  down  on  a  raised  corner  of  the  divan,  probably 
the  privileged  seat  of  the  favorite  of  the  hour.  Job 
stood  with  his  lips  apart,  brooding  in  speechless  poeti- 
calness  on  his  own  thoughts. 

"Do  you  think,  after  all,"  said  I,  reverting  to  the 
matter-of-fact  vein  of  my  own  mind,  which  was  para 
mount  usually  to  the  romantic — "  do  you  think  really, 
Job,  that  the  Zuleikas  and  Fatimas  who  have  by  turns 
pressed  this  silken  cushion  with  their  crossed  feet 
were  not  probably  inferior  in  attraction  to  the  most 
third-rate  belle  of  New  England  ?  How  long  would 
you  love  a  woman  that  could  neither  read,  nor  write, 
nor  think  five  minutes  on  any  given  theme  ?  The  ut 
most  exertion  of  intellect  in  the  loveliest  of  these  deep- 
eyed  Circassians  is  probably  the  language  of  flowers  ; 
and,  good  Heavens !  think  how  one  of  your  della 
Cruscan  sentiments  would  be  lost  upon  her  !  And  yet, 
here  you  are,  ready  to  go  mad  with  romantic  fan 
cies  about  women  that  were  never  taught  even  their 
letters." 

Job  began  to  hum  a  stave  of  his  favorite  song,  which 
was  always  a  sign  that  he  was  vexed  and  disenchanted 
of  himself. 

"  How  little  women  think,"  said  I,  proceeding  with 
my  unsentimental  vein,  while  Job  looked  out  of  the 
window,  and  the  kervas  smoked  his  pipe  on  the  sul 
tana's  ottoman — "  how  little  women  think  that  the 
birch  and  the  dark  closet,  and  the  thumbed  and  dog 
eared  spelling-book  (or  whatever  else  more  refined  tor 
ments  their  tender  years  in  the  shape  of  education), 
was,  after  all,  the  groundwork  and  secret  of  their  fas 
cination  over  men  !  What  a  process  it  is  to  arrive  at 
love!  '  D-o-g,  dog — c-a-t,  cat."  If  you  had  not 
learned  this,  bright  Lady  Melicent,  I  fear  Captain 
Augustus  Fitz-Somcrset  would  never  have  sat.  as  I 
saw  him  last  night,  cutting  your  initials  with  a  dia 
mond  ring  on  the  purple-claret  glass  which  had  just 
poured  a  bumper  to  your  beauty  !" 

"  You  are  not  far  wrong,"  said  Job,  after  a  long 
pause,  during  which  I  had  delivered  myself,  unheard, 
of  the  above  practical  apostrophe—"  you  are  not  far 
wrong,  quoad  the  women  of  New  England.  They 
would  be  considerable  bores  if  they  had  not  learned, 
in  their  days  of  bread-and-butter,  to  read,  write,  and 
reason.  But,  for  the  women  of  the  softer  'south  and 
east,  I  am  by  no  means  clear  that  education  would 
not  be  inconsistent  with  the  genius  of  the  clime.  Take 
yourself  back  to  Italy,  for  example,  where,  for  two 
mortal  years,  you  philandered  up  and  down  between 
Venice  and  Amalfi,  never  out  of  the  sunshine  or  away 
from  the  feet  of  women,  and,  in  all  that  precious  epi 
sode  of  your  youth,  never  guilty,  I  will  venture  to  pre 
sume,  of  either  suggesting  or  expressing  anew  thought. 
And  the  reason  is,  not  that  the  imagination  is  dull,  but 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


that  nobody  thinks,  except  upon  exigency,  in  these 
latitudes.  It  would  be  violent  and  inapt  to  the  spirit 
of  the  hour.  Indolence,  voluptuous  indolence  of  body 
and  mind  (the  latter  at  the  same  time  lying  broad 
awake  in  its  chamber,  and  alive  to  every  pleasurable 
image  that  passes  uncalled  before  its  windows)  is  the 
genius,  the  only  genius,  of  the  night  and  day.  What 
would  be  so  discordant  as  an  argument  by  moonlight 
in  the  Coliseum  ?  What  so  ill-bred  and  atrocious  as 
the  destruction  by  logic  of  the  most  loose-spun  theory 
by  the  murmuring  fountains  of  the  Pamfili  ?  To  live 
is  enough  in  these  lands  of  the  sun.  But  merely  to 
live,  in  ours,  is  to  be  bound,  Prometheus-like,  to  a 
rock,  with  a  vulture  at  our  vitals.  Even  in  the  most 
passionate  intercourse  of  love  in  your  northern  clime, 
you  read  to  your  mistress,  or  she  sings  to  you,  or  you 
think  it  necessary  to  drive  or  ride  ;  but  I  know  nothing 
that  would  more  have  astonished  your  Venetian  bionda 
than,  when  the  lamp  was  lit  in  the  gondola  that  you 
might  see  her  beauty  on  the  lagune  in  the  starless 
night,  to  have  pulled  a  book  from  your  pocket,  and 
read  even  a  tale  of  love  from  Boccaccio.  And  that  is 
why  I  could  be  more  content  to  be  a  pipe-bearer  in 
Asia  than  a  schoolmaster  in  Vermont,  or,  sooner  than 
a  judge's  ermine  in  England,  to  wear  a  scrivener's 
rags,  and  sit  in  the  shade  of  a  portico,  writing  love-let 
ters  for  the  peasant-girls  of  Rome.  Talk  of  republics 
— your  only  land  of  equality  is  that  in  which  to  breathe 
is  the  supreme  happiness.  The  monarch  throws  open 
his  window  for  the  air  that  comes  to  him  past  the  brow 
of  a  lazzaroni,  and  the  wine  on  the  patrician's  lip  in 
toxicates  less  than  the  water  from  the  fountain  that  is 
free  to  all,  though  it  gush  from  the  marble  bosom  of  a 
nymph.  If  I  were  to  make  a  world,  I  would  have  the 
climate  of  Greece,  and  no  knowledge  that  did  not 
come  by  intuition.  Men  and  women  should  grow 
wise  enough,  as  the  flowers  grow  fair  enough,  with 
sunshine  and  air,  and  they  should  follow  their  instincts 
like  the  birds,  and  go  from  sweet  to  sweet  with  as  lit 
tle  reason  or  trouble.  Exertion  should  be  a  misde 
meanor,  and  desire  of  action,  if  it  were  not  too  mon 
strous  to  require  legislation,  should  be  treason  to  the 
••tate." 
"  Long  live  King  Job!" 


PART  II. 

I  HAD  many  unhappy  thougnts  about  Maimuna  :  the 
g^ince  I  had  snatched  on  board  the  Trebizond  slaver 
lc  t  in  my  memory  a  pair  of  dark  eyes  full  of  uneasi 
ness  and  doubt,  and  I  knew  her  elastic  motions  so  well, 
th*t  there  was  something  in  her  single  step  as  she 
ca»/ie  over  the  gangway  which  assured  me  that  she 
waa  dispirited  and  uncertain  of  her  errand.  Who  was 
the  old  Turk  who  dragged  her  up  the  vessel's  side 
with  so  little  ceremony  ?  What  could  the  child  of 
a  gipsy  be  doing  on  the  deck  of  a  slaver  from  Trebi 
zond  ? 

With  no  very  definite  ideas  as  to  the  disposal  of 
this  lovely  child  should  I  succeed  in  my  wishes,  I  had 
insensibly  made  up  my  mind  that  she  could  never  be 
happy  without  me,  and  that  my  one  object  in  Constan 
tinople  was  to  get  her  into  my  possession.  I  had  a 
delicacy  in  communicating  the  full  extent  of  my  design 
to  Job,  for,  aside  from  the  grave  view  he  would  take 
of  the  morality  of  the  step,  and  her  probable  fate  as  a 
woman,  he  would  have  painful  and  just  doubts  of  my 
ability  to  bear  this  additional  demand  upon  my  means. 
Though  entirely  dependant  himself,  Job  had  that  nat 
ural  contempt  for  the  precions  metals,  that  he  could 
not  too  freely  assist  any  one  to  their  possession  who 
happened  to  set  a  value  on  the  amount  in  his  pocket ; 
and  this,  I  may  say,  was  the  one  point  which,  between 
my  affectionate  monster  and  myself,  was  not  discussed 


as  harmoniously  as  the  loves  of  Corydon  and  Alexis. 
The  account  of  his  expenditure,  which  I  regularly  ex 
acted  of  him  before  he  tied  on  his  bandanna  at  night, 
was  always  more  or  less  unsatisfactory ;  and  though 
he  would  not  have  hesitated  to  bestow  a  whole  scudo 
unthinkingly  on  the  first  dirty  dervish  he  should  meet, 
he  was  still  sufficiently  impressed  with  the  necessity 
of  economy  to  remember  it  in  an  argument  of  any 
length  or  importance  :  and  for  this  and  some  other 
reasons  I  reserved  my  confidence  upon  the  intended 
addition  to  my  suite. 

Not  far  from  the  Burnt  Column,  in  the  very  heart 
of  Stamboul,  lived  an  old  merchant  in  attar  and  jessa 
mine,  called  Mustapha.  Every  one  who  has  been  at 
Constantinople  will  remember  him  and  his  Nubian 
slave  in  a  small  shop  on  the  right,  as  you  ascend  to 
the  Hippodrome.  He  calls  himself  essence-seller  to 
the  sultan,  but  his  principal  source  of  profit  is  the 
stranger  who  is  brought  to  his  divans  by  the  interpre 
ters  in  his  pay ;  and  to  his  credit  be  it  said,  that,  for  the 
courtesy  of  his  dealings,  and  for  the  excellence  of  his 
extracts,  the  stranger  could  not  well  fall  into  better 
hands. 

It  had  been  my  fortune,  on  my  first  visit  to  Musta 
pha.  to  conciliate  his  good  will.  I  had  laid  in  my 
small  stock  of  spice-woods  and  essences  on  that  occa 
sion,  and  the  call  which  I  made  religiously  every  time 
I  crossed  the  Golden  Horn  was  purely  a  matter  of 
friendship.  In  addition  to  one  or  two  trifling  pres 
ents,  which  (with  a  knowledge  of  human  nature)  I 
had  returned  in  the  shape  of  two  mortal  sins — a  keg 
of  brandy  and  a  flask  of  gin,  bought  out  of  the  Eng 
lish  collier  lying  in  the  bay — in  addition  to  his  kind 
presents,  I  say,  my  large-trowsered  friend  had  made 
me  many  pressing  offers  of  service.  There  was  little 
probability,  it  was  true,  that  I  should  ever  find  occa 
sion  to  profit  by  them ;  but  I  nevertheless  believed 
that  his  hand  was  laid  upon  his  heart  in  earnest  sin 
cerity,  and  in  the  course  of  my  reflections  upon  the 
fate  of  Maimuna,  it  had  occurred  to  me  more  than 
once  that  he  might  be  of  use  in  clearing  up  the  mys 
tery  of  her  motions. 

"Job!"  said  I,  as  we  were  dawdling  along  the  street 
of  confectioners  with  our  Jew  behind  us  one  lovely 
morning,  "  I  am  going  to  call  at  Mustapha's." 

We  had  started  to  go  to  the  haunt  of  the  opium- 
eaters,  and  he  was  rather  siirprised  at  my  proposition, 
but,  with  his  usual  amiableness  (very  inconvenient 
and  vexatious  in  this  particular  instance),  he  stepped 
over  the  gutter  without  saying  a  word,  and  made  for 
the  first  turning  to  the  right.  It  was  the  first  time 
since  we  had  left  New  England  that  I  wished  myself 
rid  of  his  company. 

"But,  Job,"  said  I,  calling  him  back  to  the  shady 
side  of  the  street,  and  giving  him  a  great  lump  of 
candy  from  the  nearest  stall  (its  oriental  name,  by  the 
way,  is  "peace-to-your-throat,")  "I  thought  you  were 
bent  on  eating  opium  to-day?" 

My  poor  friend  looked  at  me  for  a  minute,  as  if  to 
comprehend  the  drift  of  my  remark,  and  as  he  arrived 
by  regular  deduction  at  the  result,  I  read  very  clearly 
in  his  hideous  physiognomy  the  painful  embarrassment 
it  occasioned  him.  It  was  only  the  day  before,  that, 
in  descending  the  Bosphorus,  we  had  seen  a  party  of 
the  summary  administrators  of  justice  quietly  sus 
pending  a  Turkish  woman  and  her  Greek  paramour 
from  the  shutters  of  a  chamber-window — intercourse 
with  a  Christian  in  that  country  of  liberal  legislation 
being  punishable  without  trial  or  benefit  of  dervish. 
From  certain  observations  on  my  disposition  in  the 
course  of  my  adventures,  Job  had  made  up  his  mind, 
I  well  knew,  that  my  danger  was  more  from  Delilah 
than  the  Philistines  ;  and  while  these  victims  of  love 
were  kicking  their  silken  trowsers  in  the  air,  I  saw,  by 
the  look  of  tender  anxiety  he  cast  upon  me,  from  the 
bottom  of  the  caique,  that  trie  moral  in  his  mind  would 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


65 


result  in  an  increased  vigilance  over  my  motions. 
While  he  stood  with  his  teeth  stuck  full  of  "  peace- j 
to-your-throat,"  therefore,  forgetting  even  the  instinct 
of  mastication  in  his  surprise  and  sorrow,  I  well  un 
derstood  what  picture  was  in  his  mind,  and  what  con 
struction  he  put  upon  my  sudden  desire  to  solitude.  ! 

"My  dear  Philip!"  he  began,  speaking  with  dif 
ficulty  from  the  stickiness  of  the  candy  in  his  teeth,  i 
"your  respected  mother- " 

At  this  instant  a  kervas,  preceding  a  Turk  of  rank, 
jostled   suddenly  against   him,  and   as   the   mounted 
Mussulman,  with  his  train  of  runners  and  pipe-bearers, 
came   sweeping  by,  I  took  the  opportunity  of  Job's 
surprise  to  slip  past  with  the  rest,  and,  turning  down  , 
an   ally,   quietly  mounted   one   of  the  saddle-horses 
standing  for  hire  at  the  first  mosque,  and  pursued  my 
way  alone  to   the  shop  of  the    attar-merchant.     To  |; 
dismount  and  hurry  Mustapha  into  his  inner  and  pri-  , 
vate  apartment,  with  an  order  to  the  Nubian  to  deny  i 
me  to  everybody  who  should  inquire,  was  the  work  of 
a  minute,  but  it  was  scarcely  done  before  I  heard  Job  ': 
breathless  at  the  door. 

"Ha  visto  il  signore?"  he  exclaimed,  getting  to  the 
back  of  the  shop  with  a  single  stride. 

" Effcndi,  no!"  said  the  imperturbable  Turk,  and  he 
laid  his  hand  on  his  heart,  as  he  advanced,  and  offered 
him  with  grave  courtesy  the  pipe  from  his  lips. 

The  Jew  had  come  puffing  into  the  shop  with  his 
slippers  in  his  hand,  and  dropping  upon  his  hams  near  j 
the  door,  he  took  off  his  small  g^ray  turban,  and  was  • 
wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  high  and  narrow  fore-  j 
head,  when  Job  darted  again  into  the  street  with  a  i 
sign  to  him  to  follow.  The  look  of  despair  and  ex 
haustion  with  which  he  shook  out  his  baggy  trowsers  : 
and  made  after  the  striding  Yankee,  was  too  much  | 
even  for  the  gravity  of  Mustapha.  He  laid  aside  his 
pipe,  and,  as  the  Nubian  struck  in  with  the  peculiar 
cackle  of  his  race,  I  joined  myself  in  their  merriment  ] 
with  a  heartiness  to  which  many  a  better  joke  might  j 
have  failed  to  move  me. 

While  Mustapha  was  concluding  his  laugh  between  i 
the  puffs  of  his  amber  pipe,  1  had  thrown  myself  along  p 
the  divan,  and  was  studying  with  some  curiosity  the  ; 
inner  apartment  in  which  1  had  been  concealed.  A  | 
curtain  of  thick  but  tarnished  gold  cloth  (as  sacred  j 
from  intrusion  in  the  east  as  the  bolted  and  barred  j 
doors  of  Europe)  separated  from  the  outer  shop  a 
small  octagonal  room,  that,  in  size  and  furniture,  re-  j 
sembled  the  Turkish  boudoirs,  which,  in  the  luxurious  ; 
palaces  of  Europe,  sometimes  adjoin  a  lady's  chamber,  j 
The  slippered  foot  was  almost  buried  in  the  rich  car-  j 
pets  laid,  but  not  fitted  to  the  floor.  The  divans  were  j 
covered  with  the  flowered  and  lustrous  silk  of  Brusa,  \ 
and  piled  with  vari-colored  cushions.  A  perpetual  j 
spice-lamp  sent  up  its  thin  wreaths  of  smoke»to  the 
black  and  carved  ceiling,  diffusing  through  the  room  a  [ 
perfume  which,  while  it  stole  to  the  innermost  fibres 
of  the  brain  with  a  sense  of  pleasure,  weighed  on  the  j 
eyelids  and  relaxed  the  limbs ;  and  as  the  eye  became  j 
more  accustomed  to  the  dim  light  which  struggled  in 
from  a  window  in  the  arched  ceiling,  and  dissolved  in 
the  luxurious  and  spicy  atmosphere,  heaps  of  the  rich 
shawls  of  the  east  became  distinguishable  with  their 
sumptuous  dyes,  and,  in  a  corner,  stood  a  cluster  of  j 
crystal  narghiles,  faintly  reflecting  the  light  in  their; 
dim  globes  of  rose-water,  while  costly  pipes,  silver- 
mounted  pistols,  and  a  rich  Damascus  sabre  in  a 
sheath  of  red  velvet,  added  gorgeousness  to  the  apart 
ment. 

Mustapha  was  a  bit  of  a  philosopher  in  his  way,  and 
he.  had  made  his  own  observations  on  the  Europeans 
who  came  to  his  shop.  The  secluded  and  oriental 
luxurionsness  of  the  room  I  have  described  was  one  of 
his  lures  to  that  passion  for  the  picturesque  which  he 
saw  in  every  traveller;  and  another  was  his  gigantic 
Nubian,  who,  with  bracelets  and  anklets  of  gold,  a 
5 


white  turban,  and  naked  legs  and  arms,  stood  always 
at  the  door  of  his  shop,  inviting  the  passers-by — not  to 
buy  essences  and  pastilles — but  to  come  in  and  take 
sherbet  with  his  master.  You  will  have  been  an  hour 
upon  his  comfortable  divans,  have  smoked  a  pipe  or 
two,  and  eaten  a  snowy  sherbet  or  a  dish  of  rice-paste 
and  sugar,  before  Mustapha  nods  to  his  slave,  and  pro 
duces  his  gold-rimmed  jars  of  essences,  from  which, 
with  his  fat  fore-finger,  he  anoints  the  palm  of  your 
hand,  or,  with  a  compliment  to  the  beauty  of  your 
hair,  throws  a  drop  into  the  curl  on  your  temples. 
Meanwhile,  as  you  smoke,  the  slave  lays  in  the  bowl 

;  of  your  pipe  a  small  pastille  wrapped  in  gold  leaf, 
from  which  presently  arrives  to  your  nostrils  a  per 
fume  that  might  delight  a  sultan  ;  and  then,  from  the 
two  black  hands  which  are  held  to  you  full  of  cubical- 
edged  vials  with  gilded  stoppers,  you  are  requested 
with  the  same  bland  courtesy  to  select  such  as  in 
size  or  shape  suit  your  taste  and  convenience — the 
smallest  of  them,  when  filled  with  attar,  worth  near  a 
gold  piastre. 

This  is  not  very  ruinous,  and  your  next  temptation 
comes  in  the  shape  of  a  curiously-wrought  censer, 
upon  the  filagree  grating  of  which  is  laid  strips  of 
odorent  wood  which,  with  the  heat  of  the  coals  be 
neath,  give  out  a  perfume  like  gums  from  Araby. 

i  This,  Mustapha  swears  to  you  by  his  beard,  has  a 
spell  in  its  spicy  breath  provocative  as  a  philtre,  and 
is  to  be  burnt  in  your  lady's  chamber.  It  is  worth  its 

I  weight  in  gold,  and  for  a  handful  of  black  chips  you 

I  are  persuaded  to  pay  a  price  which  would  freight  a 
caique  with  cinnamon.  Then  come  bracelets,  and 
amulets,  and  purses,  all  fragrant  and  precious,  and, 
while  you  hesitate,  the  Nubian  brings  you  coffee  that 
would  open  the  heart  of  Shylock,  and  you  drink  and 
purchase.  And  when  you  have  spent  all  your  money, 
you  go  away  delighted  with  Mustapha,  and  quite  per 
suaded  that  you  are  vastly  obliged  to  him.  And,  all 
things  considered,  so  you  are! 

When  Mustapha  had  finished  his  prayers  (did  I  say 

,  that  it  was  noon?)  he  called  in  the  Nubian  to  roll  up 
the  sacred  carpet,  and  then  closing  the  curtain  be- 

i  tween  us  and  the  shop,  listened  patiently  to  my  story 
of  the  gipsy,  which  I  told  him  faithfully  from  the 
beginning.  When  I  arrived  at  the  incident  on  board 
the  slaver,  a  sudden  light  seemed  to  strike  upon  his 
mind. 

"PeUhe,  filio  mio !  pekhe!"  he  exclaimed,  running 
his  fore-finger  down  the  middle  of  his  beard,  and 
pouring  out  a  volume  of  smoke  from  his  mouth  and 
nostrils  which  obscured  him  for  a  moment  from  my 
sight. 

(I  dislike  the  introduction  of  foreign  words  into  a 
story,  but  the  Turkish  dissyllable  in  the  foregoing 

,  sentence  is  as  constantly  on  an  eastern  lip  as  the  amber 

;  of  the  pipe.) 

He  clapped  his  hands  as  I  finished  my  narration, 
and  the  Nubian  appeared.  Some  conversation  passed 
between  them  in  Turkish,  and  the  slave  tightened  his 
girdle,  made  a  salaam,  and  taking  his  slippers  at  the 
outer 'door,  left  the  shop. 

"  We  shall  find  her  at  the  slave-market,"  said  Mus- 

'i  started.  The  thought  had  once  or  twice  passed 
through  my  mind,  but  I  had  as  often  rejected  it  as 
impossible.  A  freeborn  Zingara,  and  on  a  confiden 
tial  errand  from  her  own  mother!— I  did  not  see  how 
her  freedom,  if  there  were  danger,  should  have  been 
so  carelessly  put  in  peril. 

"And  if  she  is  there!"  said  I;  remembering,  first, 
that  it  was  against  the  Mohammedan  law  for  a  Christian 
to  purchase  a  slave,  and  next,  that  the  price,  if  it  did 
not  ruin  me  at  once,  would  certainly  leave  me  in  a  sit 
uation  rather  to  lessen  than  increase  my  expenses. 

"  I  will  buy  her  for  you,"  said  Mustapha. 

The  Nubian  returned  at  this  moment,  and  laid  at 


66 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


meninn)  Irad  ensconced  himself  behind  a  towering 
heap  of  folios,  and  his  vexed  and  impatient  pipe-bearer 
had  taken  his  more  humble  position  on  the  narrow 
base  of  one  of  the  chequered  columns  which  are  pe 
culiar  to  the  bazar  devoted  to  the  bibliopolists.  As 
my  friend  came  floundering  along  "  all  abroad"  with 
his  legs  and  arms,  as  usual,  1  contrived,  by  an  adroit 
insertion  of  one  of  my  feet  between  his,  to  spread  him 
over  the  musty  tomes  of  the  Armenian  in  away  calcu 
lated  to  derange  materially  the  well-ordered  sequence 
of  the  volumes. 

into  a  silk  shirt,  big  trowsers,  jacket,  and  slippers,  and  ||      "  Allah  !  Mashallah  !"  exclaimed  Mustapha,  whose 
stood  up  to   look   at  myself  in  tho  minor.     I  was  as  ;   spreading  lap  was  filled  with  black-letter  copies  of  the 


my  feet  a  bundle  of  wearing  apparel.     He  then  took 
from  a  shelf  a  shaving  apparatus,  with  which  he  pro 
ceeded  to  lather  my  forehead  and  temples,  and  alter  a 
short  argument  with  Mustapha,  in  which  I  pleaded  in 
vain   for  two  very  seducing  clusters  of  curls,  those 
caressed  minions  dropped  into  the  black  hand  of  the 
slave,  and  nothing  was  left  for  the  petits  soins  of  my 
thumb  and  fore-finger  in  their  leisure  hours  save  a  \ 
well-coaxed    and   rather    respectable    mustache.      A  I 
scull-cap  and  turban  completed  the  transformation  of  j 
my  head,  and  then,  with  some  awkwardness,   I   got  j 


like  one  of  the  common  Turks  of  the  street  as  possi-  j 
ble,  save  that  the  European  cravat  and  stockings  had 
preserved  an  unoriental  whiteness  in  my  neck  and 
ankles.  This  was  soon  remedied  with  a  little  brown 
juice,  and  after  a  few  cautions  from  Mustapha  as  to  my 
behavior,  I  settled  my  turban  and  followed  him  into 
the  street. 

It  is  a  singular  sensation  to  be  walking  about  in  a 
strange  costume,  and  find  that  nobody  looks  surprised. 
I  could  not  avoid  a  slight  feeling  of  mortification  at 
the  rude  manner  with  which  every  dirty  mussuhnan 
took  the  wall  of  me.  After  long  travel  in  foreign 
lands,  the  habit  of  everywhere  exciting  notice  as  a 
stranger,  and  the  species  of  consequence  attached  to 
the  person  and  movements  of  a  traveller,  become 
rather  pleasures  than  otherwise,  and  it  is  not  without 
pain  that  one  finds  oneself  once  more  like  common 
people.  I  have  not  yet  returned  to  my  own  land 
(Slingsby  is  an  American,  gentle  reader),  and  can  not 
judge,  therefore,  how  far  this  feeling  is  modified  by 
the  pleasures  of  a  recovered  home;  but  I  was  vexed 
not  to  be  stared  at  when  playing  the  Turk  at  Con 
stantinople,  and,  amusing  as  it  was  to  be  taken  for  an 
Englishman  on  first  arriving  in  England  (different  as 
it  is  from  every  land  I  have  seen,  and  still  more  differ 
ent  from  my  own),  I  must  confess  to  have  experienced 
again  a  feeling  of  lessened  consequence,  when,  on  my 
first  entrance  into  an  hotel  in  London,  I  was  taken  for 
an  Oxonian,  "  come  up  for  a  lark"  in  term-time.  Per 
haps  I  have  stumbled  in  this  remark  upon  one  of  those 
unconfessed  reasons  why  a  returned  traveller  is  pro 
verbially  discontented  with  his  home. 

Whether  Mustapha  wished  to  exhibit  his  new  pipe- 
bearer  to  his  acquaintances,  or  whether  there  was  fun 
enough  in  his  obese  composition  to  enjoy  my  difficul 
ties  in  adapting  myself  to  my  new  circumstances,  I 
can  not.  precisely  say  ;  but  I  soon  found  that  we  were 
not  going  straight  to  the  slave-market.  I  had  several 
times  forgotten  my  disguise  so  far  as  to  keep  the  nar 
row  walk  till  I  stood  face  to  face  with  the  bearded 
Mussulmans,  who  were  only  so  much  astonished  at  my 
audacity  that  they  forgot  to  kick  me  over  the  gutter; 
and  passing,  in  the  bazar  of  saddle-cloths,  an  Eng 
lish  officer  of  my  acquaintance,  who  belonged  to  the 
corvette  lying  in  the  Bosphorus,  I  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  whispering  in  his  ear  the  name  of  his 
sweetheart  (which  he  had  confided  to  me  over  a  bot 
tle  at  Smyrna),  though  I  rather  expected  to  be  seized 
by  the  turban  the  next  moment,  with  the  pleasant  con 
sequences  of  a  mob  and  an  exposure.  My  friend  was 
so  thoroughly  amnzed,  however,  that  I  was  deep  in 
the  crowd  before  he  had  drawn  breath,  and  I  look 
daily  now  for  his  arrival  in  England  (I  have  not  seen 
him  since),  with  a  curiosity  to  know  how  he  supposes 
a  "blackguard  Turk"  knew  anything  of  the  lock  of 
hair  he  carried  in  his  waistcoat  pocket. 

The  essence-seller  had  stopped  in  the  book-bazar, 
and  was  condescendingly  smoking  a  pipe,  with  his 
legs  crossed  on  the  counter  of  a  venerable  Armenian, 
who  sat  buried  to  the  chin  in  his  own  wares,  when 
who  should  co me. pottering  along  (as  Mrs.  Butler  would 
say)  but  Job  with  his  Jew  behind  him.  Mustapha 


Khoran,  while  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  was  buried  in  the 
fallen  pyramid. 

"  Bestia  Inglese  !"  muttered  the  Armenian,  as  Job 
put  one  hand  in  the  inkstand  in  endeavoring  to  rise, 
and  with  the  next  effort  laid  his  blackened  fingers  on 
a  heap  of  choice  volumes  bound  in  snowy  vellum. 

The  officious  Jew  took  up  the  topmost  copy,  marked 
like  a  cinq-foil  with  his  spreading  thumb  and  fingers, 
and  quietly  asked  the  Armenian  what  il  signore  would 
be  expected  to  pay.  As  I  knew  he  had  no  money  in 
his  pocket,  I  calculated  safely  on  his  new  embarrass 
ment  to  divert  his  anger  from  the  original  cause  of  his 
overthrow. 

u  Tre  colonati,"  said  the  bookseller. 

Job  opened  the  book,  and  his  well-known  guttural 
of  surprise  and  delisht  assured  me  that  I  might  come 
out  from  behind  the  column  and  look  over  his  shoul 
der.  It  was  an  illuminated  copy  of  Hafiz,  with  a 
Latin  translation — a  treasure  which  his  heart  had 
been  set  upon  from  our  first  arrival  in  the  east, 
and  for  which  I  well  knew  he  would  sell  his  coat 
off  his  back  without  hesitation.  The  desire  to  give 
it  him  passed  through  my  mind,  but  1  could  see  no 
means,  under  my  present  circumstances,  either  of 
buying  the  book  or  relieving  him  from  his  embar 
rassment  ;  and  as  he  buried  his  nose  deeper  between 
the  leaves,  and  sat  down  on  the  low  counter,  forget 
ful  alike  of  his  dilemma  and  his  lost  friend,  I  nod 
ded  to  Mustapha  to  get  off  as  quietly  as  possible, 
and,  fortunately  slipping  past  both  him  and  the 
Jew  unrecognised,  left  him  to  finish  the  loves  of 
Gulistan  and  settle  his  account  with  the  incensed 
Armenian. 

II. 

As  we  entered  the  gates  of  the  slave-market,  Mus 
tapha  renewed  his  cautions  to  me  with  regard  to  my 
conduct,  reminded  me  that,  as  a  Christian,  [  should  see 
the  white  female  slaves  at  the  peril  of  my  life,  and  imme 
diately  assumed, himself,  a  sauntering  w\poco-curante 
manner,  equally  favorable  to  concealment  and  to  his 
interests  as  a  purchaser.  I  followed  close  at  his  heels 
with  his  pipe,  and,  as  he  stopped  to  chat  with  his  ac 
quaintances,  I  now  and  then  gave  a  shove  with  the  bowl 
between  his  jacket  and  girdle,  rendered  impatient  to  the 
last  degree  by  the  sight  of  the  close  lattices  on  every 
side  of  us,  and  the  sounds  of  the  chattering  voices 
within. 

I  should  have  been  interested,  had  I  been  a  mere 
spectator,  in  the  scene  about  me,  but  Musiapha's  unne 
cessary  and  provoking  delay,  while  (as  I  thought  pos 
sible,  ifshe  really  were  in  the  market),  Mairnuna  might 
be  bartered  for  at  that  moment  within,  wound  my  rage 
to  a  pitch  at  last  scarcely  endurable. 

We  had  come  up  from  a  cellar  to  which  one  of  Mus- 
tapha's  acquaintances  had  taken  him  to  see  a  young 
white  lad  he  was  about  to  purchase,  and  I  was  hoping 
that  my  suspense  was  nearly  over,  when  a  man  came  for 
ward  into  the  middle  of  the  court,  ringing  a  hand-bell, 
and  followed  by  a  black  girl,  covered  with  a  scant  blank 
et.  Like  most  of  her  lace  (she  was  an  Abyssinian),  her 


(probably  unwilling  to  be  seen  smoking  with  an  Ar-  ii  head  was  that  of  a  brute,  but  never  were  body  and  limbs 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


67 


more  exquisitely  moulded.     She  gazed  about  without  |i 
either  surprise  or  shame,  stepping  after  the  crier  with   | 
an  elastic,  leopard-like  tread,  her  feet  turned  in  like  j 
those  of  the  North  American  Indian,  her  neck  bent 
gracefully  forward,  and  her  shoulders  and  hips  working 
with  that  easy  play  so  lost  in  the  constrained  dress  and 
motion  of  civilized  women.     The  Mercury  of  Giovanni  j 
di  Bologna  springs  not  lighter  from  the  jet  of  the  foun-  j 
tain  than  did  this  ebon  Venus  from  the  ground  on  which  j 
she  stood. 

I  ventured  to  whisper  to  Mustapha,  that,  under  cover  j 
of  the  sale  of  the  Abyssinian,  we  might  see  the  white  | 
slaves  more  unobserved. 

A  bid  was  made  for  her. 

"  Fifteen  piastres  !"  said  the  attar-seller,  wholly  ab-  ! 
sorbed  in  the  sale,  and  not  hearing  a  syllable  I  said  to 
him,  "  She  would  be  worth  twice  as  much  to  gild  my 
pastilles  !"     And  handing  me  his  pipe,  he  waddled  into 
the  centreof  the  court,  lifted  the  blanket  from  theslave's  i 
shoulders,  turned  her  round  and  round,  like  a   Venus 
on  a  pivot,  looked  at  her  teeth  and  hands,  and  after  a 
conversation  aside  with  the  crier,  he  resumed  his  pipe, 
and  the  black  disappeared  from  the  ground. 

"  I  have  bought  her  !"  he  said,  with  a  salacious  grin,  j 
as  I  handed  him  his  tobacco-bag,  and  muttered  a  round  j 
Italian  execration  in  his  ear. 

The  idea  that  Maimuna  might  have  become  the 
property  of  that  gross  and  sensual  monster  just  as  easily 
as  the  pretty  negress  he  had   brought,  sent  my  blood  | 
boiling  for  an  instant  to  my  cheek.     Yet  I  had  seen  this 
poor  savage  of  seventeen  sold  without  a  thought,  save 
mental  congratulation  that  she  would  be  better  fed  and  • 
clad.     What  a  difference  one's  private  feelings  make 
in  one's  sympathies  ! 

I  was  speculating,  in  a  kind  of  tranquil  despair,  on 
the  luxurious  evils  of  slavery,  when  Mustapha  called  to 
him  an  Egyptian,  in  a  hooded  blue  cloak,  whom  I  re 
membered  to  have  seen  on  board  the  Trebisondian. 
He  was  a  small-featured,  black-lipped,  willowy  Asiatic, 
with  heavv-lidded  eyes,  and  hands  as  dry  and  rusty  as 
the  claws  of  a  harpy.  After  a  little  conversation,  he 
rose  from  the  platform  on  which  he  had  crossed  his 
legs,  and  taking  my  pro-tempore  master  by  the  sleeve, 
traversed  the  quadrangle  to  a  closed  door  in  the  best- 
looking  of  the  miserable  houses  that  surrounded  the 
court.  1  followed  close  upon  his  heels  with  a  beating 
heart.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  every  eye  in  the  crowded 
market-place  must  penetrate  my  disguise.  He  knock 
ed,  and  answering  to  some  one  who  spoke  from  within, 
the  door  was  opened,  and  the  next  moment  I  found  my 
self  in  the  presence  of  a  dozen  veiled  women,  seated  in 
various  attitudes  on  the  floor.  At  the  command  of  our 
conductor,  carpets  were  brought  for  Mustapha  and  him 
self;  and,  as  they  dropped  upon  their  hams,  every  veil 
was  removed,  and  a  battery  of  staring  and  unwinking 
eyes  was  levelled  full  upon  us. 

4i  Is  she  here?"  said  Mustapha  to  me  in  Italian,  as 
I  stooped  over  to  hand  him  his  eternal  pipe. 
"  Dio  mio  !  no  !" 

I  felt  insulted,  that  with  half  a  glance  at  the  Circas 
sian  and  Georgian  dolls  sitting  before  us,  he  could  ask 
me  the  question.  Yet  they  were  handsome!  Red 
cheeks,  white  teeth,  black  eyes,  and  youth  could  scarce 
compose  a  plain  woman  ;  and  thus  much  of  beauty 
seemed  equally  bestowed  on  all. 

"  Has  he  no  more  ?"  I  asked,  stooping  to  Mus- 
tapha's  ear. 

I  looked  around  while  he  was  getting  the  informa 
tion  I  wanted  in  his  own  deliberate  way ;  and,  scarce 
knowing  what  I  did,  applied  my  eye  to  a  crack  in  the 
wall,  through  which  had  been  coming,  for  some  time  a 
strong  aroma  of  coffee.  I  saw  at  first  only  a  small  dim 
room,  in  the  midst  of  which  stood  a  Turkish  manghal, 
or  btazier  of  coals,  sustaining  the  coffee-pot  from  which 
came  the  agreeable  prefume  I  had  inhaled.  As  my 
eye  became  accustomed  to  the  light,  I  could  distinguish 


a  heap  of  what  I  took  to  be  shawls  lying  in  the  centre 
of  the  floor;  and  presuming  it  was  the  dormitory  of  one 
of  the  slave-owners,  I  was  about  turning  my  head  away, 
when  the  coffee  on  the  manghal  suddenly  boiled  over, 
and  at  the  same  instant  started,  from  the  heap  at  which 
I  had  been  gazing,  the  living  form  of  Maimuna! 

"  Mustapha  !"  1  cried,  starting  back,  and  clasping 
my  hands  before  him. 

Before  I  could  utter  another  word,  a  grasp  upon  my 
ankle,  that  drew  blood  with  every  nail,  restored  me  to 
my  self-possession.  The  Circassians  began  to  giggle, 
and  the  wary  old  Turk,  taking  no  apparent  notice  of 
my  agitation,  ordered  me,  in  a  stern  tone,  to  fill  his 
pipe,  and  went  on  conversing  with  the.  Egyptian. 

I  leaned  with  an  effort  at  carelessness  against  the 
wall,  and  looked  once  more  through  the  crevice.  She 
stood  by  the  manghal,  filling  a  cup  with  a  small  fila 
gree-holder  from  the  coffee-pot,  and  by  the  light  of  the 
fire  I  could  see  every  feature  of  her  face  as  distinctly 
as  daylight.  She  was  alone,  and  had  been  sitting 
with  her  head  on  her  knees,  and  the  shawl,  which  had 
now  fallen  to  her  shoulders,  drawn  over  her  till  it  con 
cealed  her  feet.  A  narrow  carpet  was  beneath  her, 
and  as  she  moved  from  the  fire,  a  slight  noise  drew  my 
attention  downward,  and  I  saw  that  she  was  chained  by 
I  the  ankle  to  the  floor.  I  stooped  to  the  ear  of  Mus- 
j  tapha,  told  him  in  a  whisper  of  my  discovery,  and  im 
plored  him,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  to  get  admission 
into  her  apartment. 

"  Pclchc  !  pekhe  !  filio  mio  /"  was  the  unsatisfactory 

I  answer  to  my  impatience,  while  the  Egyptian  rose  and 

i  proceeded  to  turn  around,  in  the  light  of  the  window, 

the  fattest  of  the  fair  Circassians,  from  whom  he  had 

!  removed  every  article  of  dress  save  her  slippers  and 

trousers. 

I  returned  to  the  crevice.     Maimuna  had  drunk  her 
;  coffee,  and  stood,  with  her  arms  folded,  thoughtfully 
gazing  on  the,  fire.     The  expression  in  her  beautiful 
and  youthful  face  was  one  I  could  scarcely  read  to  my 
1  satisfaction.     The  slight  lips  were  firmly  but  calmly 
;  compressed,  the  forehead  untroubled,  the  eye  alone 
1  strained,    and    unnaturally    fixed    and    lowering.      I 
j  looked  at  her  with  the  heart  beating  like  a  hammer  in 
|  my  bosom,  and  the  impatience  in  my  trembling  limbs 
which  it  required  every  consideration  of  prudence  to 
!  suppress.     She  moved  slowly  away  at  last,  and  sink 
ing  again  to  her  carpet,  drew  out  the  chain  from  be 
neath  her,  and  drawing  the  shawl  once  more  over  her 
head,  lay  down,  and  sunk  apparently  to  sleep. 

Mustapha  left  the  Circassian,  whose  beauties  he  had 
risen  to  examine  more  nearly,  and  came  to  my  side. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  it  is  she?"  he  asked,  in  an  al 
most  inaudible  whisper. 
"  Si ."' 

He  took  the  pipe  from  my  hand,  and  requested  me, 
|  in  the  same  suppressed  voice,  to  return  to  his  shop. 

"  And  Maimuna" 

His  only  answer  was  to  point  to  the  door,  and  think 
ing  it  best  to  obey  his  orders  implicity,  I  made  the 
best  of  my  way  out  of  the  slave-market,  and  was  soon 
drinking  a  sherbet  in  his  inner  apartment,  and  listen 
ing  to  the  shuttle  of  every  passing  slipper  for  the  com 
ing  of  the  light  step  of  the  gipsy. 

III. 

The  rules  of  good-breeding  discountenance  in  socie 
ty  what  is  usually  called  "  a  scene."  I  detest  it  as 
well  on  paper.  There  is  no  sufficient  reason,  appa 
rent  to  me,  why  my  sensibilities  should  be  draw.i  upon 
at  si»ht,  as  I  read,  any  more  than  when  I  plep^e  myself 
by  following  my  own  devices  in  compary.  Violent 
sensations  are,  abstractly  as  well  as  conventionally, 
ill-bred.  They  derange  the  serenitv,  fluster  the  man 
ner,  and  irritate  the  complexion,  it  is  for  this  reason 
that  I  forbear  to  describe  the  meeting  between  Maimu- 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


na  and  myself  after  she  had  been  bought  for  forty 
pounds  by  the  wily  and  worthy  seller  of  essences  and 
pastilles — how  she  fell  on  my  neck  when  she  discovered 
that  I,  and  not  Mustapha,  was  her  purchaser  and  mas 
ter — how  she  explained,  between  her  hysterical  sobs, 
that  the  Turk  who  had  sold  her  to  the  slave-dealer  was 
a  renegade  gipsy,  and  her  mother's  brother  (to  whom 
she  had  been  on  an  errand  of  affection) — and  how  she 
sobbed  herself  to  sleep  with  her  face  in  the  palms  of 
my  hands,  and  her  masses  of  raven  hair  covering  my 
knees  and  feet  like  the  spreading  fountains  of  San  Pie- 
tro — and  how  I  pressed  my  lips  to  the  starry  parting 
of  those  raven  tresses  on  the  top  of  her  fairest  head, 
and  blessed  the  relying  child  as  she  slept — are  circum 
stances,  you  will  allow,  my  dear  madam  T  that  could 
'not  be  told  passably  well  without  moving  your  amiable 
tenderness  to  tears.  You  will  consider  this  paragraph, 
therefore,  less  as  an  ingenious  manner  of  disposing  of 
the  awkward  angles  of  my  story,  than  as  a  polite  and 
praise-worthy  consideration  of  your  feelings  and  com 
plexion.  Flushed  eyelids  are  so  very  unbecoming  ! 


My  confidential  interviews  with  Job  began  to  take 
rather  an  unpleasant  coloring.  The  forty  pounds  I 
had  paid  for  Maimuna's  liberty,  with  the  premium  to 
Mustapha,  the  suit  of  European  clothes  necessary  to 
disguise  my  new  companion,  and  the  addition  of  a 
third  person  in  our  European  lodgings  at  Pera,  rather 
drove  my  finances  to  the  wall.  Job  cared  very  little 
for  the  loss  of  his  allowance  of  pocket-money,  and 
made  no  resistance  to  eating  kibaubs  at  a  meat-shop, 
instead  of  his  usual  silver  fork  and  French  dinner  at 
Madame  Josepino's.  He  submitted  with  the  same 
resignation  to  a  one-oared  caique  on  the  Bosphorus, 
and  several  minor  reductions  in  his  expenses,  thinking 
nothing  a  hardship,  in  short,  which  I  shared  cheerfully 
with  him.  He  would  have  donned  the  sugar-loaf  hat 
of  a  dervish,  and  begged  his  way  home  by  Jerusalem 
or  Mecca,  so  only  I  was  content.  But  the  morality  of 
the  thing ! 

"What  will  you  do  with  this  beautiful  girl  when 
you  get  to  Rome  ?  how  will  you  dispose  of  her  in 
Paris  ?  how  will  your  friends  receive  a  female,  already 
arrived  at  the  age  of  womanhood,  who  shall  have 
travelled  with  you  two  or  three  years  on  the  continent  ? 
how  will  you  provide  for  her?  how  educate  her?  how 
rid  yourself  of  her,  with  any  Christian  feeling  of  com 
passion,  when  she  has  become  irrevocably  attached  to 
you?" 

We  were  pulling  up  to  the  Symplegades  while  my 
plain-spoken  Mentor  thrust  me  these  home  questions, 
and  Maimuna  sat  coiled  between  my  feet  in  the  bottom 
of  the  caique,  gazing  into  my  face  with  eyes  that 
seemed  as  if  they  would  search  my  very  soul  for  the 
cause  of  my  emotion.  We  seldom  spoke  English  in 
her  presence,  for  the  pain  it  gave  her  when  she  felt 
excluded  from  the  conversation  amounted  in  her  all- 
expressive  features  to  a  look  of  anguish  that  made  it 
seem  to  me  a  cruelty.  She  dared  not  ask  me,  in 
words,  why  I  was  vexed  ;  but  she  gathered  from  Job's 
tone  that  there  was  reproof  in  what  he  said,  and 
flashing  a  glance  of  inquiring  anger  at  his  serious 
face,  she  gently  stole  her  hand  under  the  cloak  to 
mine,  and  laid  the  back  of  it  softly  in  my  palm.  There 
was  a  delicacy  and  a  confidingness  in  the  motion  that 
started  a  tear  into  my  eye ;  and  as  I  smiled  through  it, 
and  drew  her  to  me  and  impressed  a  kiss  on  her  fore 
head,  I  inwardly  resolved,  that,  as  long  as  that  lovely 
creature  should  choose  to  eat  of  my  bread,  it  should 
be  free  to  her  in  all  honor  and  kindness,  and,  if  need 
were,  I  would  supply  to  her,  with  the  devotion  of  my 
life,  the  wrong  and  misconstruction  of  the  world. 
As  I  turned  over  that  leaf  in  my  heart,  there  crept 
through  it  a  breath  of  peace,  and' I  felt  that  my  good 


angel  had  taken  me  into  favor.  Job  began  to  fumble 
for  the  lunch,  and  the  dancing  caique  shot  forth  mer 
rily  into  the  Black  sea. 

"My  dearest  chum!"  said  I,  as  we  sat  round  our 
brown  paper  of  kibaubs  on  the  highest  point  of  the 
Symplegades,  "you  see  yourself  here  at  the  outer 
most  limit  of  your  travels." 

His  mouth  was  full,  but  as  soon  as  he  could  con 
veniently  swallow,  he  responded  with  the  appropriate 
sigh. 

"  Six  thousand  miles,  more  or  less,  lie  between  you 

and   your  spectacled    and   respectable   mother;    but 

nineteen  thousand,  the  small  remainder  of  the  earth's 

I  circumference,  extending  due  east  from  this  paper  of 

|  cold  meat,  remain  to  you  untravelled !" 

Job  fixed  his  eye  on  a  white  sea-bird  apparently 
asleep  on  the  wing,  but  diving  away  eastward  into  the 
sky,  as  if  it  were  the  heart  within  us  sped  onward  with 
our  boundless  wishes. 

"Do  you  not  envy  him?"  he  asked  enthusiastically. 

"Yes;  for  nature  pays  his  travelling  expenses,  and 

I  would  our  common  mother  were  as  considerate  to 

me  !     How  soon,  think  you,   he  will  see   Trebisond, 

!  posting  at  that  courier  speed  ?" 

"  And  Shiraz,  and  Isaphan,  and  the  valley  of  Cash- 

!  mere!     To  think  how   that  stupid   bird  will  flyover 

I  them,  and,  spite  of  all  that  Hafiz,  and  Saadi,  and  Tom 

I  Moore,  have  written  on  the  lands  that  his  shadow  may 

glide  throught,    will    return,  as    wise   as    he   went,  to 

Marmora  !     To   compound  natures  with  him  were  a 

nice  arrangement,  now!" 

"You  would  be  better  looking,  my  dear  Job!" 
"  How  very  unpleasant  you  are,  Mr.  Slin^sby !     But 
really,  Philip,  to  cast  the  slough  of  this  expensive  and 
j  il-locomotive  humanity,  and  find   yourself  afloat  with 
I  all  the  necessary  apparatus  of  life  stowed  snugly  into 
breast   and   tail,  your  legs  tucked  quietly  away  under 
you,  and,  instead  of  coat  and  unmentionables  to  be  put 
off  and  on  and  renewed  at  such  inconvenient  expense,  a 
:  self-renewing  tegument  of  cleanly  feathers,   brushed 
j  and  washed  in  the  common  course  of  nature  by  wind 
|  and  rain— no  valet  to  be  paid  and  drilled — no  dressing- 
case  to  be  supplied  and  left  behind — no  tooth-brushes 
to  be  mislaid — no  tight  boots — no  corns — no  passports 
nor  host-horses!     Do  you  know,  Phil,  on  reflection,  I 
find  this  'mortal  coil'  a  very  inferior  and  inconvenient 
apparatus!" 

"If  you  mean  your  own,  I  quite  agree  with  you." 
"I  am  surprised,  Mr.  Slingsby,  that  you,  who  value 
yourself  on   knowing  what    is  due   from  one  highly- 
civilized  individual  to  another,  should  indulge  in  these 
very  disagreeable  reflections!" 

Maimuna  did  not  quite  comprehend  the  argument, 

|  but  she  saw  that  the  tables  were  turned,  and,  without 

j  ill-will  to  Job,  she  paid  me  the  compliment  of  always 

I  taking  my  side.     I   felt  her  slender  arm  around   my 

j  neck,  and  as  she  got  upon  her  knees  behind  me   and 

put  forward  her  little  head  to  get  a  peep  at  my  lips,  her 

clear  bird-like  laugh  of  enjoyment  and  triumph  added 

visibly  to  my  friend's  mortification.     A  compunctious 

visiting  stole  over  me,  and  I  began  to  feel  that  I  should 

j  scarce  have  revenged  myself  for  what  was,  after  all, 

but  a  kind  severity. 

"Do  you  know,  Job,"  said  I  (anxious  to  restore  his 

self-complacency  without  a  direct  apology  for  my  ruda- 

ness),  "do  you  know  there  is  a  very  deep  human  truth 

I  hidden  in  the  familiar  story  of * Beauty  and  the  Beast  ?' 

!  I  really  am  of  opinion,  that,  between  the  extremes  of 

|  hideousness  and  the  highest  perfection   of  loveliness, 

there  is  no  face  which,  after  a  month's  intercourse, 

does  not  depend  exclusively  on  its  expression  (or,  in 

other  words,  on  the  amiable  qualities  of  the  individual) 

for  the  admiration  it  excites.     The  plainest  features 

become  handsome  unaware  when  associated  only  with 

kind  feelings,  and  the  loveliest  face  disagreeable  when 

linked  with  ill-humor  or  caprice.     People  should  re- 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


member  this  when  selecting  a  face  which  they  are  to  |'  Perhaps  nothing  would  he  so  contradictory  as  the  true 
see  every  morning  across  the  breakfast-table  for  the  re-  [j  analysis  of  the  character  of  what  is  called  an  indolent 


mainder  of  their  natural  lives.' 

Job  was  appeased  by  the  indirect  compliment  con 
tained  in  this  speech:  and,  gathering  tip  our  kibauhs. 
we  descended  to  the  caique,  and  pulling  aroun.l  tin- 
easternmost  point  of  the  Symplegades,  bade  adieu  to 
the  orient,  and  took  the  first  step  westward  with  the 
smile  of  conciliation  on  our  lips. 

We  were  soon  in  the  strong  current  of  the  Bospho- 
rus,  and  shot  swiftly  down  between  Europe  and  Asia, 
by  the  light  of  a  sunset  that  seemed  to  brighten  the 
west  for  our  return.  It  was  a  golden  path  homeward. 
The  east  looked  cold  behind ;  and  the  welcome  of 
our  far-away  kinsmen  seemed  sent  to  us  on  those  pur 
pling  clouds,  winning  us  back.  Beneath  that  kindling 
horizon — below  that  departed  sun — lay  the  fresh  and 
free  land  of  our  inheritance.  The  light  of  the  world 
seemed  gone  over  to  it.  These,  from  which  the  day 
had  declined,  were  countries  of  memory — ours,  of 
hope.  The  sun,  that  was  setting  on  these,  was  dawn 
ing  gloriously  on  ours. 

On  ordinary  occasions.  Job  would  have  given  me  a 
stave  of  "Hail  Columbia!"  after  such  a  burst  of  pa 
triotism.  The  cloud  was  on  liis  soul,  however. 


With  all  the  tastes  I  have  just  professed,  my 
j  strongest  feeling  on  leaving  the  Symplegades,  for  ex- 
amplf,  was,  and  is  still,  an  unwillingness  to  retrace  my 
steps.  'Onward!  onward!'  is  the  perpetual  cry  of 
my  heart.  I  could  pass  my  life  in  going  from  land  to 
land,  so  only  that  every  successive  one  was  new.  Italy 
will  be  old  to  us  ;  France,  Germany,  can  scarce  lure 
the  imagination  to  adventure,  with  the  knowledge  we 
have:  and  England,  though  we  have  not  seen  it,  is  so 
familiar  to  us  from  its  universality  that  it  will  not  seem, 
even  on  a  first  visit,  a  strange  country.  We  have  sa 
tiety  before  us,  and  the  thought  saddens  me.  I  hate 
to  go  back.  I  could  start  now,  with  Maimuna  for  a 
guide,  and  turn  gipsy  in  the  wilds  of  Asia." 

"Will  you  go  with  him,  Maimuna?" 

"  Signor,  no  /" 

I  am  the  worst  of  story-tellers,  gentle  reader;  for  I 
never  get  to  the  end.  The  truth  is,  that  in  these  ram 
bling  papers,  I  go  over  the  incidents  I  describe,  not  as 
they  should  be  written  in  a  romance,  but  as  they  oc 
curred  in  my  travels :  I  write  what  I  remember.  There 
are,  of  course,  long  intervals  in  adventure,  filled 


•We  have  turned  to  go  back,"  he  said,  in  a  kind  of     sometimes  by  feasting  or  philosophy,  sometimes 


1   up 
with 


musing  bitterness,  "and   see  what  we  are  leaving  be 
hind  !     In  this  fairy-shaped  boat  you  are  gliding  like  a 


.    „. 

dleness  or  love;  and,  to   please  myself,  I   must  un 
weave  the  thread  as  it  was  woven.     Jt  is  strange  how, 


•y-sna] 

dream  down    the  Bosphorus.     The 
Therapia  yonder  is  fringed  for  miles  with  the  pleasure-  i    important  things  are  the  best  remembered.     You  may 


liore  of     i'1  tne  memory  of  a  traveller,  the  most  wayside  and  un 


loving   inhabitants  of  this  delicious  land,  who  think  a      have  stood 


Parthenon,  and,  looking  back  upon 


life  too  short,  of  which  the  highest  pleasure  is  to  ram-      'tl  through  the  distance  of  years,  a  chance  word  of  the 
ble  on  the  edge  of  these  calm  waters  with  their  kins 
men   and  children.     Is  there  a  picture  in  the  wotld 
more  beautiful  than  that  palace-lined  shore?      Is  there 


companion  who  happened  to  be  with  you,  or  the  atti 
tude  of  a  Greek  seen  in  the  plain  below,  may  come  up 
more  vividly  to  the  recollection  than  the  immortal 


city  so  magnificent  under  the  sun  as  that  in  which  it     sculptures  on  the  frieze.     There  is  a  natural  antipathy 

in  the  human  mind  to  fulfil  expectations.  We  wander 
from  the  thing  we  are  told  to  admire,  to  dwell  on 
something  we  have  discovered  ourselves.  The  child 


terminates?  Are  there  softer  skies,  greener  hills, 
simpler  or  better  people,  to  live  among,  than  these? 
Oh,  Philip!  ours,  with  all  its  freedom, "is  a  'worki 


day' land.  There  is  no  idleness  there  !  The  sweat  is  in  church  occupies  itself  with  the  fly  on  its  prayer- 
ever  on  the  brow,  the  'serpent  of  care'  never  loosened  book<  and  "  the  chlld  1S  father  of  the  man'"  If  1  in" 
about  the  heart1  I  confess  mvself  a  worshipper  of  dulge  in  llie  same  perversity  in  story-telling,  dear 
leisure:  I  would  let  no  moment' of  my  golden  youth  i  reader— if,  in  the  most  important  crisis  of  my  tale,  I 
go  by  unrecorded  with  a  pleasure.  Toil  is  ungo'dlike,  digress  to  some  trifling  vein  of  speculation— if,  at  the 

close  even,  the  climax  seem  incomplete,  and  the  moral 


and  unworthy  of  the  immortal  spirit,  that  should  walk 
unchained  through  the  world.     I  love  these  idleorien 


vain — 1  plead,  upon  all  these  counts,  an  adherence  to 


tals.     Their  sliding  and  haste-forbidding  slippers,  their     iriith  and  nature.     Life— real  life— is  made  up  oj  half- 
flowing  and  ungirded  habiliments,  are  signs  most  ex 
pressive  of  their  joy  in  life.     Look   around,  and  see  : 

how  on   every  hill-top  stands  a  maison  de  plaisance ;  ':  ridiculous  and  the  trifling,  and  at  the  end,  oftenest  left 

imperfect.     Who  ever  saw,  oft'  the   stage,  a  five-act 
tragedy,  with  its  proprieties  and  its  climax? 


finished  romance.     The  most  interesting  procession  of 
events  is  delayed,  and  travestied,  and  mixed  with  the 


how  every  hill-tide  is  shelved  into  those  green  plat 
forms,*  so  expressive  of  their  habits  of  enjoyment! 
Rich  or  poor,  their  pleasures  are  the  same.  The 
open  air,  freedom  to  roam,  a  caique  at  the  water-side, 
and  a  sairgah  on  the  hill — these  are  their  moans  of 
happiness,  and  they  are  within  the  reach  of  all ;  they 
are  nearer  U lopia  than  we,  my  dear  Philip !  We  shall 
be  more  like  Turks  than  Christians  in  paradise!" 

"  Inglorious  Job!" 

"Why?  Because  I  love  idleness?  Are  there 
braver  people  in  the  world  than  the  Turks?  Are 


PART  III. 

TEN  o'clock  A.  M.,  and  the  weather  like  the  prophet's 
paradise, 

"  Warmth  without  heat,  and  coolness  without  cold." 
Madame  Josepino  stood  at  the  door  of  her  Turco-Ital- 


there  people  more  capable  of  the  romance  of  heroism? 

Energy,  though  it  sound  a  paradox,  is  the  child  of  '.  ian  boarding-house  in  the  nasty  and  fashionable  main 
idleness.  All  extremes  are  natural  and  easy;  and  the  !'  street  of  Pera,  dividing  her  attention  between  a  hand- 
most  indolent  in  peace  is  likely  to  be  the  most  fiery  in  |  some  Armenian,  with  a  red  button  in  the  top  of  his 
war.  Here  we  are,  opposite  the  summer  serai  of  Sul-  black  lamb's-wool  cap,f  and  her  three  boarders,  Job 
tan  Mahmoud;  and  who  more  luxurious  and  idle? 
Yet  the  massacre  of  the  Janissaries  was  one  of  the 
boldest  measures  in  history.  There  is  the  most  per 
fect  orientalism  in  the  description  of  the  Persian  beauty 
byllafiz:- 
'  Her  heart  is  full  of  passion,  and  her  eyes  are  full  of  sleep.' 

*  All  around  Constantinople  are  seen  what  are  called  sair- 
Kahs — small  greensward  platforms  levelled  in  the  side  of  a 
hill,  and  usually  commanding  some  lovely  view,  intended  as 
spots  ou  which  those  who  are  abroad  for  pleasure  may  spread 


Maimuna,  and  myself,  at  that  critical  moment  about 
mounting  our  horses  for  a  gallop  to  Belgrade. 

their  carpets.     I  know  nothing  so  expressive  as  this  of  the 
simple  and  natural  lives  led  by  these  gentle  orientals. 

t  The  Armenians  at  Constantinople  are  despised  by  the 
Turks,  and  tacily  submit,  like  the  Jews,  to  occupy  a  degraded 
position  as  a  people.  A  few,  however,  are  employed  as  in 
terpreters  by  the  embassies,  and  these  are  allowed  to  wear 
the  mark  of  a  red  worsted  button  in  the  high  black  cap  of  the 
race— a  distinction  which  just  serves  to  make  them  the  great 
est  possible  coxcombs. 


70 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


We  kissed  our  hands  to  the  fat  and  fair  Italian,  and 
with  a  promise  to  be  at  home  for  supper,  kicked  our 
shovel-shaped  stirrups  into  the  sides  of  our  horses,  and 
pranced  away  up  the  street,  getting  many  a  glance  of 
curiosity,  and  one  or  two  that  might  be  more  freely 
translated,  from  the  dark  eyes  that  are  seen  day  and 
night  at  the  windows  of  the  leaden-colored  houses  of  ! 
the  Armenians. 

We  should  have  been  an  odd-looking  cavalcade  for  | 
the  Boulevard  or  Bond  street,  but,  blessed  privilege  of  j 
the  east !  we  were  sufficiently  comine  il  fauL  for  Pera. 
To  avoid  the  embarrassment  of  Maimuna's  sex,  I  had 
dressed  her,  from  an  English  "slop-shop"  at.  Galata, 
in  the  checked  shirt,  jacket,  and  trowsers  of  a  sailor- 
boy,  but  as  she  was  obstinately  determined  that  her  | 
long  black  hair  should  not  be  shorn,  a  turban  was  her 
only    resource   for   concealment,    and   the   dark    and  { 
glossy  mass  was  hidden  in  the  folds  of  an  Albanian 
shawl,  forming  altogether  as  inharmonious  a  costume 
as  could  well  be  imagined.     With  the  white  duck 
trowsers  tight  over  her  hips,  and  the  jacket,  which  was  j 
a  little  too  large  for  her,  loose  over  her  shoulders  and 
breast,  the  checked  collar  tied  with  a  black  silk  cravat  | 
close  round  her  throat,  and  the  silken  and  gold  fringe  j 
of  the  shawl  flowing  coquetishly  over  her  left  cheek  j 
and  ear,  she  was  certainly  an  odd  figure  on  horseback,  , 
and,  but  for  her  admirable  riding  and  excessive  grace  of  ! 
attitude,  she  might  have  been  as  much  a  subject  for  a  j 
caricature  as  her  companion.     Job  rode  soberly  along 
at  her  side,  in  the  green  turban  of  a  Hajji  (which  he 
had  persisted  in  wearing  ever  since  his  pilgrimage  to  ; 
Jerusalem),  and,  as  he  usually  put  it  on  askew,  the  ; 
gaillard  and  rakish  character  of  his  head-dress,  and  j 
the  grave  respectability  of  his  black  coat  and  salt-arid- 
pepper  trowsers,  produced  a   contrast   which  elicited  ' 
a  smile  even  from  the  admiring  damsels  at  the  win-  j 
dows. 

Maimuna  went  caracoling  along  till  the  road  entered 
the  black  shadow  of  the  cemetery  of  Pera,  and  then, 
pulling  up  her  well-managed  horse,  she  rode  close  to 
my  side,  with  the  air  of  subdued  respect  which  was 
more  fitting  to  the  spirit  of  the  scene.  It  was  a  lovely 
morning,  as  I  said,  and  the  Turks,  who  are  early  risers, 
were  sitting  on  the  graves  of  their  kindred  with  then- 
veiled  wives  and  children,  the  marble  turbans  in  that 
thickly-sown  nekropolis\ess  numerous  than  those  of  the 
living,  who  had  come,  not  to  mourn  the  dead  who  lay 
beneath,  but  to  pass  a  day  of  idleness  and  pleasure  on 
the  spot  endeared  by  their  memories. 

"  I  declare  to  you,"  said  Job,  following  Maimtrna's 
example  in  waiting  till  I  came  up,  "  that  I  think  the 
Turks  the  most  misrepresented  and  abused  people  on 
earth.  Look  at  this  scene  !  Here  are  whole  families 
seated  upon  graves  over  which  the  grass  grows  green 
and  fresh,  the  children  playing  at  their  feet,  and  their 
own  faces  the  pictures  of  calm  cheerfulness  and  enjoy 
ment.  They  are  the  by-word  for  brutes,  and  there  is 
not  a  gentler  or  more  poetical  race  of  beings  between 
the  Indus  and  the  Arkansas  !" 

It  was  really  a  scene  of  great  beauty.  The  Turkish 
tombs  are  as  splendid  as  white  marble  can  make  them, 
with  letters  and  devices  in  red  and  gold,  and  often  the 
most  delicious  sculptures,  and,  with  the  crowded  close 
ness  of  the  monuments,  the  vast  extent  of  the  burial- 
ground  over  hill  and  dale,  and  the  cypresses  (nowhere 
so  magnificent)  veiling  all  in  a  deep  religious  shadow, 
dim,  and  yet  broken  by  spots  of  the  clearest  sunshine, 
a  more  impressive  and  peculiar  scene  could  scarce  be 
imagined.  It  might  exist  in  other  countries,  but  it 
would  be  a  desert.  To  the  Mussulman  death  is  not 
repulsive,  and  he  makes  it  a  resort  when  he  would  be 
happiest.  At  all  hours  of  the  day  you  find  the 
tombs  of  Constantinople  surrounded  by  the  living. 
They  spread  their  carpets,  and  arrange  their  simple 
repast  around  the  stone  which  records  the  name  and 
virtues  of  their  own  dead,  and  talk  of  them  as  they  do 


of  the  living  and  absent — parted  from  them  to  meet 
again,  if  not  in  life,  in  paradise. 

"  For  my  own  part,"  continued  Job,  "  I  see  nothing 
in  scripture  which  contradicts  the  supposition  that  we 
shall  haunt,  in  the  intermediate  state  between  death 
and  heaven,  the  familiar  places  to  which  we  have  been 
accustomed.     In  that  case,  how  delightful  are  the  hab 
its  of  these  people,  and  how  cheeringly  vanish  the  hor 
rors  of  the  grave  !     Death,  with  us,  is  appalling !     The 
smile  has  scarce  faded  from  our  lips,  the  light  scarce 
dead  in  our  eye,  when  we  are  thrust  into  a  noisome 
vault,  and  thought  of  but  with  a  shudder  and  a  fear. 
We  are  connected  thenceforth,  in  the  memories  of  our 
friends,  with  the  pestilent  air  in  which  we  lie,  with  the 
vermin  that  infest  the  gloom,  with  dullness,  with  dark 
ness,  with  disease;  and,  memento  as  it  is  of  their  own 
coming  destiny,  what  wonder  if  they  chase  us,  and  the 
forecast  shadows  of  the  grave,  with  the  same  hurried 
disgust  from  their  remembrance.     Suppose,  for  an  iii- 
•  stant   (what    is   by    no   means    improbable),   that    the 
j  spirits  of  the  dead  are  about  us,  conscious  and  watch 
ful  !     Suppose  that  they  have  still  a  feeling  of  sympa- 
!  thy  in  the  decaying  form  they  have  so  long  inhabited, 
|  in  its  organs,  its  senses,  its  once- ad  mired  and   long- 
!  cherished  grace  and    proportion;  th;U  they   feel  the 
!  contumely  and  disgust  with  which  the  features  we  pro- 
j  fessed  to  love  are  cast  like  garbage  inlo  the  e;;rth,  and 
the  indecent  haste  with  which  we  turn  away  from  the 
solitary  spot,  and  think  of  it  but  as  the  abode  of  iester- 
!  ing  and  revolting  corruption  !'' 

At  this  moment  we  turned  to  the  left,  descending  to 
the  Bosphorus,  and  Maimuna,  who  had  ridden  a  little 
!  in  advance  during  Job's  unintelligible  monologue,  came 
>  galloping  back  to  tell  us  that  there  was  a  corpse  in  the 
road.  We  quickened  our  p;tee,  and  the  next  moment 
our  horses  started  aside  from  the  bier,  left  in  a  bend  of 
the  highway  with  a  single  individual,  the  grave-digger, 
sitting  cross-legged  beside  it.  Without  looking  up  at 
our  approach,  the  man  mumbled  something  between 
his  teeth,  and  held  up  his  hand  as  if  t8  arrest  us  in  our 
path. 

"What  does  he  say  ?"  I  asked  of  Maimuna. 
"  He  repeats  a  verse  of  the  Koran,"  she   replied, 
"which   promises  a  reward  in   paradise  to  him  who 
bears  the  dead  forty  steps  on  its  way  to  the  grave." 

Job  sprang  instantly  from  his  horse,  threw  the  bridle 
over  the  nearest  tombstone,  and  made  a  sign  to  the 
grave-digger  that  he  would  officiate  as  bearer.  The 
man  nodded  assent,  but  looked  down  the  road  without 
arising  from  his  seat. 

"You  are  but  three,"  said  Maimuna,  "and  he  waits 
for  a  fourth." 

I  had  dismounted  by  this  time,  not  to  be  behind  my 
friend  in  the  humanities  of  life,  and  the  grave  digger, 
seeing  that  we  were  Europeans,  smiled  with  a  kind 
of  pleased  surprise,  and  uttering  the  all  expressive 
"  Pekkhe  /"  resumed  his  look-out  for  the  fourth 
bearer. 

The  corpse  was  that  of  a  poor  old  man.  The  cof 
fin  was  without  a  coyer,  and  he  lay  in  it,  in  his  turban 
and  slippers,  his  hands  crossed  over  his  breast,  and 
the  folds  of  his  girdle  stuck  full  of  flowers.  He  might 
have  been  asleep,  for  any  Ipok  of  death  about  him. 
His  lips  were  slightly  unclosed,  and  his  long  beard  was 
combed  smoothly  over  his  breast.  The  odor  of  the 
pipe  and  the  pastille  struggled  with  the  perfume  of  the 
flowers,  and  there  was  in  his  whole  aspect  a  life-like 
ness  and  peace,  that  the  shroud  and  the  close  coffin, 
and  the  additional  horrors  of  approaching  death,  per 
haps,  combine,  in  other  countries,  utterly  to  do  away. 
"  Hitherto,"  said  Job,  as  he  gazed  attentively  on  the 
calm  old  man,  "  I  have  envied  the  Scaligers  their  up 
lifted  and  airy  tombs  in  the  midst  of  the  cheerful  street 
of  Verona,  and,  next  to  theirs,  the  sunny  sarcophagus 
of  Petrarch,  looking  away  over  the  peaceful  Campagna 
of  Lombardy ;  but  here  is  a  Turkish  beggar  who  will 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


71 


be  buried  still  more  enviably.     Is  it  not  a  paradise  of 
tombs — a  kind  of  Utopia  of  the  dead  ?" 

A  youns;  man  wiili  a  load  of  vegetables  for  the 
market  of  Pera,  came  toiling  up  the  hill  behind  his 
mule.  Sure  of  his  assistance,  the  grave-digger  arose, 
and  as  we  took  our  places  at  the  poles,  the  marketer 
quietly  turned  his  beast  out  of  the  road,  and  assisted 
us  in  lifting  the  dead  on  our  shoulders.  The  grave 
was  not  far  off,  and  having  deposited  the  corpse  on  its 
border,  we  returned  to  our  horses,  and,  soon  getting 
clear  of  the  cemetery,  galloped  away  with  light  hearts 
toward  the  valley  of  Sweet  Waters. 


We  were  taking  breath  on  the  silken  banks  of  the 
Barbyses— M; 


Constantinople.    It  is  a  common-place  two-story  affair, 
but  the  best  house  of  the  dozen  that  form  the  village, 
and  overlooks  a  dell  below  that  reminds  one  of  the 
"  Emerald    valleys    of   Cashmeer."       We    wandered 
through  its  deserted  rooms,  discussed  the  clever  wo 
man  who  has  described  her  travels  so  graphically,  and 
then  followed  Maimuna  to  the  narrow  street,  in  search 
of/dbaubs.     The  butcher's  shop  in  Turkey  is  as  open 
as  the  trottoir  to  the  street,  and  with  only  an  entire 
sheep  hanging  between  us  and  a  dozen  hungry  beg- 
,  gars,  attracted  by  the  presence  of  strangers,  we  crossed 
j  our  legs  on  the  straw  carpet,  and  setting  the  wooden 
j  tripod  in  the  centre,  waited  patiently  the  movements  of 
I  our  feeder,   who  combined  in   his  single  person  the 
I  three  vocations  of  butcher,  cook,  and  waiter.     One 
must  have  travelled  east  of  Cape  Coionna  to  relish 


Barbyses — Maimuna  prancing  along  the  pebbly  bed,  Jj  dinner  so  slightly  disguised,  but,  once  rid  of  European 
up  to  her  barb's  girths  in  sparkling  water,  and  Job  and  !>  prejudices,  there  is  nothing  more  simple  than  the  fact 
myself  laughing  at  her  frolics  from  either  side,  when  ;i  that  it  is  rather  an  attractive  mode  of  feeding — a  travel- 
an  old  woman,  bent  double  with  age,  came  hobbling  jj  ler's  appetite  sitbaudi'i/r. 

toward  us  from  a  hovel  in  the  hill-side.  Our  friend  was  a  wholesome-looking  Turk,  with  a 

"Maimuna,"  said  Job,  fishing  out  some  trumpery  jj  snow-white  turban,  a  black,  well-conditioned  beard,  a 
paras  from  the  corner  of  his  waistcoat  pocket,  "  give  j!  mouth  incapable  of  a  smile,  yet  honest,  and  a  most 
ihis  to  that  good  woman,  and  tell  her  that  he  who  gives  jj  trenchant  and  janissaresquc  style  of  handling  his 
it  is  happy,  and  would  share  his  joy  with  her."  {cleaver.  Having  laid  open  his'bed  of  coals  with  a 

The  gipsy  spurred  up  the  bank,  dismounted  at  a  i   kind  of  conjurer's  flourish  of  the  poker,  he  slapped  the 
short  distance  from  the  decrepit  creature,  and  after  a     pendent  mutton  on  the  thigh  in  a  fashion  of  encourage- 
little  conversation  returned,  leading  her  horse.  jj  ment,  and  waiting  an  instant  for  our  admiration  to  sub- 
"  She  is  not  a  beggar,  and  wishes  to  know  why  you  ;j  side,  he  whipping  his  knife  from  its  sheath,  and  had  out 
give  her  money  ?"                                                                 jj  a  dpzen  strips  from  the  chine  (as  Job  expressed  it  in 
"  Tell  her,  to  buy  bread  for  her  children."  said  my  j;  Vermontese)  "  in  no  time."     With  the  same  alacrity 
patriarchal  friend.                                                                 j  I  these  were  cut   into  bits  "  of  the  size  of  a  piece  of 
Maimuna  went  back,  conversed  with  her  again,  and  j    chalk"    (another   favorite    expression   of  Job's),    run 
returned  with  the  money.                                                    j,  upon  a  skewer,  and   laid  on  the  coals,  and   in   three 
"  She  says  she  has  no  need  of  it.      Tliereis  noliuinan  I  j  minutes,  more  or  less,  they  appeared  smoking  on  the 
creature  between  her  ami  Allah  .'"                                      I  j  trencher,  half  lost  in  a  fine  green  salad,  well  peppered, 
The  old  woman  hobbled  on,  Job  pocketed  his  re-   j  and  of  a  most  seducing  and  provocative  savor.      If  you 
jected  paras,  and  Maimun-i  rode  between  us  in  silence.  ||  have  performed  your  four  ablutions  A.  M.,  like  adevout 

Mussulman,  it  is  not  conceived  in  Turkey  that  you 
have  occasion  for  the  medium  of  a  fork,  and  I  frankly 
own,  that  I  might  have  been  seen  at  Belgrade,  cross- 
legged  in  a  kibaub-shup,  between  my  friend  and  the 
gipsy,  and  making  a  most  diligent  use  of  my  thumb 
and  fore-finger.  I  have  dined  since  at  the  Rocher  de 
Cancale  and  the  Traveller's  with  less  satisfaction. 

Having  paid  something  like  sixpence  sterling  for 
our  three  dinners  (rather  an  overcharge,  Maimuna 
thought),  we  unpicketed  our  horses  from  the  long 
grass,  and  bade  adieu  to  Belgrade,  on  our  way  to  the 
aqueducts.  We  were  to  follow  down  a  verdant  val- 


It  was  a  gem  of  natural  poetry  that  was  worthy  of 
the  lips  of  an  angel. 

III. 

We  kept  up  the  valley  of  Sweet  Waters,  tracing 
the  Barbyses  through  its  bosom,  to  the  hills  ;  and  then 
mounting  a  steep  asc.ent,  struck  across  to  the  east,  over 
a  country,  which,  though  so  near  the  capital  of  the 
Turkish  empire,  is  as  wild  as  the  plains  of  the  Hermus. 
Shrubs,  forest-trees,  and  wild  grass,  cover  the  appa 
rently  illimitable  waste,  and  save  a  half-visible  horse 
path  which  guides  the  traveller  across,  there  is  scarce 
an  evidence  that  you  are  uot  the  first  adventurer  in  the 
wilderness. 

What  a  natural  delight  is  freedom  !  What  a  bound 
gives  the  heart  at  the  sight  of  the  unfenced  eajth,  the 
unsep.irated  hill-sides,  the  unhedged  and  unharvested 
valleys!  How  thrilling  it  is — unlike  any  other  joy — 
to  spur  a  fiery  horse  to  the  hill-top,  and  gaze  away 
over  dell  and  precipice  to  the  horizon,  and  never  a 
wall  between,  nor  a  human  limit  to  say  "  Thus  far 
shalt  thou  go,  and  no  farther!"  Oh,  I  think  we  have 
an  instinct,  dulled  by  civilization,  which  is  like  the 
caged  eaglet's,  or  the  antelope's  that  is  reared  in  the 
Arab's  tent ;  an  instinct  of  nature  that  scorns  boundary 
and  chain  ;  that  yearns  to  the  free  desert ;  that  would 
have  the  earth,  like  the  sea  or  the  sky,  unappropriated 
and  open  ;  that  rejoices  in  immeasurable  liberty  of  foot 
and  dwelling-place,  and  springs  passionately  back  to 
its  freedom  even  after  years  of  subduing  method  and 
spirit-breaking  confinement  !  I  have  felt  it  on  the  sea, 
in  the  forests  of  America,  on  the  desolated  plains  of 
Asia  and  Roumelia  ;  I  should  feel  it  till  my  heart 
burst,  had  I  the  wings  of  a  bird! 

The  house  once  occupied  by  Lady  Mary  Wortley 
Montagu  stands  on  the  descent  of  a  hill  in  the  little  vil 
lage  of  Belgrade,  some  twelve  or  fourteen  miles  from 


ley,  and,  exhilarated  by  a  flask  of  Greek  wine  (which 
j    I  "forgot  to  mention),  and  the  ever-thrilling  circum- 
5 1  stances  of  unlimited  greensward  and  horses  that  wait 
not  for  the  spur,  we  followed  the  daring  little  Asiatic 
up  hill  and  down,  over  bush  and   precipice,  till  Job 
cried  us  mercy.     We  pulled  up  on  the  edge  of  a  sheet 
1  of  calm  water,  and  the  vast  marble  wall,  built  by  the 
j  sultans  in  the  days  of  their  magnificence  and  crossing 
j  the  valley  from  side  to  side,  burst  upon  us  like  a  scene 
of  enchantment  in  the  wilderness. 

Those  same  sultans  must  have  lived  a  great  deal  at 
Belgrade.  Save  these  vast  aqueducts,  which  are  splen 
did  monuments  of  architecture,  there  is  little  in  the 
first  aspect  to  remind  you  that  you  are  not  in  the  wilds 
of  Missouri;  but  a  further  search  discloses,  in  the  re 
cesses  of  the  hidden  windings  of  the  valley,  circular 
staircases  of  marble  leading  to  secluded  baths,  now 
filled  with  leaves  and  neglected,  but  evidently  on  a 
scale  of  the  most  imperial  sumptuousness.  From  the 
perishable  construction  of  Turkish  dwelling-houses,  all 
traces  even  of  the  most  costly  serai  may  easily  have 
disappeared  in  a  few  years,  when  once  abandoned  to 
ruin;  and  I  pleased  myself  with  imagining,  as  we 
slackened  bridle,  and  rode  slowly  beneath  the  gigantic 
trees  of  the  forest,  the  gilded  pavilions,  and  gay  scenes 
of  oriental  pleasure  that  must  have  existed  here  in 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


the  days  of  the  warlike  yet  effeminate  Selims.  It  is  a 
place  for  the  enchantments  of  the  "Arabian  Nights" 
to  have  been  realized. 

I  have  followed  the  common  error  in  giving  these 
structures  in  the  forest  of  Belgrade  the  name  of  aque 
ducts.  They  are  rather  walls  built  across  the  deep 
valleys,  of  diiferent  altitudes,  to  create  reservoirs  for 
the  supply  of  aqueducts,  but  are  built  with  all  the 
magnificence  and  ornament  of  a  facade  to  a  temple. 

We  rode  on  from  one  to  the  other,  arriving  at  last  at 
the  lowest,  which  divides  the  valley  at  its  wildest  part, 
forming  a  giddy  wall  across  an  apparently  bottomless 
ravine,  as  dark  and  impracticable  as  the  glen  of  the 
Cauterskill  in  America.  Our  road  lay  on  the  other 
side,  but  though  with  a  steady  eye  one  might  venture 
to  cross  the  parapet  on  foot,  there  were  no  means  of 
getting  our  horses  over,  short  of  a  return  of  half  a  mile 
to  the  path  we  had  neglected  higher  up  the  valley. 
W^  might  swim  it.  above  the  embankment,  but  the 
opposite  shore  was  a  precipice. 
"  What  shall  we  do  ?"  I  asked. 
Job  made  no  answer,  but  pulled  round  his  beast, 
and  started  off  in  a  sober  canter  to  return. 

I  stood  a  moment,  gazing  on  the  placid  sheet  of 
water  above,  and  the  abyss  of  rock  and  darkness  be 
low,  and  then  calling  to  Maimuna,  who  had  ridden 
farther  down  the  bank,  I  turned  my  horse's  head  after 
him. 

"  Signore !"  cried  the  gipsy  from  below. 
"What  is  it,  Carissima  ?" 
"  Maimuna  never  goes  back  !" 
"Silly  child!"  I  answered,  "you  are  not  going  to 
cross  the  ravine?" 

"  Yes !"  was  the  reply,  and  the  voice  became  more 
indistinguishable  as  she  galloped  away.  "  I  will  be 
over  before  you !" 

I  was  vexed,  but  I  knew  the  self-will  and  temerity 
of  the  wild  Asiatic,  and,  very  certain  that  if  there 
were  danger  it  would  be  run  before  I  could  reach 
her,  I  drove  the  stirrups  into  my  horse's  sides,  and 
overtook  Job  at  the  descent  into  the  valley.  We  as 
cended  again,  and  rode  down  the  opposite  shore  to  the 
embankment,  at  a  sharp  gallop.  Maimuna  was  not 
there. 

"  She  will  have  perished  in  the  abyss,"  said  Job. 
I  sprang  from  my  horse  to  cross  the  parapet  on  foot 
in  search  of  her,  when  I  heard  her  horse's  footsteps, 
and  the  next  moment  she  dashed  up  the  steep,  having 
failed  in  her  attempt,  and  stood  once  more  where  we 
had  parted.  The  sun  was  setting,  and  we  had  ten 
miles  to  ride,  and  impatient  of  her  obstinacy,  I  sharply 
ordered  her  to  go  up  the  ravine  at  speed,  and  cross  as 
we  had  done. 

I  think  I  never  shall  forget,  angry  as  I  was  at  the 
moment,  the  appearance  of  that  lovely  creature,  as 
she  resolutely  refused  to  obey  me.  Her  horse,  the 
same  fiery  Arabian  she  had  ridden  from  Sardis  (an 
animal  that,  except  when  she  was  on  his  back,  would 
scarce  have  sold  for  a  gold  sequin),  stood  with  head 
erect  and  panting  nostrils,  glancing  down  with  his 
wild  eyes  upon  the  abyss  into  which  he  had  been 
urged — the  whole  group,  horse  and  rider,  completely 
relieved  against  the  sky  from  the  isolated  mound  they 
occupied,  and,  at  this  instant,  the  gold  flood  of  the  set 
ting  sun  pouring  full  on  them  through  a  break  in  the 
masses  of  the  forest.  Her  own  fierce  attitude,  and 
beautiful  and  frowning  face,  the  thin  lip  curled  reso 
lutely,  and  the  brown  and  polished  cheek  deepened 
with  a  rosy  glow,  her  full  and  breathing  bosom  swell 
ing  beneath  its  jacket,  and  her  hair,  which  had  escaped 
from  the  turban,  flowing  over  her  neck  and  shoulders, 
and  mingling  with  the  loosened  fringes  of  red  and  gold 
in  rich  disorder — it  was  a  picture  which  the  pencil  of 
Martin  (and  it  would  have  suited  his  genius)  could 
scarce  have  exaggerated.  The  stately  half  Arabic, 
balf  Grecian  architecture  of  the  aqueducts,  and  the 


cold  and  frowning  tints  of  the  abyss  and  the  forese 
around,  would  have  left  him  nothing  to  add  to  it  as  a 
composition. 

I  was  crossing  the  giddy  edge  of  the  parapet,  look 
ing  well  to  my  feet,  with  the  intention  of  reasoning 
with  the  obstinate  being,  who,  vexed  at  my  reproaches 
and  her  own  failure,  was  now  in  as  pretty  a  rage  as 
myself,  when  I  heard  the  trampling  of  horses  in  the 
forest.  I  stopped  mid-way  to  listen,  and  presently 
there  sprang  a  horseman  up  the  bank  in  an  oriental 
costume,  with  pistols  and  ataghan  flashing  in  the 
sun,  and  a  cast  of  features  that  at  once  betrayed  his 
origin. 

"A  Zingara!"  I  shouted  back  to  Job. 

The  gipsy,  who  was  about  nineteen,  and  as  well- 
made  and  gallant  a  figure  for  a  man  as  Maimuna  for  a 
woman,  seemed  as  much  astonished  as  ourselves,  and 
sat  in  his  saddle  gazing  on  the  extraordinary  figure  I 
have  described,  evidently  recognising  one  of  his  own 
race,  but  probably  puz-zled  with  the  mixture  of  cos 
tumes,  and  struck  at  the  same  time  with  Maimuna's 
excessive  beauty.  Lovely  as  she  always  was,  I  had 
never  seen  her  to  such  advantage  as  now.  She  might 
have  come  from  fairy-land,  for  the  radiant  vision  she 
seemed  in  the  gold  of  that  burning  sunset. 

I  gazed  on  them  both  a  moment,  and  was  about 
finishing  my  traverse  of  the  parapet,  when  a  troop  of 
mounted  gips-ies  and  baggage-horses  came  up  the  bank 
at  a  quick  pace,  and  in  another  minute  Maimuna  was 
surrounded.  I  sprang  to  her  bridle,  and  apprehensive 
of,  I  scarce  knew  what  danger,  gave  her  one  of  the 
two  pistols  I  carried  always  in  my  bosom. 

The  gipsy  chief  (for  such  he  evidently  was)  meas 
ured  me  from  head  to  foot  with  a  look  of  dislike,  and 
speaking  for  the  first  time,  addressed  Maimuna  in  his 
own  language,  with  a  remark  which  sent  the  blood  to 
her  temples  with  a  suddenness  I  had  never  before 
seen. 

"  What  does  he  say  ?"  I  asked. 

"It  is  no  matter,  signore,  but  it  is  false!"  Her 
black  eyes  were  like  co;ils  of  fire,  as  she  spoke. 

"  Leave  your  horse,"  I  said  to  her,  in  a  low  tone, 
"  and  cross  the  parapet.  I  will  prevent  his  following 
you,  and  will  join  you  on  your  own  before  you  can 
reach  Constantinople.  Turn  the  horses'  heads  home 
ward!"  I  continued  in  English  to  Job,  who  was  crying 
out  to  me  from  the  other  side  to  come  baek. 

Maimuna  laid  her  hand  on  the  pommel  to  dismount, 
but  the  gipsy,  anticipating  her  motion,  touched  his 
horse  with  the  stirrup,  and  sprang  with  a  single  leap 
between  her  and  the  parapet.  The  troop  had  gath 
ered  into  a  circle  behind  us,  and  seeing  our  retreat 
thus  cut  off,  I  presented  my  pistol  to  the  young  chief, 
and  demanded,  in  Italian,  that  he  should  clear  the 
way. 

A  blow  from  behind,  the  instant  that  I  wns  pulling 
the  trigger,  sent  the  discharged  pistol  into  the  ravine, 
and,  in  the  same  instant,  Maimuna  dashed  her  horse 
against  the  unguarded  gipsy,  nearly  overturning  him 
into  the  abyss,  and  spurred  desperately  upon  the  para 
pet.  One  cry  from  the  whole  gipsy  troop,  and  then 
all  was  as  silent  as  the  grave,  except  the  click  of  her 
horse's  hoofs  on  the  marble  verge,  as,  trembling  pal 
pably  in  every  limb,  the  terrified  animal  crossed  the 
giddy  chasm  at  a  half  trot,  and,  in  the  next  minute, 
bounded  up  the  opposite  bank,  and  disappeared  with 
a  snort  of  fear  and  delight  amid  the  branches  of  the 
forest. 

What  with  horror  and  wonder,  and  the  shock  of  the 
blow  which  had  nearly  broken  my  arm,  I  stood  mo 
tionless  where  Maimuna  had  left  me,  till  the  gipsy,  re 
covering  from  his  amazement,  dismounted  and  put  his 
pistol  to  rny  breast. 

"Call  her  back!"  he  said  to  me,  in  very  good  Ital 
ian,  and  with  a  tone  in  which  rage  and  determination 
were  strangely  mingled,  "  or  you  die  where  you  stand  1" 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


78 


Without  regarding  his  threat,  I  looked  at  him,  with 
a  new  thought  stealing  into  my  mind.  He  probably 
read  the  pacific  change  in  my  feelings,  for  he  dropped 
his  arm,  and  the  frown  on  his  own  features  moderated 
to  a  steadfast  and  inquisitive  regard. 

"Zingara!"  I  said,  "Maimuna  is  my  slave." 

A  clutch  of  his  pistol-stock,  and  a  fiery  and  impa 
tient  look  from  his  fine  eyes,  interrupted  me  for  an  in 
stant.  I  proceeded  to  tell  him  briefly  how  I  had  ob 
tained  possession  of  her,  while  the  troop  gradually 
closed  around,  attracted  by  his  excessive  look  of  in 
terest  in  the  tale,  though  they  probably  did  not  under 
stand  the  language  in  which  I  spoke,  and  all  fixing 
their  wild  eyes  earnestly  on  my  face. 

"  And  now,  Zingara,"  I  said,  "I  will  bring  her  back 
on  one  condition — that,  when  the  offer  is  fairly  made 
her,  if  she  chooses  still   to  go  with  me,  she  shall  be  j 
free  to  do  so.     I   have  protected  her,  and  sworn  still  I 
to  protect  her  as  long  as  she  should  choose  to  cat  of  | 
my  bread.     Though  my  slave,  she  is  pure  and  guilt-  j 
less  as  when  she  left  the  tent  of  her  mother,  and  is 
worthy  of  the  bosom  of  an  emperor." 

The  Zingara  took  my  hand,  and  put  it  to  his  lips. 

"  You  agree  to  our  compact,  then  ?"  I  asked. 

He  put  his  hand  on  his  forehead,  and  then  laid  it, 
with  a  slight  inclination,  on  his  breast. 

"  She  can  not  have  gone  far,"  I  said,  and  stepping 
on  the  mound  above  the  parapet,  I  shouted  her  name 
till  the  woods  rang  again  with  the  echo. 

A  moment,  and  Job  and  Maimuna  came  riding  to  jj 
the  verge  of  the  opposite  hill,  and  with  a  few  words 
of  explanation,  fastened  their  horses  to  a  tree,   and 
crossed  to  us  by  the  parapet. 

The  chief  returned   his  pistols   to  his  girdle,  and 
stood  aside  while  I  spoke  to  Maimuna.     It  was  a  diffi 
cult  task,  but  I  felt  that  it  was  a  moment  decisive  of    i 
her  destiny,  and  the  responsibility  weighed  heavily  on 
my   breast.     Though  excessively  attached   to  her — 
though  she  had  been  endeared  to  me  by  sacrifices,  and  '! 
by   the  ties  of  protection — though,  in  short,  I  loved  ; 
her,  not  with  a  passion,  but  with  an  affection — as  a  : 
father  more  than  as  a  lover — I  still  felt  it  to  be  my  duty  j 
to  leave  no  means  untried  to  induce  her  to  abandon  j 
me,  to  return  to  her  own  people  and  remain  in  her  own   | 
land  of  the  sun.     What  her  fate  would  be  in  the  state  I 
of  society  to  which  I  must  else  introduce  her,  had 
been  eloquently  depicted  by  Job,  and  will  readily  be 
imagined  by  the  reader. 

After  the  first  burst  of  incredulity  and  astonishment 
at  my  proposal,  she  folded  her  arms  on  her  bosom, 
and,  with  the  tears  streaming  like  rain  over  her  jacket, 
listened  in  silence  and  with  averted  eyes.  I  conclu 
ded  with  representing  to  her,  in  rather  strong  colors, 
the  feelings  with  which  she  might  be  received  by  my 
friends,  and  the  difficulty  she  would  find  in  accojjimo- 
dating  herself  to  the  customs  of  people,  to  whom  not 
only  she  must  be  inferior  in  the  accomplishments  of 
a  woman,  but  who  might  find,  even  in  the  color  of  that 
loveliest  cheek,  a  reason  to  despise  her. 

Her  lip  curled  for  an  instant,  but  the  grief  in  her 
heart  was  stronger  than  the  scorn  for  an  imaginary 
wrong,  and  she  bowed  her  head  again,  and  her  tears 
flowed  on. 

I  was  silent  at  last,  and  she  looked  up  into  my  face. 

"  I  am  a  burthen  to  you,"  she  said. 

"  No,  dearest  Maimuna  !  no  !  but  if  I  were  to  see 
you  wretched  hereafter,  you  would  become  so.  Tell 
me!  the  chief  will  make  you  his  wife;  will  you  re 
join  your  people  ?" 

She  flung  herself  upon  the  ground,  and  wept  as  if 
her  heart  would  break.  I  thought  it  best  to  let  her 
feelings  have  away,  and  walking  apart  with  the  ymiiiu 
gipsy,  I  gave  him  more  of  the  particulars  of  her  his 
tory,  and  exacted  a  promise  that,  if  she  should  finally 
be  left  with  the  troop,  he  would  return  with  her  to  the 
tribe  of  her  mother,  at  Sardis. 


Maimuna  stood  gazing  fixedly  inlo  the  ravine  when 
we  turned  back,  and  there  was  an  erectness  in  her  at 
titude,  and  ajierte  in  the  air  of  her  head,  that,  I  must 
acknowledge,  promised  more  for  my  fears  than  my 
wishes.  Her  pride  was  roused,  it  was  easy  with  half 
a  glance  to  see. 

With  the  suddenness  of  oriental  passion,  the  young 
chief  had  become  already  enamored  of  her,  and,  with 
a  feeling  of  jealousy  which,  even  though  I  wished  him 
success,  I  could  not  control,  I  saw  him  kneel  at  her 
feet  and  plead  with  her  in  an  inaudible  tone.  She  had 
been  less  than  woman  if  she  had  been  insensible  to 
that  passionate  cadence,  and  the  imploring  earnest 
ness  of  the  noble  countenance  on  which  she  looked. 
It  was  evident  that  she  was  interested,  though  she 
began  with  scarce  deigning  to  lift  her  eyes  from  the 
ground. 

1  felt  a  sinking  of  the  heart  which  I  can  not  describe 
when  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  left  her  standing  alone. 
The  troop  had  withdrawn  at  his  command,  and  Job, 
to  whom  the  scene  was  too  painful,  had  recrossed  the 
parapet,  and  stood  by  his  horse's  head  waiting  the  re 
sult.  The  twilight  had  deepened,  the  forest  looked 
black  around  us,  and  a  single  star  sprang  into  the  sky, 
while  the  west  was  still  glowing  in  a  fast  purpling  gold 
and  crimson. 

"  Signore  !"  said  Maimuna,  walking  calmly  to  my 
hand,  which  I  stretched  instinctively  to  receive  her, 
"  I  am  breaking  my  heart ;  1  know  not  what  to  do." 

At  this  instant  a  faint  meteor  shot  over  the  sky,  and 
drew  its  reflection  across  the  calm  mirror  whose  verge 
we  were  approaching. 

"Stay  !"  she  cried  ;  "  the  next  shall  decide  the  fate 
of  Maimuna  !  If  it  cross  to  the  east,  the  will  of  Al 
lah  be  done  !  I  will  leave  you  !" 

I  called  to  the  gipsy,  and  we  stood  on  the  verge  of 
the  parapet  in  breathless  expectation.  The  darkness 
deepened  around  us,  the  abyss  grew  black  and  indis 
tinguishable,  and  the  night-birds  flitted  past  like  audi 
ble  shadows.  I  drew  Maimuna  to  my  bosom,  and 
with  my  hands  buried  in  her  long  hair,  pressed  her  to 
my  heart,  that  beat  as  painfully  and  as,  heavily  as  her 
own. 

A  sudden  shriek  !  She  started  from  my  bosom,  and 
as  she  fell  upon  the  earth,  my  eye  caught,  on  the  face 
of  the  mirror  from  which  I  had  forgetfully  withdrawn 
my  gaze,  the  vanishing  pencil  of  a  meteor,  drawn  like 
a  beam  of  the  sunset,  from  west  to  east! 

I  lifted  the  insensible  child,  impressed  one  long  kiss 
on  her  lips,  and  flinging  her  into  the  arms  of  the  gipsy, 
crossed  the  parapet,  and  rode,  with  a  speed  that  tried 
in  vain  to  outrun  my  anguish,  to  Constantinople. 


TOM  FANE  AND  I, 

"  Common  as  light  is  love, 


TOM  FANE'S  four  Canadian  ponies  were  whizzing 
his  light  phaeton  through  the  sand  at  a  rate  that  would 
have^put  spirits  into  anything  but  a  lover  absent  from 
his  mistress.  The  "  heaven-kissing"  pines  towered  on 
every  side  like  the  thousand  and  one  columns  of  the 
Paheologi  at  Constantinople  ;  their  flat  and  spreading 
tops  shutting  out  the  light  of  heaven  almost  as  effec 
tually  as  the  world  of  mussulmans,  mosques,  kiosks, 
bazars,  and  Giaours,  sustained  on  those  innumerable 
capitals,  darkens  the  subterranean  wonder  of  Stam- 
boul.  An  American  pine  forest  is  as  like  a  temple, 
and  a  sublime  one,  as  any  dream  that  ever  entered 
into  the  architectural  brain  of  the  slumbering  Martin. 
The  Yankee  methodists  in  their  camp-meetings,  have 


74 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


but  followed  an  irresistible  instinct  to  worship  God  in 
the  religious  dimness  of  these  interminable  aisles  of  the 
•wilderness. 

Tom  Fane  and  I  had  stoned  the  storks  together  in 
the  palace  of  Croesus  at  Sardis.  We  had  read  Anas- 
tasius  on  a  mufti's  tomb  in  the  Nekropolis  of  Scutari. 
We  had  burned  with  fig-fevers  in  the  same  caravanse 
rai  at  Smyrna.  We  had  cooled  our  hot  foreheads 
and  cursed  the  Greeks  in  emulous  Romaic  in  the  dim 
tomb  of  Agamemnon  at  Argos.  We  had  been  grave 
at  Paris,  and  merry  at  Rome  ;  and  we  had  pic-nic'd 
with  the  beauties  of  the  Fanar  in  the  Valley  of  Sweet 
Waters  in  pleasant  Roumelia  ;  and  when,  after  parting 
in  France,  he  had  returned  to  England  and  his  regi 
ment,  and  I  to  New  England  and  law,  whom  should 
I  meet  in  a  summer's  trip  to  the  St.  Lawrence  but 

Captain  Tom  Fane  of  the th,  quartered  at  the 

cliff'  perched  and  doughty  garrison  of  Quebec,  and 
ready  for  any  "  lark"  that  would  vary  the  monotony 
of  duly  ! 

Having  eaten  seven  mess-dinners,  driven  to  the 
falls  of  Montmorenci,  and  paid  my  respects  to  Lord 
Dalhousie,  the  hospitable  and  able  governor  of  the 
Canadas,  Quebec  had  no  longer  a  temptation  :  and 
obeying  a  magnet,  of  which  more  anon,  I  announced 
to  Fane  that  my  traps  were  packed,  and  my  heart  sent 
on,  a  Uavimt  courier,  to  Saratoga. 

"  Is  she  pretty  ?"  said  Tom. 

"  As  the  starry-eyed  Circassian  we  gazed  at  through 
the  grill  in  the  slave-market  at  Constantinople  !"- — 
(Heaven  and  my  mistress  forgive  me  for  the  compari 
son  ! — but  it  conveyed  more  to  Tom  Fane  than  a  folio 
of  more  respectful  similitudes.) 

"  Have  you  any  objection  to  be  dnuvn  to  your  lady 
love  by  four  cattle  that  would  buy  the  soul  of  Osbal- 
dislon  ?" 

"  'Objection  !'  quotha  ?" 

The  next  morning,  four  double-jointed  and  well- 
groomed  ponies  were  munching  their  corn  in  the  bow 
of  a  steamer,  upon  the  St.  Lawrence,  wondering  pos 
sibly  what,  in  the  name  of  Bucephalus,  had  set  the 
hills  and  churches  flying  at  such  a  rate  down  the  river. 
The  hills  and  churches  carne  to  a  stand-still  with  the 
steamer  opposite  Montreal,  and  the  ponies  were  landed 
and  put  to  their  mettle  for  some  twenty  miles,  where 
they  were  destined  to  be  astonished  by  a  similar  flying 
phenomenon  in  the  mountains  girding  the  lengthening 
waters  of  Lake  Champlain.  Landed  at  Ticonderoga, 
a  few  miles'  trot  brought  them  to  Lake  George  and  a 
third  steamer,  and,  with  a  winding  passage  among 
green  islands  and  overhanging  precipices  loaded  like 
a  harvest-wagon  with  vegetation,  we  made  our  last 
landing  on  the  edge  of  the  pine  forest,  where  our  story 
opens. 

"  Well,  I  must  object,''  says  Tom,  setting  his  whip 
in  the  socket,  and  edging  round  upon  his  driving-box, 
"I  must  object  to  this  republican  gravity  of  yours.  I 
should  take  it  for  melancholy,  did  I  not  know  it  was 
the  '  complexion'  of  your  never-smiling  countrymen." 

"  Spare  me,  Tom  !  '  I  see  a  hand  you  can  not  see.' 
Talk  to  your  ponies,  and  let  me  be  miserable,  if  you 
love  me." 

"  For  what,  in  the  name  of  common  sense  ?  Are 
you  not  within  five  hours  of  your  mistress?  Is  not 
this  cursed  sand  your  natal  soil  ?  Do  not 

'  The  pine-boughs  sing 
Old  songs  with  new  gladness  ?' 

and  in  the  years  that  we  have  dangled  about,  '  here- 
and-there-ians'  together,  were  you  ever  before  grave, 
sad,  or  sulky  ?  and  will  you  without  a  precedent,  and 
you  a  lawyer,  inflict  your  stupidity  upon  me  for  the 
first  time  in  this  waste,  and  being-less  solitude  ?  Half 
an  hour  more  of  the  dread  silence  of  this  forest,  and 
it  will  not  need  the  horn  of  Astolpho  to  set  me  irre 
mediably  mad  1" 


"  If  employment  will  save  your  wits,  you  may  in 
vent  a  scheme  for  marrying  the  son  of  a  poor  gentle 
man  to  the  ward  of  a  rich  trader  in  rice  and  molas 
ses." 

"  The  programme  of  our  approaching  campaign,  I 
presume  ?" 

"  Simply." 

"  Is  the  lady  willing  ?" 

"  I  would  fain  believe  so." 

"  Is  Mr.  Popkins  unwilling  ?" 

"As  the  most  romantic  lover  could  desire." 

"And  the  state  of  the  campaign  ?" 

"  Why,  thus  :  Mr.  George  Washington  Jefferson 
Frump,  whom  you  have  irreverently  called  Mr.  Pop- 
kins,  is  sole  guardian  to  the  daughter  of  a  dead  West 
Indian  planter,  of  whom  lie  was  once  the  agent.  ]  fell 
in  love  with  Kate  Lorimer  from  description,  when  she 
was  at  school  with  my  sister,  saw  her  by  favor  of  a 
garden-wall,  and  after  the  us>n!  vows — ' 

"  Too  romantic  for  a  Yankee,  by  half!" 

" — Proposed  bv  letter  to  Mr.  Frump." 

"Oh,  bathos!" 

"  He  refused  me." 

"  Because " 

"Imprimis,  I  was  not  myself  in  the  'sugar  line, 'and 
in  secundis,  my  father  wore  gloves  and  'did  nothing 
for  a  living' — two  blots  in  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Frump, 
which  all  the  waters  of  Niagara  would  never  wash  from 
my  escutcheon." 

"And  what  the  devil  hindered  you  from  running  off 
with  her  ?" 

"  Fifty  shares  in  the  Manhattan  Insurance  Compa 
ny,  a  gold  mine  in  Florida,  Heaven  knows  how  many 
hogsheads  of  treacle,  and  a  million  of  acres  on  the 
banks  of  the  Missouri." 

" 'Pluto's  flame-colored  daughter' defend  us!  what 
a  living  El  Dorado  !" 

"  All  of  which  she  forfeits  if  she  marries  without  old 
Frump's  consent." 

"  I  see — I  see  !  And  this  lo  and  her  Argus  are  now 
drinking  the  waters  at  Saratoga  ?" 

"Even  so." 

"  I'll  bet  you  my  four-in-hand  to  a  sonnet,  that  I  get 
her  for  you  before  the  season  is  over." 

"  Money  and  all  ?" 

"  Mines,  molasses,  and  Missouri  acres  !" 

"And  if  you  do,  Tom,  I'll  aive  you  a  team  of  Vir 
ginian  bloods  that  would  astonish  Ascot,  and  throw  you 
into  the  bargain  a  forgiveness  for  riding  over  me  with 
j  your  camel  on  the  banks  of  the  Hermus." 

"  Santa  Maria  !  do  you  remember  that  spongy  foot 
stepping  over  your  frontispiece  ?  I  had  already  cast 
my  eyes  up  to  Mont  Sypilus  to  choose  a  clean  niche 
for  you  out  of  the  rock-hewn  tombs  of  the  kings  of 
Lydia.  I  thought  you  would  sleep  with  Alyattis, 
Phil  !" 

We  dashed  on  through  dark  foiest  and  open  clear 
ing,  through  glens  of  tangled  cedar  and  wild  vine,  over 
log  bridges,  corduroy  marshes,  and  sand  hills,  till,  tow 
ard  evening,  a  scattering  shanty  or  two,  and  an  occa 
sional  sound  of  a  woodman's  axe, 'betokened  our  vi 
cinity  to  Saratoga.  A  turn  around  a  clump  of  tall  pines 
brought  us  immediately  into  the  broad  street  of  the 
village,  and  the  flaunting  shops,  the  overgrown,  un 
sightly  hotels,  riddled  with  windows  like  honeycombs, 
the  fashionable  idlers  out  for  their  evening  lounge  to 
the  waters,  the  indolent  smokers  on  the  colonnades, 
and  the  dusty  and  loaded  coaches  driving  from  door 
to  door  in  search  of  lodgings,  formed  the  usual  evening 
picture  of  the  Bath  of  America. 

As  it  was  necessary  to  Tom's  plan  that  my  arrival 
afeSaratoga  should  not  be  known,  he  pulled  up  at  a 
small  tavern  at  the  entrance  of  the  street,  find  drop 
ping  me  and  my  baggage,  drove  on  to  Congress  Hall, 
with  my  best  prayers,  and  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
my  sister,  whom  1  had  left  on  her  way  to  the  Springs 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


75 


with  a  party  at  my  departure  for  Montreal.  Unwil 
ling  to  remain  in  such  a  tantalizing  vicinity,  I  hired  a 
chaise  the  next  morning,  and  despatching  a  note  to 
Tom,  drove  to  seek  a  retreat  at  Barhydl's — a  spot  that 
can  not  well  be  described  in  the  tail  of  a  paragraph. 
Herr  Barhydt  is  an  old  Dutch  settler,  who,  till  the  Ij 


the  forest,  three  thousand  and  more  miles  from  thy 
smoky  whereabout,  meihinks  it  would  warm  up  the 
flush  of  pleasure  around  thine  eyelids,  though  the 
"  golden-tressed  Adelaide"  were  waiting  her  good- 
nisht  kisses  at  thy  knee  ! 
'  ould  stand  it  no  longer.  On  the  second  evening 


_______  ________ 

ineral  springs  of  Saratoga  were  discovered  some  five  ||  of  my  seclusion,  I  made  bold  to  borrow  •  olid  Barhydt's 


miles  fiom  hisdoor,  was  buried  in  the  depth  of  a  forest 
solitude,  unknown  to  all  but  the  prow  I'm"  Indian.  The 
sky  is  supported  above  him  (or  looks  to  be)  by  a  wil 
derness  of  straight,  columnar  pine  shafts,  gigantic  in 
girth,  and  with  no  foliage  except  at  the  top,  where 
they  branch  out  like  round  tables  spread  for  a  banquet 


superannuated  roadster,  and  getting  up  the  steam  with 
infinite  difficulty  in  his  rickety  engine,  higgled  away, 
with  a  pace  to  which  I  could  not  venture  to  affix  a 
name,  to  the  gay  scenes  of  Saratoga. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  I  dismounted  at  the  stable 
in  Congress  Hall,  and,  giving  der  Teitfel,  as  ihe  old 


in  the  clouds.     A  small  ear  shaped  lake. sunk  as  deep  i;  man  ambitiously  styled  his  steed,  to  the  hands  of  the 


into  the  earth  as  the  firs  shoot  above  it,  black  as  Ere 
bus  in  the  dim  shadow  of  it.s  hilly  shore  and  the  ob 
structed  light  of  the  trees  that  nearly  meet  over  if,  and 
clear  and  unbroken  as  a  mirror,  save  the  pearl  spot 


ostler,  stole  round  through  the  garden  to  the  eastern 
colonnade. 

I  feel   called   upon  to  describe  "Congress  Hall." 
Some  fourteen  or  fifteen  millions  of  white  gentlemen 


of  the  thousand  lotuses  holding  up  their  cups  to  the  and  ladies  consider  that  wooden  and  windowed  Baby- 
blue  eye  of  heaven  that  peers  through  the  leafy  vault,  i|  Ion  as  the  proper  palace  ol  Delight— a  sojourn  to  be 
sleeps  beneath  his  window  ;  and  around  him,  in  the1:  sighed  for,  and  sacrificed  for,  and  economized  loi- 
forest,  lies,  still  unbroken,  the  elastic  and  brown  carpet  i|  the  birthplace  of  Love,  the  haunt  of  Hymen,  ihe  arena 
of  the  faded  pine  tassels,  deposited  in  yearly  layers  of  fashion— a  place  without  which  a  new  lease  ol  I  lie 
since  the  continent  rose  from  the  flood,  and  footed  a  ii  were  valueless— for  which,  if  the  conjuring  cap  o  King 
foot  beneath  the  surf. cc  to  a  rich  mould  that  would  ;  Erricus  itself  could  not  furnish  a  season  ticker,  it 
fatten  the  Svmp!e"laJes  to  a  (lower-garden.  With  his  'i  might  lie  on  a  lady's  toilet  as  unnoticed  as  a  bride  s 
black  tarn  well  .stocked  with  trout,  his  bit  of  a  farm  nisiht-cap  a  twelvemonth  after  marriage.  J  say  to  my- 


betwee 


as  the  old  Dutch  inhabitants  dropped  faster  away,  saw 
never  a  white  human  face  from  one  maple-blossoming 
to  another. 

A  roving  mineralogist  tasted  the  waters  of  Saratoga, 
and,  like  the  work  of  a  lath-and-plaster  Aladdin,  up  j 


a  campaign  of  pleasure  you  are  losing  in  America — 
!  what  belles  than  the  bluebell  slighter  and  fairer — what 
hearts  than  the  dewdrops  fresher  and  clearer — are  liv 
ing  their  pretty  hour,  like  gems  undived  for  in  the 
ocean— what  loads  of  foliage,  what  Titans  of  trees, 
what  glorious  wildernesses  of  rocks  and  waters,  are 


ana,  line    me  wun*   «>i    <>   miu-«iuu  ,      .  .. 

sprmi"  a  thrivin<r  villas  around  the  fountain's  lip,  and  !]  lavishing  their  splendors  on  the  clouds  that  sail  mer 
hotels? tin  tumblers,  and  apothecaries,  multiplied  in  the  '!  them,  and  all  within  the  magic  circle  ol  winch  Con- 
usual  proportion  to  each  other,  but  out  of  all  prece-  ij  gress  Hall  is  the  centre,  and  which  a  circl  n«  dove 


proporton  to  eac  oter,  ut  out  o  a  prece 
de:it,  with  everything  else  for  rapidity.  Libraries, 
uewspipers,  churches",  livery  stables,  and  lawyers,  fol 
lowed  in  their  train  ;  and  it  was  soon  established,  from 
the  plains  of  Abr  mam  to  the  savannahs  of  Alabama, 
th.it  no  person  of  fashionable  taste  or  broken  constitu 
tion  could  exist  through  the  months  of  July  and  Au 
gust  without  a  visit  to  the  chalybeate  springs  and  pop 
ulous  village  of  Saratoga.  It  contained  seven  thoti- 


would  measure  to  get  an  appetite  for  his  breakfast — if 
you  but  knew  this,  my  lord,  as  I  know  it,  you  would 
not  be  gazing  so  vacantly  on  the  steps  of  Crockford's, 
nor  consider  'the  graybeard'  such  a  laggard  in  his 
hours  !" 

Congress  Hall  is  a  wooden  building,  of  which  the 
size  and  capacity  could  never  be  definitely  ascertained. 
It  is  built  on  a  slight  elevation,  just  above  the  strongly- 
ime  it  bears,  with  little  at- 


Mod  inhabitants   In-fore '  Herr  Barhvdt,  living  in   his  !|  impregnated  spring  tvhose  na 

wooded  seclusion  only  five  miles  off.'became  aware  of  ! !  tempt  at  architecture,  save  a  spacious  and  vme-covera 

its  existence.     A  pair  of  lovers,  philandering  about  the  ||  colonnade,  serving  as  a  promenade  on  either  side 

in  uon  him  one  June  'l  two  wings,  the  extremities  of  which  are  losr in  the  d 


forest  on   horseback,  popped  in  upon  him  one  June     two  wings,  me  exiremu.es  o,  »  .—  -  ••-  — 

mornin-,  an  I  thenceforth  there  was  no  rest  for  theljtance.  A  relic  or  two  ol  the  still-astonished  forest 
soul  of  "the  Dutchman.  Everybody  rode  down  to  eat  :  towers  above  the  chimneys,  in  the  shape  of  a  melan- 
his  trout  and  make  love  in  the  dark  sha  les  of  hi.  mir-  j ,  choly  group  of  firs  ;  and,  five  minutes'  walk  from  the 
roreJ  1 1*00:1;  an  I  at  last,  in  self-defence,  he  added  a  j  door,  the  dim  old  wilderness  stands  looking  down  on 
room  or" two  to  his  shanty,  enclosed  his  cabbage-gar-  !l  the  village  in  its  primeval  grandeur,  like  the  sp.r.i 


- 

e  j   the  wronged  Indians,  whose  tracks  are  scarce  van, 

s     from  the  sand.     In  the  Strength  ol   the  summer  sol- 


den,  anJ    put   a   price  upon  his  trout-dinners.     Th 
traveller  now-a-days  who  has  not  dined  at  Barhydt 


iruiu    111*111:,  niiiu   11    iimnwiww  ,*s,j   ...  -      .  .  ,,.;iioii'f 

complexion  of  anything  about  me,  I  waited  Tom's  op-  ij  Mr.  Westcott,  the  obliging  proprieloi    «  , 
eration,  with  a  lover's  usual  patience.     Barhydt's  visit-  l!  preference  of  rooms,  on  my  next  annu.il  visit, 
ree  o'clock,  and  the  j!  just  and  honorable  mention. 


for  this 


before  two 


ani  mused  upon  in  those  dim  and  whispering  aisles  of  [j 


a  waltz  m 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


the  candles  quiver,  and  the  pines  tremble  audibly  in 
their  tassels.  The  ballroom  was  on  the  ground  floor, 
and  the  colonnade  upon  the  garden  side  was  crowded 
with  spectators,  a  row  of  grinning  black  fellows  edging 
the  cluster  of  heads  at  every  window,  and  keeping 
time  with  their  hands  and  feet  in  the  irresistible  sym 
pathy  of  their  music-loving  natures.  Drawing  my  hat 
over  my  eyes,  I  stood  at  the  least-thronged  window, 
and  concealing  my  face  in  the  curtain,  waited  impa-  j 
tiently  for  the,  appearance  of  the  dancers. 

The  bevy  in  the  drawing-room  was  sufficiently  i 
strong  at  last,  and  the  lady  patronesses,  handed  in  by 
a  state  governor  or  two,  and  here  and  there  a  member 
of  congress,  achieved  the  entree  with  their  usual  intre 
pidity.  Followed  beaux  and  followed  belles.  Such 
belles  !  Slight,  delicate,  fragile-looking  creatures,  ele 
gant  as  Retzsch's  angels,  warm-eyed  as  Mohammedan 
houries,  yet  timid  as  the  antelope  whose  hazel  orbs 
they  eclipse,  limbed  like  nothing  earthly  except  an 
American  woman — I  would  rather  not  go  on  !  When 
I  speak  of  the  beauty  of  my  countrywomen,  my  heart 
swells.  I  do  believe  the  New  World  has  a  newer 
mould  for  its  mothers  and  daughters.  I  think  I  am 
not  prejudiced.  I  have  been  years  away.  I  have 
sighed  in  France  ;  I  have  loved  in  Italy  ;  I  have  bar 
gained  for  Circassians  in  an  eastern  bezestein,  and  I 
have  lounged  at  Howell  and  James's  on  a  sunny  day 
in  the  season  ;  and  my  eye  is  trained,  and  my  percep 
tions  quickened  :  but  I  do  think  (honor  bright !  and 
Heath's  "  Book  of  Beauty"  forgiving  me)  that  there 
is  no  such  beautiful  work  of  God  under  the  arch  of 
the  sky  as  an  American  girl  in  her  bellehood. 

Enter  Tom  Fane  in  a  Stultz  coat  and    Sparding 
tights,  looking  as  a  man  who  had  been  the  mirror  of 
Bond  street  might  be  supposed  to  look,  a  thousand 
leagues  from  his  club-house.     She  leaned  on  his  arm. 
I  had  never  seen  her  half  so  lovely.     Fresh  and  calm 
from  the  seclusion  of  her  chamber,  her  transparent 
cheek  was  just  tinged  with  the  first  mounting  blood, 
from  the   excitement  of  lights  and  music.     Her  lips 
were   slightly   parted,   her  fine-lined   eyebrows  were 
arched  with  a  girlish  surprise,  and  her  ungloved  arm 
lay    carelessly   and    confidingly  within   his,  as  white,  I 
round,  and  slender,  as  if  Canova  had  wrought  it  in 
Parian   for  his   Psyche.     If  you  have  never  seen  a  i 
beauty  of  northern  blood  nurtured  in  a  southern  clime,  • 
the  cold  fairness  of  her  race  wanned  up  as  if  it  had  ! 
been  steeped  in  some  golden  sunset,  and  her  deep  blue  ! 
eye  darkened  and  filled  with  a  fire  as  unnaturally  re 
splendent  as  the  fusion  of  crysoprase  into  a  diamond, 
and  if  you  have  never  known  the  corresponding  con-  i 
trast  in  the  character,  the  intelligence  and  constancy 
of  the  north  kindling  with  the  enthusiasm  and  impulse, 
the  passionateness  and  the  abandon  of  a  more  burning 
latitude — you  have   seen   nothing,  let   me   insinuate, 
though  you   "  have   been  i'  the  Indies  twice,"  that 
could  give  you  an  idea  of  Kate  Lorimer. 

She  waltzed,  and  then  Tom  danced  with  my  sister, 
and  then,  resigning  her  to  another  partner,  he  offered 
his  arm  again  to  Miss  Lorimer,  and  left  the  ballroom 
with  several  other  couples  for  a  turn  in  the  fresh  air 
of  the  colonnade.  I  was  not  jealous,  but  I  felt  un 
pleasantly  at  his  returning  to  her  so  immediately.  He 
was  the  handsomest  man,  out  of  all  comparison,  in  the 
room,  and  he  had  dimmed  my  star  too  often  in  our 
rambles  in  Europe  and  Asia,  not  to  suggest  a  thought,  j 
at  least,  that  the  same  pleasant  eclipse  might  occur  in  ! 
our  American  astronomy.  1  stepped  off  the  colonnade, 
and  took  a  turn  in  the  garden. 

Those  "children  of  eternity,"  as  Walter  Savage 
Landor  poetically  calls  "  the  breezes,"  performed  their 
soothing  ministry  upon  my  temples,  and  I  replaced 
Tom  in  my  confidence  with  an  heroic  effort,  and  turned 
back.  A  swing  hung  between  two  gigantic  pines,  just 
under  the  balustrade,  and  flinging  myself  into  the  cush 
ioned  seat,  I  abandoned  myself  to  the  musings  natural  i 


to  a  person  "  in  my  situation."  The  sentimentalizing 
promenaders  lounged  backward  and  forward  above  me, 
and  not  hearing  Tom's  drawl  among  them,  I  presumed 
he  had  returned  to  the  ballroom.  A  lady  and  gentle 
man,  walking  in  silence,  stopped  presently,  and  leaned 
upon  the  railing  opposite  the  swing.  They  stood  a 
moment,  looking  into  the  dim  shadow  of  the  pine- 
grove,  and  then  a  voice,  that  I  knew  better  than  my 
own,  remarked  in  a  low  and  silvery  tone  upon  the 
beauty  of  the  night. 

She  was  not  answered,  and  after  a  moment's  pause, 
as  if  resuming  a  conversation  that  had  been  interrupted, 
she  turned  very  earnestly  to  her  companion,  and  asked, 
"Are  you  sure,  quite  sure,  that  you  could  venture  to 
marry  without  a  fortune  ?" 

"  Quite,  dear  Miss  Lorimer  !" 

I  started  from  the  swing,  but  before  the  words  of 
execration  that  rushed  choking  from  my  heart  could 
struggle  to  my  lips,  they  had  mingled  with  the  crowd 
and  vanished. 

I  strode  down  the  garden-walk  in  a  phrensy  of  pas 
sion.  Should  I  call  him  immediately  to  account  ? 
Should  I  rush  into  the  ballroom  and  accuse  him  of 
his  treachery  to  her  face  ?  Should  1  drown  myself  in 
old  Barhydt's  tarn,  or  join  an  Indian  tribe,  and  make 
war  upon  the  whites  ?  Or  should  I — could  I — be  mag 
nanimous — and  write  him  a  note  immediately,  offering 
to  be  his  groomsman  at  the  wedding  ? 

I  stepped  into  the  punch-room,  asked  for  pen,  ink, 
and  paper,  and  indited  the  following  note  : — 

"  DEAR  TOM  :  If  your  approaching  nuptials  are  to 
be  sufficiently  public  to  admit  of  a  groomsman,  you 
will  make  me  the  happiest  of  friends  by  selecting  me 
for  that  office. 


Yours  ever  truly, 


PHII 


Having  despatched  it  to  his  room,  T  flew  to  the  stable, 
roused  der  Teufcl,  who  had  gathered  up  his  legs  in  the 
straw  for  the  night,  flogged  him  furiously  out  of  the 
village,  and  giving  him  the  rein  as  he  entered  the  for 
est,  enjoyed  the  scenery  in  the  humor  of  mad  old  Hie- 
ronymo  in  the  Spanish  tragedy — "  the  moon  dark,  the 
stars  extinct,  the  winds  blowing,  the  owls  shrieking, 
the  toads  croaking,  the  minutes  jarring,  and  the  clock 
striking  twelve  !'' 

Early  the  next  day  Tom's  "  tiger"  dismounted  at 
Barhydt's  door,  with  an  answer  to  my  note,  as  fol 
lows  : — 

"  DEAR  PHIL  :  The  devil  must  have  informed  you 
of  a  secret  I  supposed  safe  from  all  the  world.  Be  as 
sured  I  should  have  chosen  no  one  but  yourself  to 
support  me  on  the  occasion  ;  and  however  you  have 
discovered  my  design  upon  your  treasure,  a  thousand 
thanks  for  your  generous  consent.  I  expected  no  less 
from  your  noble  nature. 

"  Yours  devotedly, 

"  TOM. 

"  P.  S. — I  shall  endeavor  to  be  at  Barhydt's,  with 
materials  for  the  fifth  act  of  our  comedy,  to-morrow 
morning." 

"  '  Comedy  !'  call  you  this,  Mr.  Fane  ?"  I  felt  my 
heart  turn  black  as  I  threw  down  the  letter.  After  a 
thousand  plans  of  revenge  formed  and  abandoned — 
borrowing  old  Barhydt's  rifles,  loading  them  deliber 
ately,  and  discharging  them  again  into  the  air — J  flung 
myself  exhausted  on  the  bed,  and  reasoned  myself  back 
to  my  magnanimity.  I  would  be  his  groomsman  ! 

•It  was  a  morning  like  the  burst  of  a  millennium  on 
the  world.  I  felt  as  if  I  should  never  forgive  the  birds 
for  their  mocking  enjoyment  of  it.  The  wild  heron 
swung  up  from  the  reeds,  the  lotuses  shook  out  their 
dew  into  the  lake  as  the  breeze  stirred  ihejn,  and  the 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


77 


senseless  old  Dutchman  sat  fishing  in  his  canoe,  sing 
ing  one  of  his  unintelligible  psalms  to  a  quick  measure 
that  half  maddened  me.  I  threw  myself  upon  the 
yielding  floor  of  pine-tassels  on  the  edge  of  the  lake, 
and  with  the  wretched  school  philosophy,  "&z  grams 
est,  breris  est,"  endeavored  to  put  down  the  tempest 
of  my  feelings. 

A  carriage  rattled  over  the  little  bridge,  mounted  the 
ascent  rapidly,  and  brought  up  at  Barhydt's  door. 

"  Phil !"  shouted  Tom,  "  Phil !" 

1  gulped  down  a  choking  sensation  in  my  throat,  and 
rushed  up  the  bank  to  him.  A  stranger  was  dismount 
ing  from  his  horse. 

"  Quick  !"  said  Tom,  shaking  my  hand  hurriedly — 
"  there  is  no  time  to  lose.  Out  with  your  inkhorn, 
Mr.  Poppletree,  and  have  yojur  papers  signed  while  I 
tie  up  my  ponies." 

"  What  is  this,  sir  ?"  said  I,  starting  back  as  the 
stranger  deliberately  presented  me  with  a  paper,  in 
which  my  own  name  was  written  in  conspicuous  let 
ters. 

The  magistrate  gazed  at  me  with  a  look  of  aston 
ishment.  "A  contract  of  marriage,  I  think,  between 
Mr.  Philip  Slingsby  and  Miss  Katherine  Lorimer,  spin 
ster.  Are  you  the  gentleman  named  in  that  instrument, 
sir?" 

At  this  moment  my  sister,  leading  the  blushing  girl 
by  the  hand,  came  and  threw  her  arms  about  my  neck, 
and  drawing  her  within  my  reach,  ran  off  and  left  us 
together. 

There  are  some  pure  moments  in  this  life  that  de 
scription  would  only  profane. 

We  were  married  by  the  village  magistrate  in  that 
magnificent  sanctuary  of  the  forest,  old  Barhydt  and 
his  lotuses  the  only  indifferent  witnesses  of  vows  as 
passionate  as  ever  trembled  upon  human  lips. 

I  had  scarce  pressed  her  to  my  heart  and  dashed  the 
tears  from  my  eyes,  when  Fane,  who  had  looked  more 
at  my  sister  than  at  the  bride  during  the  ceremony,  left 
her  suddenly,  and  thrusting  a  roll  of  parchment  into 
my  pocket,  ran  off  to  bring  up  his  ponies.  I  was  on 
the  way  to  Saratoga,  a  married  man,  and  my  bride  on 
the  seat  beside  me,  before  I  had  recovered  from  my 
astonishment. 

"  Pray,"  said  Tom,  "  if  it  be  not  an  impertinent 
question,  and  you  can  find  breath  in  your  ecstasies, 
how  did  you  find  out  that  your  sister  had  done  me 
the  honor  to  accept  the  offer  of  my  hand  ?" 

The  resounding  woods  rung  with  his  unmerciful 
laughter  at  the  explanation. 

"And  pray,"  said  I,  in  my  turn,  "if  it  is  not  an  im 
pertinent  question,  and  you  can  find  a  spare  breath  in  j 
your  ecstasies,  by  what  magic  did  you  persuade  old 
Frump  to  trust  his  ward  and  her  title-deeds  in  your 
treacherous  keeping  ?" 

"  It  is  a  long  story,  my  dear  Phil,  and  I  will  give*you 
the  particulars  when  you  pay  rne  the  *  Virginia  bloods'  ! 
you  wot  of.    Suffice  it  for  the  present,  that  Mr.  Frump 
believes  Mr.  Tom  Fane  (alias  Jacob  Phipps,  Esq., 
sleeping  partner  of  a  banking-house  at  Liverpool)  to 
be  the  accepted  suitor  of  his  fair  ward.     In  his  extreme 
delight  at  seeing  her  in  so  fair  a  way  to  marry  into  a  \', 
bank,  he  generously  made  her  a  present  of  her  own 
fortune,  signed  over  his  right  to  control  it  by  a  docu-  \t 
merit  in  your  possession,  and  will  undergo  as  agreeable  jj 
a  surprise  in  about  five  minutes  as  the  greatest  lover 
of  excitement  could  desire." 

The  ponies  dashed  on.  The  sandy  ascent  by  the 
Pavilion  Spring  was  surmounted,  and  in  another  min 
ute  we  were  at  the  door  of  Congress  Hall.  The  last 
stragglers  from  the  breakfast-table  were  lounging  down 
the  colonnade,  and  old  Frump  sat  reading  the  newspa 
per  under  the  portico. 

"Aha!  Mr.  Phipps,"  said  he,  as  Tom  drove  up — 
"  back  so  soon,  eh  ?  Why,  I  thought  you  and  Kitty 
would  be  billing  it  till  dinner-time  !" 


"  Sir  !"  said  Tom,  very  gravely,  "  you  have  the  hon 
or  of  addressing  Captain  Thomas  Fane,  of  his  majesty's 
— th  Fusileers  ;  and  whenever  you  have  a  moment's 
leisure,  I  shall  be  happy  to  submit  to  your  perusal  a 
certificate  of  the  marriage  of  Miss  Katherine  Lorimer 
to  the  gentleman  I  have  the  pleasure  to  present  to  you. 
Mr.  Frump,  Mr.  Slingsby  !" 

At  the  mention  of  my  name,  the  blood  in  Mr. 
Frump's  ruddy  complexion  turned  suddenly  to  the 
color  of  the  Tiber.  Poetry  alone  can  express  the 
feeling  pictured  in  his  countenance  : — 

"  If  every  atom  of  a  dead  man's  flesh 
Should  creep,  each  one  with  a  particular  life, 
Yet  all  as  cold  as  ever — 'twas  just  so  : 
Or  had  it  drizzled  needle-points  of  frost, 
Upon  a  feverish  head  made  suddenly  bald.'' 

George  Washington  Jefferson  Frump,  Esq.,  left 
Congress  Hall  the  same  evening,  and  has  since  ungra 
ciously  refused  an  invitation  to  Captain  Fane's  wedding 
— possibly  from  his  having  neglected  to  invite  him  on 
a  similar  occasion  at  Saratoga.  This  last,  however,  I 
am  free  to  say,  is  a  gratuitous  supposition  of  my  own. 


LARKS  IN  VACATION, 

CHAPTER  I. 

DRIVING     STANHOPE     PRO     TEM. 

IN  the  edge  of  a  June  evening  in  the  summer  vaca 
tion  of  1827,  I  was  set  down  by  the  coach  at  the  gate 
of  my  friend  Horace  Van  Pelt's  paternal  mansion — a 
large,  old-fashioned,  comfortable  Dutch  house,  cling 
ing  to  the  side  of  one  of  the  most  romantic  dells  on 
the  North  river.  In  the  absence  of  his  whole  family 
on  the  summer  excursion  to  the  falls  and  lakes  (taken 
by  almost  every  "  well-to-do"  citizen  of  the  United 
States),  Horace  was  emperor  of  the  long-descended, 
and  as  progressively  enriched  domain  of  one  of  the 
earliest  Dutch  settlers — a  brief  authority  which  he  ex 
ercised  more  particularly  over  an  extensive  stud,  and 
bins  number  one  and  two. 

The  west  was  piled  with  gold  castles,  breaking  up 
the  horizon  with  their  burnished  pinnacles  and  turrets, 
the  fragrant  dampness  of  the  thunder-shower  that  had 
followed  the  heat  of  noon  was  in  the  air,  and  in  a  low 
room,  whose  floor  opened  out  so  exactly  upon  the 
shaven  sward,  that  a  blind  man  would  not  have  known 
when  he  passed  from  the  heavily-piled  carpet  to  the 
grass,  I  found  Horace  sitting  over  his  olives  and  claret, 
having  waited  dinner  for  me  till  five  (long  beyond  the 
latest  American  hour),  and,  in  despair  of  my  arrival, 
having  dined  without  me.  The  old  black  cook  was 
too  happy  to  vary  her  vocation  by  getting  a  second 
dinner ;  and  when  I  had  appeased  my  appetite,  and 
overtake  my  friend  in  his  claret,  we  sat  with  the 
moonlight  breaking  across  a  vine  at  our  feet,  and  cof 
fee  worthy  of  a  filagree  cup  in  the  Bezestein,  and  de 
bated,  amid  a  true  cmbarras  dcs  rickcsses,  our  plans 
for  the  next  week's  amusement. 

The  seven  days  wore  on,  merrily  at  first,  but  each 
succeeding  one  growing  less  merry  than  the  last.  By 
the  fifth  eve  of  my  sojourn,  we  had  exhausted  variety. 
All  sorts  of  headaches  and  megrims  in  the  morning, 
all  sorts  of  birds,  beasts,  and  fishes,  for  dinner,  all  sorts 
of  accidents  in  all  sorts  of  vehicles,  left  us  on  the  sev 
enth  day  out  of  sorts  altogether.  We  were  two  dis 
contented  Rasselasesin  the  Happy  Valley.  Rejoicing 
as  we  were  in  vacation,  it  would  have  been  a  relic!  to 
have  had  a  recitation  to  read  up,  or  a  prayer-bell  to 
mark  the  time.  Two  idle  sophomores  in  a  rambling, 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


lonely  old  mansion,  were,  we  discovered,  a  very  insuf 
ficient  dramatis  persona  for  the  scene. 

It  was  Saturday  night.  A  violent  clap  of  thunder 
had  interrupted  some  daring  theory  of  Van  Pelt's  on 
the  rising  of  champagne-bubbles,  and  there  we  sat, 
mum  and  melancholy,  two  sated  Sybarites,  silent  an 
hour  by  the  clock.  The  mahogany  was  bare  between 
us.  Any  number  of  glasses  and  bottles  stood  in  their 
lees  about  the  table ;  the  thrice-fished  juice  of  an 
olive-dish  and  a  solitary  cigar  in  a  silver  case  had  been 
thrust  aside  in  a  warm  argument,  and,  in  his  father's 
sacred  gout-chair,  buried  to  the  eyes  in  his  loosened 
cravat,  one  leg  on  the  table,  and  one  somewhere  in 
the  neighborhood  of  my  own,  sat  Van  Pelt,  the  eidolon 
of  exhausted  amusement. 

"  Phil  !"  said  he,  starting  suddenly  to  an  erect  posi 
tion,  "  a  thought  strikes  me  !" 

I  dropped  the  claret-cork,  from  which  I  was  at  the 
moment  trying  to  efface  the  "  Margaux"  brand,  and 
sat  in  silent  expectation.  I  had  thought  his  brains  as 
well  evaporated  as  the  last  bottle  of  champagne. 

He  resred  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and  set  his  chin 
between  his  two  palms. 

"I'll  resign  the  keys  of  this  mournful  old  den  to  the 
butler,  and  we'll  go  to  Saratoga  for  a  week.  What 
say  ?" 

"  It  would  be  a  reprieve  from  death  by  inanition," 
I  answered,  "  but,  as  the  rhetorical  professor  would 
phrase  it,  amplify  your  meaning,  young  gentleman." 

"  Thus  :  To-morrow  is  Sunday.  We  will  sleep  till 
Monday  morning  to  purge  our  brains  of  these  cloudy 
vapors,  and  restore  the  freshness  of  our  complexions. 
If  a  fair  day,  you  shall  start  alone  in  the  stanhope,  and 
on  Monday  night  sleep  in  classic  quarters  at  Titus's 
in  Troy." 

"  And  you  !"  I  interrupted,  rather  astonished  at  his 
arrangement  for  one. 

Horace  laid  his  hand  on  his  pocket  with  a  look  of 
embarrassed  care. 

"  I  will  overtake  you  with  the  bay  colls  in  the 
drosky,  but  I  must  first  go  to  Albany.  The  circula 
ting  medium — ' 

"  I  understand." 

II. 

We  met  on  Monday  morning  in  the  breakfnst-room 
in  mutual  spirits.  The  sun  was  two  hours  high,  the 
birds  in  the  trees  were  wild  with  the  beauty  and  elas 
ticity  of  the  day,  the  dew  glistened  on  every  bough, 
and  the  whole  scene,  over  river  and  hill,  was  a  heaven 
of  natural  delight.  As  we  finished  our  breakfast,  the 
light  spattering  of  a  horse's  feet  up  the  avenue,  and 
the  airy  whirl  of  quick-following  wheels,  announced 
the  stanhope.  It  was  in  beautiful  order,  and  what 
would  have  been  termed  on  any  pave  in  the  world  a 
tasteful  turn-out.  Light  cream-colored  body,  black 
wheels  and  shafts,  drflb  lining  edged  with  green,  dead- 
black  harness,  light  as  that  on  the  panthers  of  Bac 
chus — it  was  the  last  style  of  thing  you  would  have 
looked  for  at  the  "  stoup"  of  a  Dutch  homestead. 
And  Tempest !  I  think  I  see  him  now  ! — his  small  in 
quisitive  ears,  arched  neck,  eager  eye,  and  fine,  thin 
nostril — his  dainty  feet  flung  out  with  the  grace  of  a 
flaunted  riband — his  true  and  majestic  action  and  his 
spirited  champ  of  the  bit,  nibbling  at  the  tight  rein  with 
the  exciting  pull  of  a  hooked  trout — how  evenly  he 
drew  ! — how  insensibly  the  compact  stanhope,  just 
touching  his  iron-gray  tail,  bowled  along  on  the  road 
after  him  ! 

Horace  was  behind  with  the  drosky  and  black  boy, 
and  with  a  parting  nod  at  the  gate,  I  turned  north 
ward,  and  Tempest  took  the  road  in  beautiful  style.  I 
do  not  remember  to  have  been  ever  so  elated-  I  was 
always  of  the  Cyrenaic  philosophy  that  "  happiness  is 
motion,"  and  the  bland  vitality  of  the  air  had  refined 


my  senses.  The  delightful  /ee^  of  the  reins  thrilled  me 
to  the  shoulder.  Driving  is  like  any  other  appetite, 
dependant  for  the  delicacy  of  its  enjoyment  on  the 
system,  and  a  day's  temperate  abstinence,  long  sleep, 
and  the  glorious  perfection  of  the  morning,  had  put 
my  nerves  "in  condition."  I  felt  the  air  as  I  rushed 
through.  The  power  of  the  horse  was  added  to  my 
consciousness  of  enjoyment,  and  if  you  can  imagine  a 
centaur  with  a  harness  and  stanhope  added  to  his  liv 
ing  body,  I  felt  the  triple  enjoyment  of  animal  exer 
cise  which  would  then  be  his. 

It  is  delightful  driving  on  the  Hudson.  The  road  is 
very  fair  beneath  your  wheels,  the  river  courses  away 
under  the  bold  shore  with  the  majesty  inseparable 
from  its  mighty  flood,  and  the  constant  change  of  out 
line  in  its  banks  gives  you,  as  you  proceed,  a  constant 
variety  of  pictures,  from  the  loveliest  lo  the  most  sub 
lime.  The  eagle's  nest  above  you  at  one  moment,  a 

I  sunny  and  fertile  farm  below  you  at  the  next — rocks, 
trees,  and  waterfalls,  wedded  and  clustered  as,  it 
seems  to  me,  they  are  nowhere  else  done  so  pictu 
resquely — it  is  a  noble  river,  the  Hudson  !  And  every 
few  minutes,  while  you  gaze  down  upon  the  broad 
waters  spreading  from  hill  to  hill  like  a  round  lake,  a 
gayly-painted  steamer  with  her  fringed  and  white  awn 
ings  and  streaming  flag,  shoots  out  as  if  from  a  sudden 
cleft  in  the  rock,  and  draws  across  it  her  track  of 
foam. 

Well — I  bowled  along.  Ten  o'clock  brought  me 
to  a  snug  Dutch  tavern,  where  I  sponged  Tempest's 
mouth  and  nostrils,  lunched  and  was  stared  at  by  the 
natives,  and  continuing  my  journey,  at  one  I  loosed 
rein  and  dashed  into  the  pretty  village  of ,  Tem 
pest  in  a  foam,  and  himself  and  his  extempore  master 
creating  a  great  sensation  in  a  crowd  of  people,  who 

j  stood  in  the  shade  of  the  verandah  of  the  hotel,  as  if 

I  that  asylum  for  the  weary  traveller  had  been  a  shop  for 

j  the  sale  of  gentlemen  in  shirt-sleeves. 

Tempest  was  taken  round  to  the  "  barn,"  and  I  or 
dered  rather  an  elaborate  dinner,  designing  still  to  go 
on  some  ten  miles  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  and  hav 
ing,  of  course,  some  mortal  hours  upon  my  hands. 
The  cook  had  probably  never  heard  of  more  than 
three  dishes  in  her  life,  but  those  three  were  garnished 
with  all  manner  of  herbs,  and  sent  up  in  the  best 
china  as  a  warranty  for  an  unusual  bill,  and  what  with 
coffee,  a  small  glass  of  new  rum  as  an  apology  for  a 
chasse  cafe,  and  a  nap  in  a  straight-backed  chair,  I 
killed  the  enemy  to  my  satisfaction  till  the  shadows  of 
the  poplars  lengthened  across  the  barnyard. 

I  was  awoke  by  Tempest,  prancing  round  to  the 
door  in  undiminished  spirits  ;  and  as  1  had  begun  the 
day  en  grand  seigneur,  I  did  not  object  to  the  bill, 
which  considerably  exceeded  the  outside  of  my  calcu 
lation,  but  giving  the  landlord  a  twenty-dollar  note, 
received  the  change  unquestioned,  doubled  the  usual 
fee  to  the  ostler,  and  let  Tempest  off  with  a  bend  for 
ward  which  served  at  the  same  time  for  a  gracious  bow 
to  the  spectators.  So  remarkable  a  coxcomb  had  prob 
ably  not  been  seen  in  the  village  since  the  passing  of 

I  Cornwallis's  army. 

The  day  was  still  hot,  and  as  I  got  into  the  open 
country,  I  drew  rein  and  paced  quietly  up  hill  and 
down,  picking  the  road  delicately,  and  in  a  humor  of 
thoughtful  contentment,  trying  my  skill  in  keeping  the 
edges  of  the  green  sod  as  it  leaned  in  and  out  from  the 
walls  and  ditches.  With  the  long  whip  I  now  and 
then  touched  the  wing  of  a  sulphur  butterfly  hovering 
over  a  pool,  and  now  and  then  I  stopped  and  gathered 
a  violet  from  the  unsunned  edge  of  the  wood. 

I  had   proceeded  three  or  four  miles  in  this  way, 


when  I  was  overtaken  by  three  stout  fellows,  gallop- 
I  ing  at  speed,  who  rode  past  and  faced  round  with  a 
peremptory  order  to  me  to  stop.  A  formidable  pitch 
fork  in  the  hand  of  each  horseman  left  me  no  alterna 
tive.  I  made  up  my  mind  immediately  to  be  robbed 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


79 


quietly  of  my  own  personals,  bul  to  show  light,  if  ne 
cessary,  lor  Tempest  and  the  stanhope.  * 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  said  I,  coaxing  my  impatient 
horse,  who  had  been  rather  excited  by  the  clatter  of 
hoofs  behind  him,  "  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?" 

Before  1  could  get  an  answer,  one  of  the  fellows 
had  dismounted  and  given  his  bridle  to  another,  and 
coming  round  to  the  left  side,  he  sprang  suddenly  into 
the  stanhope.  I  received  him  as  he  rose  with  a  well- 
placed  thrust  of  my  heel  which  sent  him  back  into  the 
road,  and  with  a  chirrup  to  Tempest,  I  dashed  through 
the  phalanx  and  took  the  road  at  a  top  speed.  The 
short  lash  once  waved  round  the  small  ears  before  me, 
there  was  no  stopping  in  a  hurry,  and  away  sped  the 
gallant  gray,  and  fast  behind  followed  my  friends  in 
their  short  sleeves,  all  in  a  lathering  gallop.  A  couple 
of  miles  was  the  work  of  no  time,  Tempest  laying  his 
legs  to  it  as  if  the  stanhope  had  been  a  cobweb  at  his 
heels  ;  but  at  the  end  of  that  distance  there  came  a 
sharp  descent  to  a  mill-stream,  and  I  just  remember 
an  unavoidable  milestone  and  a  jerk  over  a  wall,  and 
the  next  minute,  it  seemed  to  me,  I  was  in  the  room 


for  not  so  readily  identifying  the  person  of  his  friend 
in  the  damaged  gentleman  in  the  straw. 

"  Ay,  ay!  I  see  you  don't  know  him,"  said  the  land 
lord,  while  Van  Pelt  suiveyed  me  rather  coldly  ;  "on 
with  him,  constables!  he  Mould  have  us  believe  you 
knew  him,  sir!  walk  in,  Mr.  Van  Pelt !  Ostler,  look 
to  Mr.  Van  Pelt's  horses  !  Walk  in,  sir !" 

"  Stop  !"  I  cried  out  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  seeing 
that  Horace,  really  had  not  looked  at  me,  "  Van  Pelt ! 
stop,  I  say  !" 

The  driver  of  the  cart  seemed  more  impressed  by 
the  energy  of  my  cries  than  my  friends  the  constables, 
and  pulled  up  his  horse.  Some  one  in  the  crowd  cried 
out  that  I  should  have  a  hearing  or  he  would  "  wallup 
the  comitatus,"  and  the  justice,  called  back  by  this  ex 
pression  of  an  opinion  from  the  sovereign  people,  re 
quested  his  new  guest  to  look  at  the  prisoner. 

I  was  preparing  to  have  my  hands  untied,  vet  feel 
ing  so  indignant  at  Van  Pelt  for  not  having  recognised 
me  that  I  would  not  look  at  him,  when,  to  my  surprise, 
the  horse  started  off  once  more,  and  looking  back,  I 
saw  my  friend  patting  the  neck  of  his  near  horse,  evi- 


where  I  had  dined,  with  my  hands  tied,  and  a  hundred    ;  deutly  not  having  thought  it  worth  his  while  to  take 


people  about  me.  My  cool  white  waistcoat  was  mat 
ted  with  mud,  and  my  left  temple  was,  by  the  glass 
opposite  me,  both  bloody  and  begrimed. 

The  opening  of  my  eyes  was  a  signal  for  a  closer  ! 
gathering  around  me,  and  between  exhaustion  and  the 
close  air  I  was  half  suffocated.     I  was  soon  made  to 
understand  that  I  was  a  prisoner,  and  that  the  three  i 
v.-liite  frocked  highwaymen,  as  I  took  them  to  be,  were  j 
among  the  spectators.     O.i  a  polite  application  to  the  j 
landlord,  who,  I  found  out,  was  a  justice  of  the  peace 
as  well,  1  was  informed  that  he  had  made  out  my  mit 
timus  as  a  counterfeiter,  and  that  the  spurious  note  I  \ 
had  passed  upon  him  for  my  dinner  was  safe  in  his 
possession  !      He  pointed  at  the  same  time  to  a  placard  I 
newly  stuck  against  the  wall,  offering  a  reward  for  the  I 
apprehension  of  a  notorious  practiser  of  my  supposed 
craft,  lo  the  description  of  whose  person  I  answered, 
to  the  satisfaction  of  all  present. 

Quite  too  indignant  to  remonstrate,  I  seated  myself 
in  the  chair  consi  lerately  offered  me  by  the  waiter, 
and  listening  to  the  whispers  of  the  persons  who  were 
still  permitted  to  throng  the  room,  I  discovered,  what 
might  have  struck  me  before,  that  the  initials  on  the  [ 
p:mel  of  the  stanhope  an  1  the  handle  of  the  whip  had 
been  compared  with  the  card  pasted  in  the  bottom  of 


any  notice  of  the  justice's  observation.  Choking  with 
rage,  I  flung  myself  down  upon  the  straw,  and  jolted 
on  without  further  remonstrance  to  the  county  town. 

I  had  been  incarcerated  an  hour  when  Van  Pelt's 
voice,  half  angry  with  the  turnkey  and  half  ready  to 
burst  into  a  laugh,  resounded  outside.  He  had  not 
heard  a  word  spoken  by  the  officious  landlord,  till  after 
the  cart  had  been  some  time  gone.  Even  then,  be 
lieving  it  to  be  a  cock-and-bull  story,  he  had  quietly 
dined,  and  it  was  only  on  going  into  tlie  yard  to  see 
after  his  horses  that  he  recognised  the  debris  of  his 
stanhope. 

The  landlord's  apologies,  when  we  returned  to  the 
inn,  were  more  amusing  to  Van  Pelt  than  consolatory 
to  Philip  Slingsby. 


CHAPTER  II. 


SARATOGA    SPRINGS. 


IT  was  about  seven  o'clock  of  a  hot  evening  when 
Van  Pelt's  exhausted  horses  toiled  out  from  the  Pine 

my  hat,  and  the  want  of  correspondence  was  taken  as  II  Forest,  and  stood,  fetlock  deep  in  sand,  on  the  brow 
decided  corroboration.  It  was  remarked  also  by  a  by-  j|  of  the  small  hill  overlooking  the  mushtonin  village  of 
slander  that  I  was  quite  too  much  of  a  dash  for  an  |  Saratoga.  One  or  two  straggling  horsemen  were  re- 
honest  man,  and  \\v.\\  he  had  suspected  me  from  first  |  turning  late  from  their  afternoon  ride,  and  looked  at 
seeing  me  drive  into  the  village  !  I  was  sufficiently  •  !  us,  as  they  passed  on  their  fresher  hacks,  with  the  cu- 


Uumbled  by  this  time  to  make  an  inward  vow  never 
again  to  take  airs  upon  myself  if  I  escaped  the  county 
ja.l. 

The  justice   meanwhile  had  made  out  my  orders, 


and  a  horse  and  cart  had  been  provided  to  take  me  to  i  the  foot-path  to  the  Spring  ;  and  as  Horac 


the   next  town.     I  endeavored  to   get  speech  of  1 


riosity  which  attaches  to  new-comers  in  a  watering- 
place  ;  here  and  there  a  genuine  invalid,  who  had 
come  to  the  waters  for  life,  not  for  pleasure,  took  ad 
vantage  of  the  coolness  of  the  hour  and  crept  down 


flagging  cattle  into  a  trot  to  bring  up  gal- 


worship  as  I  was  marched  out  of  the  inn  parlor,  but  '  lantly  at  the  door  of  "Congress  Hall,"  the  great  bell 
the  crowd  pressed  close  upon  my  heels,  and  the  digni-  of  that  fast  caravanserai  resounded  through  the  dusty 
tary-landlord  seemed  anxious  to  rid  his  house  of  me.  ,|air,  and  by  the  shuffling  of  a  thousand  feet,  audible  as 

we  approached,  we  knew  that  the  fashionable  world 
of  Saratoga  were  rushing  down,  en  masse,  "  to  lea." 

Having  driven  through  a  sand-cloud  for  the  prece 
ding  three  hours,  and,  to  say  nothing  of  myself,  Van 
Pelt  being  a  man,  who,  in  his  character  as  the  most 
considerable  beau  of  the  University,  calculated  his  first 
impression,  it  was  not  thought  advisable  to  encounter, 
uncleansed,  the  tide  of  fashion  at  that  moment  stream- 


I  had  no  papers,  and  no  proofs  of  my  character,  and 
assertion  went  for  nothing.  Besides,  T  was  muddy, 
and  my  hat  was  broken  in  on  one  side,  proofs  of  vil- 
luny  which  appeal  to  the  commonest  understanding. 

1  begged  for  a  little  straw  in  the  bottom  of  the  cart, 
and  had  mads  myself  as  comfortable  as  my  two  rustic 
constables  thought  fitting  for  a  culprit,  when  the  vehi 
cle  was  quickly  ordered  from  the  door  to  make  away 
for  a  carriage  coming  at  a  dashing  pace  up  the  road. 
It  was  Van  Pelt  in  his  drosky. 

Horace  was  well  known  on  the  road,  and  the  stan 
hope  had  already  been  recognised  as  his.      By  this 
time  it  was  deep  in  the  twilight,  and  though  he  was  in-  | 
stautly  known  by  the  landlord,  he  might"  be  excused  | 


ing  through  the 


We  drove  round  to  the  side- 

door,  and  gained  our  pigeon-hole  quarters  under  cover 
of  the  back-staircase. 

The  bachelors'  wing  of  Congress  Hall  is  a  long,  un- 
slightly,  wooden  barrack,  divided  into  chambers  six  feet 
by  four,  and  of  au  airiness  of  partition  which  enables 


80 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


the  occupant  to  converse  with  his  neighbor  three  rooms 
oft',  with  the  ease  of  clerks  calling  out  entries  to  the 
leger  across  the  desks  of  a  counting-house.      The 
clatter  of  knives  and  plates  came  up  to  our  ears  in  a 
confused  murmur,  and  Van  Pelt  having  refused  to  dine 
at  the  only  inn  upon  the  route,  for  some  reason  best 
known  to  himself,  I  commenced  the  progress  of  a  long  j 
toilet  with  an  appetite  not  rendered  patient  by  the  ' 
sounds  of  cheer  below. 

I  had  washed  the  dust  out  of  my  eyes  and  mouth, 
and,  overcome  with  heat  and  hunger,  I  knotted  a  cool 
cravat  loosely  round  my  neck,  and  sat  down  in  the  one 
chair. 

"  Van  Pelt !"  I  shouted. 

"Well,  Phil!" 

"  Are  you  dressed  ?" 

"  Dressed  !  I  am  as  pinguid  as  a  pate  foie  gras — 
greased  to  the  eyelids  in  cold  cream !" 

I  took  up  the  sixpenny  glass  and  looked  at  my  own 
newly- washed  physiognomy.    From  the  temples  to  the  J 
chin  it  was  one  unmitigated  red — burned  to  a  blister 
with  the  sun  !     I  had  been  obliged  to  deluge  my  head  ; 
like  a  mop  to  get  out  the  dust,  and  not  naturally  re-  I 
markable  for  my  good  looks,  I  could,  much  worse  than 
Van  Pelt,  afford  these  startling  additions  to  my  disad 
vantages.     Hunger  is  a  subtle  excuse-finder,  however, 
and,  remembering  there  were  five  hundred   people  in  j 
this  formidable  crowd,  and  all  busy  with  satisfying  their 
appetites,  I  trusted  to  escape  observation,  and  deter-  ! 
mined  to  "  go  down  to  tea."     With  the  just-named  ; 
number  of  guests,  it  will  easily  be  understood  why  it 
is  impossible  to  obtain  a  meal  at  Congress  Hall,  out  of 
the  stated  time  and  place. 

In  a  white  roundabout,  a  checked  cravat,  my  hair 
plastered  over  my  eyes  a  la  Mawworm,  and  a  face  like 
the  sign  of  the  "  Rising  Sun,"  1  stopped  at  Van  Pelt's 
door. 

"  The  most  hideous  figure  my  eyes  ever  looked 
upon  !"  was  his  first  consolatory  observation. 

"  Handsome   or   hideous,"   I   answered,   "  I'll   not  | 
starve!     So  here  goes  for  some  bread  and   butter!"  ' 
and  leaving  him  to  his  "appliances,"  I  descended  to  the 
immense  hall  which  serves  the  comers  to  Saratoga,  for 
dining,  dancing,  and  breakfasting,  and  in  wet  weather, 
between  meals,  for  shuttlecock  and  promenading. 

Two  interminable  tables  extended   down   the  hall, 
filled  by  all  the  beauty  and  fashion  of  the  United  States,  j 
Luckily,  I  thought,  forme,  there  are  distinctions  in  this 
republic  of  dissipation,  and  the  upper  end  is  reserved 
for  those  who  have  servants  to  turn  down  the  chairs 
and  stand  over  them.     The  end  of  the  tables  nearest 
the  door,  consequently,  is  occupied  by  those  whose  j 
opinion  of  my  appearance  is  not  without  appeal,  if  they  ; 
trouble  their  heads  about  it  at  all,  and  I  may  glide  in,  ( 
in    my   white   roundabout    (permitted    in   this   sultry  ', 
weather),  and  retrieve  exhausted  nature  in  obscurity.    ! 

An  empty  chair  stood   between  an  old  gentleman  j 
and  a  very  plain  young  lady,  and  seeing  no  remembered 
faces  opposite,  I  glided  to  the  place,  and  was  soon  lost 
to  apprehension  in  the  abysm  of  a  cold  pie.     The  table 
was  covered  with  meats,  berries,  bottles  of  chalybeate 
water,  tea  appurtenances,  jams,  jellies,  and  radishes, 
and,  but  for  the  absence  of  the  roast,  you  might  have 
doubted   whether  the  meal  was  breakfast  or  dinner,  • 
lunch  or  supper.     Happy  country!  in  which  any  one 
of  the  four  meals  may  serve  a  hungry  man  for  all. 

The  pigeon-pie  stood,  at  last,  well  quarried  before 
me,  the  debris  of  the  excavation  heaped  upon  my  plate ; 
and,  appetite  appeased,  and  made  bold  by  my  half 
hour's  obscurity,  I  leaned  forward  and  perused  with 
curious  attention  the  long  line  of  faces  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table,  to  some  of  whom,  doubtless,!  was  to 
be  indebted  for  the  pleasures  of  the  coining  fort 
night. 

My  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  features  of  a  talkative 
woman  just  above,  and  I  had  quite  forgotten  the  fact 


of  my  dishabille  of  complexion  and  dress,  when  two 
persons  entered  who  made  considerable  stir  among 
the  servants,  and  eventually  were  seated  directly  op 
posite  me. 

"  We  loitered  too  long  at  Barhydt's,"  said  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  women  I  had  ever  seen,  as  she  pulled 
her  chair  nearer  to  the  table  and  looked  around  her 
with  a  glance  of  disapproval. 

In  following  her  eyes  to  see  who  was  so  happy  as 
to  sympathize  with  such  a  divine  creature  even  in  the 
loss  of  a  place  at  table,  I  met  the  fixed  and  astonished 
gaze  of  my  most  intimate  friend  at  the  University. 

"  Ellerton  !" 

"Slingsby  !" 

Overjoyed  at  meeting  him,  I  stretched  both  hands 
across  the  narrow  table,  and  had  shaken  his  arm  nearly 
off  his  shoulders,  and  asked  him  a  dozen  questions,  be 
fore  I  became  conscious  that  a  pair  of  large  wondering 
eyes  were  coldly  taking  an  inventory  of  my  person 
and  features.  Van  Pelt's  unflattering  exclamation 
upon  my  appearance  at  his  door,  flashed  across  my 
mind  like  a  thunderstroke,  and,  coloring  through  my 
burned  skin  to  the  temples,  I  bowed  and  stammered  I 
know  not  what,  as  Ellerton  introduced  me  to  his 
sister ! 

To  enter  fully  into  my  distress,  you  should  be  ap 
prized  that  a  correspondence  arising  from  my  long  and 
constant  intimacy  with  Tom  Ellerton,  had  been  carried 
on  for  a  year  between  me  and  his  sister,  and  that,  being 
constantly  in  the  habit  of  yielding  to  me  in  manners  of 
taste,  he  had,  I  well  knew,  so  exaggerated  to  her  my 
personal  qualities,  dress,  and  manners,  that  she  could 
not  in  any  case  fail  to  be  disappointed  in  seeing  me. 
Believing  her  to  be  at  that  moment  two  thousand  miles 
off  in  Alabama,  and  never  having  hoped  for  the  pleas 
ure  of  seeing  her  at  all,  I  had  foolishly  suffered  this 
good-natured  exaggeration  to  go  on,  pleased  with  seeing 
the  reflex  of  his  praises  in  her  letters,  and,  Heaven 
knows,  little  anticipating  the  disastrous  interview  upon 
which  my  accursed  star  would  precipitate  me  !  As  I 
went  over,  mentally,  the  particulars  of  my  unbecom- 
ingness,  and  saw  Miss  Ellerton's  eyes  resting  inquisi 
tively  and  furtively  on  the  mountain  of  pigeon  bones 
lifting  their  well-picked  pyramid  to  my  chin,  1  wished 
myself  an  ink-fish  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Three  minutes  after,  I  burst  into  Van  Pelt's  room, 
tearing  my  hair  and  abusing  Tom  Ellerton's  good  na 
ture,  and  my  friend's  headless  drosky,  in  alternate 
breaths.  Without  disturbing  the  subsiding  blood  in  his 
own  face  by  entering  into  my  violence,  Horace  coolly 
asked  me  what  the  devil  was  the  matter. 

I  told  him. 

"  Lie  down  here  !"  said  Van  Pelt,  who  was  a  small 
Napoleon  in  such  trying  extremities ;  "  lie  down  ojj 
the  bed,  and  anoint  your  phiz  with  this  unguent.  I  see 
good  luck  for  you  in  this  accident,  and  you  have  only 
to  follow  my  instructions.  Phil  Slingsby,  sunburnt, 
in  a  white  roundabout,  and  Phil  Slingsby,  pale  and  well 
dressed,  are  as  different  as  this  potted  cream  and  a  dan 
cing  cow.  You  shall  see  what  a  little  drama  I'll  work 
out  for  you  !" 

I  lay  down  on  my  back,  and  Horace  kindly  anointed 
me  from  the  trachea  to  the  forelock,  and  from  ear  to 
ear. 

"  Egad,"  said  he,  warming  with  his  study  of  his  pro 
posed  ^plot  as  he  slid  his  fore-fingers  over  the  bridge  of 
my  nose,  "every  circumstance  tells  for  us.  Tall  man 
as  you  are,  you  are  as  short-bodied  as  a  monkey  (no 
offence,  Phil !)  and  when  you  sit  at  table,  you  are  rather 
an  under-sized  gentleman.  I  have  been  astonished 
every  day  these  three  years,  at  seeing  you  rise  after 
dinner  in  Commons'  Hall.  A  thousand  to  one,  Fanny 
Ellerton  thinks  you  a  stumpy  man." 

"And  then,  Phil,"  he  continued,  with  a  patronising 
tone,  "you  have  studied  minute  philosophy  to  little 
purpose  if  you  do  not  know  that  the  first  step  in  win- 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


81 


ning  a  wom;m  to  whom  you  have  been  overpraised,  is 
to  disenchant  her  at  all  hazards,  on  your  first  inter 
view.  You  will  never  rise  above  the  ideal  she  has 
formed,  and  to  sink  below  it  gradually,  or  to  remain 
stationary,  is  not  to  thrive  in  your  wooing." 

Leaving  me  this  precocious  wisdom  to  digest, 
Horace  descended  to  the  foot  of  the  garden  to  take  a 
warm  bath,  and  overcome  with  fatigue,  and  the  recum- 


opening  at  every  three  steps  by  a  long  window  into 
the  carpeted  floors.  When  the  rooms  within  are  lit 
in  a  summer's  night,  that  cool  and  airy  colonnade  is 
thronged  by  truants  from  the  dance,  and  collectively 
by  all  who  have  anything  to  express  that  is  meant  for 
one  ear  only.  The  mineral  waters  of  Saratoga  are  no 
less  celebrated  as  a  soporific  for  chaperons  than  as  a 
tonic  for  the  dyspeptic,  and  while  the  female  Argus 


bent  posture,  I  soon  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  of  the  ||  dozes  in  the  drawing-room,  the  fair  lo  and  her  Jupi- 


great  blue  eyes  of  Fanny  Ellerton. 


The  soaring  of  the  octave  flute  in  "  Hail  Columbia," 


ter  (represented  in  this  case,  we  will  say,  by  Miss  El- 
lerton  and  myself)  range  at  liberty  the  fertile  fields  of 
flirtation. 

I  had  easily  put  Miss  Ellerton  in  surprised  good 
humor  with  herself  and  me  during  the  first  quadrille, 
and  with  a  freedom  based  partly  upon  my  certainty  of 


with  which   the   band   was  patriotically  opening   the  j  |  pleasing  her,  partly  on  the   peculiar  manners  of  the 


ball,  woke  me  from  the  midst  of  a  long  apologetic  let 
ter  to  my  friend's  sister,  and  I  found  Van  Pelt's  black  \ 
boy  Juba  waiting  patiently  at  the  bed-side  with  curl-  j 
ing-tongs  and  Cologne-water,  ordered  to  superintend 
my  toilet   by  his  master,  who  had  gone  early  to   the 
drawing-room  to  pay  his  respects  to   Miss  Ellerton. 
With  the  cold  cream  disappeared   entirely  from  my  j 
face  the  uncomfortable  redness  to  which  I  had  been  a  ! 
martyr,  and,  thanks  to  my  ebony  coiffeur,  my  straight 


place,  I  coolly  requested  that  she  would  continue  to 
dance  with  me  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

"One  unhappy  quadrille  excepted,"  she  replied, 
with  a  look  meant  to  be  mournful. 

"  May  I  ask  with  whom?" 

"  Oh,  he  has  not  asked  me  yet ;  but  my  brother  has 
bound  me  over  to  be  civil  to  him — a  spectre,  Mr. 
Wrongham  !  a  positive  spectre." 

How  denominated  ?"  I  inquired,  with  a  forced  in- 


and    plastered   locks   soon    grew  as  different  to  their  '  difference,  for  I  had  a  presentiment  I  should  hear  my 


umquhile  guise"  as  Hyperion's  to  a  satyr's.  Hav 
ing  appeared  to  the  eyes  of  the  lady,  in  whose  favor  I 
hoped  to  prosper,  in  red  and  white  (red  phiz  and  white 


jacket),  I  trusted  that  in  white  and   black  (black  suit  j  don't  seem  surprised!" 


own  name. 

"Slingsby— Mr.    Philip    Slingsby— Tom's    fidus 
Achates,  and  a  proposed  lover  of  my  own.     But  you 


and  paleviznomy),  I  should  look  quite  another  person. 
Juba  was  pleased  to  show  his  ivory  in  a  complimen 
tary  smile  at  my  transformation,  and  I  descended  to 
the  drawing-room,  on  the  best  terms  with  the  coxcomb 
in  my  bosom. 

Horace  met  me  at  the  door. 

"Proteus  redinvus  /"  was  his  exclamation.  "Your 
new  name  is  Wrongham.  You  are  a  gentle  senior, 
instead  of  a  bedeviled  sophomore,  and  your  cue  is  to 
be  poetical.  She  will  never  think  again  of  the  mon 
ster  in  the  white  jacket,  and  I  have  prepared  her  for 
the  acquaintance  of  a  new  friend,  whom  I  have  just 
described  to  you. 

I  took  his  arm,  and  with  the  courage  of  a  man  in  a 


Surprised!  E-hem!     I  know  the  gentleman  !" 

"Then  did  you  ever  see  such  a  monster!  Tom 
told  me  he  was  another  Hyperion.  He  half  admitted 
it  himself,  indeed  ;  for  to  tell  you  a  secret,  I  have  cor 
responded  with  him  a  year!" 

"Giddy  Miss  Fanny  Ellerton! — and  never  saw 
him !" 

"Never  till  to-night !  He  sat  at  supper  in  a  white 
jacket  and  red  face,  with  a  pile  of  bones  upon  his  plate 
like  an  Indian  tumulus." 

"And  your  brother  introduced  you  ?" 

"  Ah,  you  were  at  table !  Well,  did  you  ever  see  in 
your  travels,  a  man  so  unpleasantly  hideous?" 

Fanny!"  said  her  brother,  coining  up  at  the  mo 


mask,  went  through  another  presentation  to  Miss  El-     ment,  "Slingsby  presents  his  apologies  to  you  for  not 

lerton.     Her  brother  had   been  let  into  the  secret  by   |  joining  your  cordon  to-night — but  he's  gone  to  bed 

Van  Pelt,  and  received  me  with  great  ceremony  as  his  I  with  a  head-ache." 

college  superior;  and,  as  there  was  no  other  person  at 

the  Springs  who  knew  Mr.  Slingsby,  Mr.  Wrongham 

was  likely  to  have   an  undisturbed  reign   of  it.     Miss  j 

Ellerton   looked  hard   at  me  for  a  moment,  but  the   j  walks  not  forth  to-night,  I  am   yours  for  a  cool  hour 

gravity  with  which  I  was  presented  and  received,  dis-  H  on  the  colonnade." 

sipated  a  doubt  if  one  had  arisen  in  her  mind,  and  i  Vegetation  is  rapid  in  Alabama,  and  love  is  a  weed 

that  thrives  in  the  soil  of  the  tropics.  We  discoursed 
of  the  lost  Pleiad  and  the  Berlin  bracelets,  of  the  five 


"Indigestion,  I  dare  say,"  said  the  young  lady. 
"  Never  mind,  Tom,  I'll  break  my  heart  when  I  have 
leisure.  And  now,  Mr.  Wrongham,  since  the  spectre 


she  took  my  arm  to  go  to  the  ball-room,  with  an 
undisturbed  belief  in  my  assumed  name  and  eharac- 
ter. 


hundred  people  about  us,  and  the  feasibility  of  boiling 
commenced  the  acquaintance  of  the  fair  Alaba-   i  a  pot  on  five  hundred  a  year — the  unmatrimonial  sum 


mian  with  great  advantages.  Received  as  a  perfect 
stranger,  I  possessed,  from  long  correspondence  with 
her,  the  most  minute  knowledge  of  the  springs,  of  her 
character,  and  of  her  favorite  reading  and  pursuits, 


total  of  my  paternal  allowance.  She  had  as  many  ne 
groes  as  I  had  dollars,  I  well  knew,  but  it  was  my  cue 
to  seem  disinterested. 

And  where  do  you  mean  to  live,  when  you  marry, 


and,  with  the  little  knowledge  of  the  world  which  she   j  Mr.  Wrongham?"  asked  Miss  Ellerton,   at  the  two 


had  gained  on  a  plantation,  she  was  not  likely  to  pene 
trate  my  game   from   my  playing  it  too  freely.     Her 


confidence    was   immediately    won   by   the   readiness  . !  as  if  I  had  not  heard  her. 


hundredth  turn  on  the  colonnade. 

Would  you  like  to  live  in  Italy?"  I  asked  again, 


with  which  I  entered  into  her  enthusiasm  and  antici 
pated  her  thoughts  ;  and  before  the  first  quadrille  was 
well  over,  she  had  evidently  made  up  her  mind  that 


Do  you   mean  that  as  a  scqurtur  to  my  question, 
Mr.  Wrongham  ?"  said  she,  half  stopping  in  her  walk  ; 
\  though  the  sentence  was  commenced  playfully, 


she  had  never  in  her  life  met  one  who  so  well  "under-  ||  dropping  her  voice  at  the  last  word,  with  something,  I 

thought,  very  like  emotion. 

I  drew  her  oft"  the  colonnade  to  the  small  garden 
between  the   house   and   the   spring,  and  in  a  giddy 


stood  her."  Oh !  how  much  women  include  in  that 
apparently  indefinite  expression,  "  He  understands 
me/" 

The   colonnade   of  Congress  Hall  is  a  long  prom 
enade  laced  in  with  vines  and  columns,  on  the  same 
level  with  the  vast  ball-room   and   drawing-room,  and 
(the  light  of  heaven  not  being  taxed   at  Saratoga) 
6 


dream  of  fear  and  surprise  at  my  own  rashness  and 
success,  I  made,  and  won  from  her,  a  frank  avowal  of 
preference. 

Matches  have  been  made  more  suddenly. 


82 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


III. 

Miss  Ellerton  sat  in  the  music-room  the  next  morn 
ing  after  breakfast,  preventing  pauses  in  a  rather  in 
teresting  conversation,  by  a  running  accompaniment 
upon  the  guitar.  A  single  gold  thread  formed  a  fillet 
about  her  temples,  and  from  beneath  it,  in  clouds  of 
silken  ringlets,  floated  the  softest  raven  hair  that  ever 
grew  enamored  of  an  ivory  shoulder.  Hers  was  a 
skin  that  seemed  woven  of  the  lily-white,  but  opaque 
fibre  of  the  magnolia,  yet  of  that  side  of  its  cup  turned  | 
toward  the  fading  sunset.  There  is  no  term  in  paint 
ing,  because  there  is  no  touch  of  pencil  or  color,  that 
could  express  the  vanishing  and  impalpable  breath 
that  assured  the  healthiness  of  so  pale  a  cheek.  She 
was  slight  as  all  southern  women  are  in  America,  and 
of  a  flexible  and  luxurious  gracefulness  equalled  by 
nothing  but  the  movings  of  a  smoke-curl.  Without 
the  elastic  nerve  remarkable  in  the  motions  of  Taglioni, 
she  appeared,  like  her,  to  be  born  with  a  lighter  spe 
cific  gravity  than  her  fellow-creatures.  If  she  had 
floated  away  upon  some  chance  breeze  you  would  only 
have  been  surprised  upon  reflection. 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  too  fond  of  society,"  said  Miss 
Ellerton,  as  Juba  came  in  hesitatingly  and  delivered 
her  a  note  in  the  hand  writing  of  an  old  correspondent. 
She  turned  pale  on  seeing  the  superscription,  and 
crushed  the  note  up  in  her  bond,  unread.  I  was  not 
sorry  to  defer  the  denouement  of  my  little  drama,  and 
taking  up  the  remark  which  she  seemed  disposed  to 
forget,  I  referred  her  to  a  scrap-book  of  Van  Pelt's,  j 
which  she  had  brought  home  with  her,  containing 
some  verses  of  my  own,  copied  (by  good  luck)  in  that 
sentimental  sophomore's  own  hand. 

"Are  these  yours,  really  and  really?"  she  asked, 
looking  pryingly  into  my  face,  and  showing  me  my 
own  verses,  against  which  she  had  already  run  a  pen 
cil  line  of  approbation. 

"Peccavi!"  I  answered.     "But  will  you  make  me 
in  love  with  my  offspring  by  reading  them  in  your  own  ! 
voice." 

They  were  some  lines  written  in  a  balcony  at  day 
break,  while  a  ball  was  still  going  on  within,  and  con 
tained  an  allusion  (which  I  had  quite  overlooked)  to 
some  one  of  my  ever-changing  admirations.  As  well 
as  I  remember  they  ran  thus : — 

Morn  in  the  east !     How  coldly  fair 

It  breaks  upon  my  fevered  eye  ! 
How  chides  the  calm  and  dewy  air  ! 

Ho  w  chides  the  pure  and  pearly  sky  ! 
The  stars  melt  in  a  brighter  fire, 

The  dew  in  sunshine  leaves  ihe  flowers  j 
They  from  their  watch,  in  light  retire, 

While  we  in  sadness  pass  from  ours  ! 

I  turn  from  the  rebuking  morn, 

The  cold  gray  sky  and  fading  star, 
And  listen  to  the  harp  and  horn, 

And  see  the  waltzers  near  and  far ; 
The  lamps  and  flowers  are  bright  as  yet, 

And  lips  beneath  more  bright  than  they — 
How  can  a  scene  so  fair  beget 

The  mournful  thoughts  we  bear  away. 

'Tis  something  that  thou  art  not  here, 

Sweet  lover  of  my  lightest  word  ! 
'Tis  something  that  my  mother's  tear 

By  these  forgetful  hours  is  stirred  ? 
But  I  have  long  a  loiterer  been 

In  haunts  where  Joy  is  said  to  be ; 
And  though,  with  Peace  I  enter  in. 

The  nymph  comes  never  forth  with  me! 

"  And  who  was  this  «  sweet  lover,'  Mr.  Wrongham  ? 
I  should  know,  I  think,  before  I  go  farther  with  so  ex 
peditious  a  gentleman." 

"As  Shelley  says  of  his  ideal  mistress — 

'  I  loved — oh,  no  !    I  mean  not  one  of  ye. 
Or  any  earthly  one— though  ye  are  fair  !' 


It  was  but  an  apostrophe  to  the  presentiment  of  that 
which  I  have  found,  dear  Miss  Ellerton  !  But  will  you 
read  that  ill-treated  billet-doux,  arid  remember  that 
Juba  stands  with  the  patience  of  an  ebon  statue  wait 
ing  for  an  answer  ?" 

I  knew  the  contents  of  the  letter,  and  I  watched  the 
expression  of  her  face,  as  she  read  it,  with  no  little 
interest.  Her  temples  flushed,  and  her  delicate  lips 
gradually  curled  into  an  expression  of  anger  and  scorn, 
and  having  finished  the  perusal  of  it,  she  put  it  into 
my  hand,  and  asked  me  if  so  impertinent  a  production 
deserved  an  answer. 

I  began  to  fear  that  the  edaircisscment  would  not 
leave  me  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  lady's  favor,  and  felt 
the  need  of  the  moment's  reflection  given  me  while 
running  my  eye  over  the  letter. 

"  Mr.  Slingsby,"  said  I,  with  the  deliberation  of  an 
attorney,  "  has  been  some  time  in  correspondence  with 
you  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And,  from  his  letters  and  your  brother's  commen 
dations,  you  had  formed  a  high  opinion  of  his  charac 
ter,  and  had  expressed  as  much  in  your  letters  ?" 

"  Yes — perhaps  I  did." 

"And  from  this  paper  intimacy  he  conceives  him 
self  sufficiently  acquainted  with  you  to  request  leave 
to  pay  his  addresses  ?" 

A  dignified  bow  put  a  stop  to  my  catechism. 

"  Dear  Miss  Ellerton  !"  I  said,  "  this  is  scarcely  a 
question  upon  which  I  ought  to  speak,  but  by  putting 
this  letter  into  my  hand,  you  seemed  to  ask  my  opin 
ion." 

"  I  did — I  do,"  said  the  lovely  girl,  taking  my  hand, 
and  looking  appealingly  into  my  face  ;  "  answer  it  for 
me  !  J  have  done  wrong  in  encouraging  that  foolish 
correspondence,  and  I  owe  perhaps  to  this  forward 
man  a  kinder  reply  than  my  first  feeling  would  have 
dictated.  Decide  for  me — write  for  me — relieve  me 
from  the  first  burden  that  has  lain  on  my  heart 
since " 

She  burst  into  tears,  and  my  dread  of  an  explanation 
increased. 

"  Will  you  follow  my  advice  implicitly  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes — oh,  yes  !" 

"  You  promise  ?" 

"  Indeed,  indeed  !" 

"  Well,  then,  listen  to  me  !  However  painful  the 
task,  I  must  tell  you  that  the  encouragement  you  have 
given  Mr.  Slingsby,  the  admiration  you  have  expressed 
in  your  letters  of  his  talents  and  acquirements,  and  the 
confidences  you  have  reposed  in  him  respecting  your 
self,  warrant  him  in  claiming  as  a  right,  a  fair  trial  of 
his  attractions.  You  have  known  and  approved  Mr. 
Slingsby 's  mind  for  years — you  know  me  but  for  a  few 
hours.  You  saw  him  under  the  most  unfavorable 
auspices  (for  I  know  him  intimately),  and  I  feel  bound 
n  justice  to  assure  you  that  you  will  like  him  much 
better  upon  acquaintance." 

Miss  Ellerton  had  gradually  drawn  herself  up  du 
ring  this  splendid  speech,  and  sat  at  last  as  erect  and 
as  cold  as  Agrippina  upon  her  marble  chair. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  send  Mr.  Slingsby  to  you," 
I  continued,  rising — "  and  suffer  him  to  plead  his  own 
cause  ?" 

'  If  you  will  call  my  brother,  Mr.  Wrongham,  I 
shall  feel  obliged  to  you,"  said  Miss  Ellerton. 

I  left  the  room,  and  hurrying  to  my  chamber,  dipped 
my  head  into  a  basin  of  water,  and  plastered  my  long 
locks  over  my  eyes,  slipped  on  a  white  roundabout, 
and  tied  around  my  neck  the  identical  checked  cravat 
n  which  I  had  made  such  an  unfavorable  impression 
on  the  first  day  of  my  arrival.  Tom  Ellerton  was  soon 
found,  and  easily  agreed  to  go  before  and  announce  me 
by  my  proper  name  to  his  sister ;  and  treading  close 
ly  on  his  heels,  I  followed  to  the  door  of  the  music- 
room. 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


83 


"  Ah,  Ellen  !"  said  he,  without  giving  her  time  for  i|  to  the  door,  where  thnt  small  epitome  of  the  inherit- 
a  scene,  "  I  was  looking  for  you.  Slingsby  is  better,  ance  of  the  prince  of  darkness,  an  American  stage- 
and  will  pay  his  respects  to  you  presently.  And,  I  jj  coach,  awaited  me  as  its  ninth  inside  passenger.  As 
say — you  will  treat  him  well,  Ellen,  and — and,  don't  |  the  last  person  picked  up,  I  knew  very  well  the  seat 

to  which  I  was  destined,  and  drawing  a  final  cool 
breath  in  the  breezy  colonnade,  I  summoned  resolu 
tion  and  abandoned  myself  to  the  tender  mercies  of 


flirt  with  Wrongham  the  way  you  did  last  night ! — 
Slingby's  a  devilish  sight  better  fellow.  Oh,  here  he 
is !" 

As  I  stepped  over  the  threshold,  Miss  Ellerton  gave 
me  just  enough  of  a  look  to  assure  herself  that  it  was 
the  identical  monster  she  had  seen  at  the  tea-table, 
and  not  deigning  me  another  glance,  immediately  com 
menced  talking  violently  to  her  brother  on  the  state  of 
the  weather.  Tom  bore  it  for  a  moment  or  two  with 
remarkable  gravity,  but  at  my  first  attempt  to  join  in 
the  conversation,  my  voice  was  lost  in  an  explosion  of 
laughter  which  would  have  been  the  death  of  a  gentle 
man  with  a  full  habit. 

Indignant  and  astonished,  Miss  Ellerton  rose  to  her 
full  height,  and  slowly  turned  to  me. 

"  Peccavi  /"  said  I,  crossing  my  hands  on  my  bosom, 
and  looking  up  penitently  to  her  face. 

She  ran  to  me,  and  seized  my  hand,  but  recovered 
herself  instantly,  and  the  next  moment  was  gone  from 
the  room. 

Whether  from  wounded  pride  at  having  been  the 
subject  of  a  mystification,  or  whether  from  that  female 
caprice  by  which  most  men  suffer  at  one  period  or 
other  of  their  bachelor  lives,  I  know  not — but  I  never 
could  bring  Miss  Ellerton  again  to  the  same  interest 
ing  crisis  with  which  she  ended  her  intimacy  with  Mr. 
WVongham.  She  proffered  to  forgive  me,  and  talked 
laughingly  enough  of  our  old  correspondence ;  but 
whenever  I  grew  tender,  she  referred  me  to  the  "  sweet 
lover,"  mentioned  in  my  verses  in  the  balcony,  and 
looked  around  for  Van  Pelt.  That  accomplished 
beau, 

Miss  Ellerton's  graces  without  the  aid  of  his  quizzing- 
glass,  and  I  soon  found  it  necessary  to  yield  the  pas 
altogether.  She  has  since  become  Mrs.  Van  Pelt, 
and  when  I  last  heard  from  her  was  "  as  well  as  could 
be  expected." 


CHAPTER  III. 

MRS.    CAPTAIN    THOMPSON. 

THE  last  of  August  came  sweltering  in,  hot,  dusty, 
and  faint,  and  the  most  indefatigable  belles  of  Sarato 
ga  began  to  show  symptoms  of  weariness.  The  stars 
disappeared  gradually  from  the  ballroom ;  the  bar- 


the  driver. 

The  "  ray  of  contempt"  that  "  will  pierce  through 
the  shell  of  the  tortoise,"  is  a  shaft  from  the  horn  of 
a  new  moon  in  comparison  with  the  beating  of  an 
i  American  sun  through  the  top  of  a  stage-coach.  This 
"  accommodation,"  as  it  is  sometimes  bitterly  called, 
not  being  intended  to  carry  outside  passengers,  has  a 
top  as  thin  as  your  grandmother's  umbrella,  black,  po 
rous,  and  cracked  ;  and  while  intended  for  a  protec 
tion  from  the  heat,  it  just  suffices  to  collect  the  sun's 
rays  with  an  incredible  power  and  sultriness,  and  ex 
clude  the  air  that  makes  it  sufferable  to  the  beasts  of 
the  field.  Of  the  nine  places  inside  this  "  dilly,"  the 
four  seats  in  the  corners  are  so  far  preferable  that  the 
occupant  has  the  outer  side  of  his  body  exempt  from 
a  perspirative  application  of  human  flesh  (the  ther 
mometer  at  100  degrees  of  Fahrenheit),  while,  of  the 
three  middle  places  on  the  three  seats,  the  man  in  the 
centre  of  the  coach,  with  no  support  for  his  back,  yet 
buried  to  the  chin  in  men,  women,  and  children,  is  at 
the  ninth  and  lowest  degree  of  human  suffering.  I 
left  Saratoga  in  such  a  state  of  happiness  as  you 
might  suppose  for  a  gentleman,  who,  besides  fulfilling 
this  latter  category,  had  been  previously  unhappy  in 
his  love. 

I  was  dressed  in  a  white  roundabout  and  trowsers 
of  the  same,  a  straw  hat,  thread  stockings,  and  pumps, 
ind  was  so  far  a  blessing  to  my  neighbors  that  I  looked 


on  observing  my  discomfiture,  began  to  find  out   j  cool.     Directly  behind  me,  occupying  the  middle  of 


the  back  seat,  sat  a  young  woman  with  a  gratis  passen 
ger  in  her  lap  (who,  of  course,  did  not  count  among 
the  nine),  in  the  shape  of  a  fat  and  a  very  hot  child 
of  three  years  of  age,  whom  she  called  John,  .Tacky, 
Johnny,  Jocket,  Jacket,  and  the  other  endearing  di 
minutives  of  the  namesakes  of  the  great  apostle.  Like 
the  saint  who  had  been  selected  for  his  patron,  he  was 
a  "voice  crying  in  the  wilderness."  This  little  gen 
tleman  was  exceedingly  unpopular  with  his  two  neigh 
bors  at  the  windows,  and  his  incursions  upon  their  legs 
and  shoulders  in  his  occasional  forays  for  fresh  air, 
ended  in  his  being  forbidden  to  look  out  at  either  win 
dow,  and  plied  largely  with  gingerbread  to  content  him 
with  the  warm  lap  of  his  mother.  Though  I  had  no 
eyes  in  the  back  of  my  straw  hat,  I  conceived  very 
well  the  state  in  which  a  compost  of  soft  gingerbread, 


keeper  grew  thin  under  the  thickening  accounts  for  '  tears,  and  perspiration,  would  soon  leave  the  two  un- 
lernonades;  the  fat  fellow  in  the  black  band,  who  j  I  scrupulous  hands  behind  me  ;  and  as  the  jolts  of  the 
"vexed"  the  bassoon,  had  blown  himself  from  the  j  coach  frequently  threw  me  back  upon  the  knees  of 
girth  of  Falstaff  to  an  "  eagle's  talon  in  the  waist ;"  j  his  mother,  I  could  not  consistently  complain  of  the 
papas  began  to  be  waylaid  in  their  morning  walks  by  I  familiar  use  made  of  my  roundabout  and  shoulders  in 
young  gentlemen  with  propositions ;  and  stage-coaches  I  j  Master  John's  constant  changes  of  position.  I  vowed 
that  came  in  with  their  basgageless  tails  in  the  air,  and  I  my  jacket  to  the  first  river,  the  moment  I  could  make 
the  driver's  weight  pressing  the  foot-board  upon  the  |  sure  that  the  soft  gingerbread  was  exhausted — bull 
astonished  backs  of  his  wheelers,  went  out  with  the|j  kept  my  temper. 

How  an  American   Jehu    gets  his  team  over  ten 
iles  in  the  hour,  through  all  the  variety  of  sand,  ruts, 


trim  of  a  Venetian  gondola — the  driver's  up-hoisted 
figure  answering  to  the  curved  proboscis  of  that  stern- 
laden  craft. 

The  vocation  of  tin-tumblers  and  water-dippers  was 
gone.  The  fashionable  world  (hrazen  in  its  general 
habit)  had  drank  its  fill  of  the  ferrugineous  waters. 
Mammas  thanked  Heaven  for  the  conclusion  of  the 
chaperon's  summer  solstice  ;  and  those  who  came  to 
bet,  and  those  who  came  to  marry,  "  made  up  their 
books,"  and  walked  off  (if  they  had  won)  with  their 
winnings. 

Having  taken  a  less  cordial  farewell  of  Van  Pelt 
than  I  might  have  done  had  not  Miss  Ellerton  been 
hanging  confidingly  on  his  arm,  I  followed  my  baggage 


clay-pits,  and  stump-thickets,  is  a  problem  that  can 
only  be  resolved  by  riding  beside  him  on  the  box.  In 
the  usual  time  we  arrived  at  the  pretty  village  of  Troy, 
some  thirty  miles  from  Saratoga;  and  here,  having  ex 
changed  my  bedaubed  jacket  for  a  clean  one,  I  freely 
forgave  little  Pickle  his  freedoms,  for  I  hoped  never 
to  set  eyes  on  him  again  during  his  natural  life.  I  was 
going  eastward  by  another  coach. 

Having  eaten  a  salad  for  my  dinner,  and  drank  a 
bottle  oficed  claret,  I  stepped  forth  in  my  '•  blanched 
and  lavendered"  jacket  to  take  my  place  in  the  other 
coach,  trusting  Providence  not  to  afflict  ine  twice  in 


84 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


the  same  day  with  the  evil  I  had  just  escaped,  and  feel 
ing,  on  the  whole,  reconciled  to  my  troubled  dividend 
of  eternity.  I  got  up  the  steps  of  the  coach  with  as 
much  alacrity  as  the  state  of  the  thermometer  would 
permit,  and  was  about  drawing  my  legs  after  me  upon 
the  forward  seat,  when  a  clammy  hand  caught  me 
unceremoniously  by  the  shirt-collar,  and  the  voice  1 
was  just  beginning  to  forget  cried  out  with  a  chuckle, 


"  Madam!"!  said,  picking  off  the  gingerbread  from 
my  shirt  as  the  coach  rolled  down  the  street,  "I  had 
hoped  that  your  infernal  child  -  " 

I  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  sentence,  for  a  pair 
of  large  blue  eyes  were  looking  wonderingly  into  mine, 
and  for  the  first  time  I  observed  that  the  mother  of 
this  familiar  nuisance  was  one  of  the  prettiest  women  I 
had  seen  since  1  had  become  susceptible  to  the  charms 
of  the  sex. 

"Are  you  going  to  Boston,  sir  ?"  she  inquired,  with 
a  half-timid  smile,  as  if,  in  that  case,  she  appealed  to 
me  for  protection  on  the  road. 

"  Yes,  madam  !"  I  answered,  taking  little  Jocket's 
pasty  hand  into  mine,  affectionately,  as  I  returned  her 
hesitating  look  ;  "  may  1  hope  for  your  society  so 
far  ?" 

My  fresh  white  waistcoat  was  soon  embossed  with  a 
dingy  yellow,  where  my  enterprising  fellow-passenger 
had  thrust  his  sticky  fist  into  the  pockets,  and  my  sham 
shirt-bosom  was  reduced  incontinently  to  the  complex 
ion  of  a  painter's  rag  after  doing  a  sunset  in  gamboge. 
I  saw  everything,  however,  through  the  blue  eyes  of 
his  mother,  and  was  soon  on  such  pleasant  terms  with 
Master  John,  that,  at  one  of  the  stopping-places,  I  in 
veigled  him  out  of  the  coach  and  dropped  him  acci 
dentally  into  the  horse-trough,  contriving  to  scrub  him 
passably  clean  before  he  could  recover  breath  enough 
for  an  outcry.  I  had  already  thrown  the  residuum 
of  his  gingerbread  out  of  the  window,  so  that  his  fa 
miliarities  for  the  rest  of  the  day  were,  at  least,  less 
adhesive. 

We  dropped  one  or  two  way-passengers  at  Lebanon, 
and  I  was  left  in  the  coach  with  Mrs.  Captain  and 
Master  John  Thompson,  in  both  whose  favors  I  made 
a  progress  that  (I  may  as  well  depone)  considerably 
restored  my  spirits  —  laid  flat  by  my  unthrift  wooing  at 
Saratoga.  If  a  fly  hath  but  alit  on  my  nose  when  my 
self-esteem  hath  been  thus  at  a  discount,  I  have 
soothed  myself  with  the  fancy  that  it  preferred  me  —  a 
drowning  vanity  will  so  catch  at  a  straw  ! 

As  we  bowled  along  through  some  of  the  loveliest 
scenery  of  Massachusetts,  my  companion  (now  become 
my  charge),  let  me  a  little  into  her  history,  and  at  the 
same  time,  by  those  shades  of  insinuation  of  which 
women  so  instinctively  know  the  uses,  gave  me  per 
fectly  to  comprehend  that  1  might  as  well  economize 
my  tenderness.  The  father  of  the  riotous  young  gen 
tleman  who  had  made  so  free  with  my  Valencia  waist 
coat  and  linen  roundabouts,  had  the  exclusive  copy 
hold  of  her  affections.  He  had  been  three  years  at 
sea  (I  think  I  said  before),  and  she  was  hastening  to 
show  him  the  pledge  of  their  affections—  come  ^into 
the  world  since  the  good  brig  Dolly  made  her  last 
clearance  from  Boston  bay. 

I  was  equally  attentive  to  Mrs.'  Thompson  after  this 
illumination,  though  I  was,  perhaps,  a  shade  less  en 
amored  of  the  interesting  freedoms  of.  Master  John. 
One's  taste  for  children  depends  so  much  upon  one's 
love  for  their  mothers  ! 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  at  night  when  the  coach  rat 
tled  in  upon  the  pavements  of  Boston.  Mrs.  Thomp 
son  had  expressed  so  much  impatience  during  the  last 
few  miles,  and  seemed  to  shrink  so  sensitively  from 
being  left  to  herself  in  a  strange  city,  that  I  offered  my 
services  till  she  should  find  herself  in  better  hands, 
and,  as  a  briefer  way  of  disposing  of  her,  had  bribed 


the  coachman,  who  was  in  a  hurry  with  the  mail,  to 
turn  a  little  out  of  his  way,  and  leave  her  at  her  hus 
band's  hotel. 

We  drew  up  with  a  prodigious  clatter,  accordingly, 
at  the  Marlborough  hotel,  where,  no  coach  being  ex 
pected,  the  boots  and  bar-keeper  were  not  immediately 
forthcoming.  After  a  rap  "to  wake  the  dead,"  I  set 
about  assisting  the  impatient  driver  in  getting  off  the 
lady's  trunks  and  boxes,  and  they  stood  in  a  large 
pyramid  on  the  sidewalk  when  the  door  was  opened. 
A  man  in  his  shirt,  three  parts  asleep,  held  a  flaring 
candle  over  his  head,  and  looked  through  the  half- 
opened  door. 

"  Is  Captain  Thompson  up  ?"  I  asked  rather  brusque 
ly,  irritated  at  the  sour  visage  of  the  bar-keeper. 

"Captain  Thompson,  sir!" 

"Captain  Thompson,  sir! !"  I  repeated  my  words 
with  a  voice  that  sent  him  three  paces  back  into  the 
hall. 

"No,  sir,"  he  said  at  last,  slipping  one  leg  into  his 
trowsers,  which  had  hitherto  been  under  his  arm. 

"  Then  wake  him  immediately,  and  tell  him  Mrs. 
Thompson  is  arrived."     Here's  a  husband,  thought  I, 
I  as  I  heard  something  between  a  sob  and  a  complaint 
;  issue  from  the  coach-window  at  the  bar-keeper's  intel 
ligence.     To  go  to  bed  when  he  expected  his  wife  and 
child,  and  after  three  years'  separation !     She  might 
as  well  have  made  a  parenthesis  in  her  constancy ! 

"Have  you  called  the  captain?"  I  asked,  as  I  set 
Master  John  upon  the  steps,  and  observed  the  man 
still  standing  with  the  candle  in  his  hand,  grinning 
from  ear  to  ear. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  man. 

"  No !"  I  thundered,  "  and  what  in  the  devil's  name 
is  the  reason?" 

"Boots!"  he  cried  out  in  reply,  "show  this  gentle- 
j  man  '  forty-one.'     Them  may  wake  Captain  Thompson 
as  likes!  /never  hearn  of  no  Mrs.  Thompson!" 

Rejecting  an  ungenerous  suspicion  that  flashed 
across  my  mind,  and  informing  the  bar-keeper  en  pas 
sant,  that  he  was  a  brute  and  a  donkey,  1  sprang  up 
the  staircase  after  a  boy,  and  quite  out  of  breath,  ar 
rived  at  a  long  gallery  of  bachelors'  rooms  on  the  fifth 
floor.  The  boy  pointed  to  a  door  at  the  end  of  the 
gallery,  and  retreated  to  the  banisters  as  if  to  escape 
the  blowing  up  of  a  petard. 

Rat-a-tat-tat! 

"Come  in!"  thundered  a  voice  like  a  hailing  trum 
pet.     I  took  the  lamp  from  the  boy,  and  opened  the 
door.     On  a   narrow  bed   well  tucked  up,  lay  a  most 
i  formidable   looking   individual,   with   a   face   glowing 
I  with  carbuncles,  a  pair  of  deep-set  eyes  inflamed  and 
fiery,  and   hair  and   eyebrows  of  glaring  red,  mixed 
slightly  with  gray  ;  while  outside  the  bed  lay  a  hairy 
arm,  with  a  fist  like  the  end  of  the  club  of  Hercules. 
His  head  tied  loosely  in  a  black  silk  handkerchief,  and 
on  the  light-stand  stood  a  tumbler  of  brandy- and-water. 

"  W  hat  do  you  want  ?"  he  thundered  again,  as  I  step 
ped  over  a  threshold  and  lifted  my  hat,  struck  speech 
less  for  a  moment  with  this  unexpected  apparition. 

"  Have  I  the  pleasure,"  I  asked,  in    a   hesitating 
voice,  "to  address  Captain  Thompson?" 
j    ,  "That's  my  name!" 

"  Ah  !  then,  captain,  I  have  the  pleasure  to  inform 
j  you  that  Mrs.  Thompson   and  little  John  are  arrived. 
They  are  at  the  door  at  this  moment." 

A  change  in  the  expression  of  Captain  Thompson's 
;  face  checked  my  information  in  the  middle,  and  as  I 
!  took  a  step  backward,  he  raised  himself  on  his  elbow, 
!  and  looked  at  me  in  a  way  that  did  not  diminish  my 
I  embarrassment. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Mr.  Milk-and-water,"  said  he, 
I  with  an  emphasis  on  every  word  like  the  descent  of  a 
i  sledge-hammer;  "if  you're  not  out  of  this  room  in 
I  two  seconds  with  your  '  Mrs.  Thompson  and  little 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


65 


John/  I'll  slam  you  through  that  window,  or  the  devil 
take  me!" 

I  reflected  as  I  took  another  step  backward,  that  if 
1  were  thrown  down  to  Mrs.  Thompson  from  a  fifth 
story  window  I  should  not  be  in  a  state  to  render  her 
the  assistance  she  tequired  ;  and  remarking  with  an 
ill-feigned  gayety  to  Captain  Thompson  that  so  de 
cided  a  measure  would  not  be  necessary,  I  backed 
expeditiously  over  the  threshold.  As  I  was  closing 
his  door,  I  heard  the  gulp  of  his  brandy-and-water, 
and  the  next  instant  the  empty  glass  whizzed  past  my 
retreating  head,  and  was  shattered  to  pieces  on  the 
wall  behind  me. 

I  gave  the  "  boots"  a  cuff  for  an  untimely  roar  of 
laughter  as  I  reached  the  staircase,  and  descended, 
very  much  discomfited  and  embarrassed,  to  Mrs. 
Thompson.  My  delay  had  thrown  that  lady  into  a 
very  moving  state  of  unhappiness.  Her  tears  were 
glistening  in  the  light  of  the  street  lamp,  and  Master 
John  was  pulling  away  unheeded  at  her  stomacher, 
and  crying  as  if  he  would  split  his  diaphragm.  What 
to  do?  1  would  have  offered  to  take  her  to  my  pater 
nal  roof  till  the  mystery  could  be  cleared  up — but  I 
had  been  absent  two  years,  and  to  arrive  at  midnight 
with  a  woman  and  a  young  child,  and  such  an  im 
probable  story — I  did  not  think  my  reputation  at 
home  would  bear  me  out.  The  coachman,  too,  began 
to  swear  and  make  demonstrations  of  leaving  us  in  the 
street,  and  it  was  necessary  to  decide. 

"Shove  the  baggage  inside  the  coach,"  I  said  at 
last,  "and  drive  on.  Don't  be  unhappy  Mrs.  Thomp 
son!  Jocket,  stop  crying,  you  villain!  I'll  see  that 
you  are  comfortably  disposed  of  for  the  night  where 
the  coach  stops,  madam,  and  to-morrow  I'll  try  a 
litlle  reason  with  Captain  Thompson.  How  the  devil 
can  she  love  such  a  volcanic  specimen!"  I  muttered 
to  myself,  dodging  instinctively  at  the  bare  remem 
brance  of  the  glass  of  brandy-and-water. 

The  coachman  made  up  for  lost  time,  and  we  rattled 
over  the  pavements  at  a  rate  that  made  Jocket's  hully- 
baloo  quite  inaudible.  As  we  passed  the  door  of  rny 
own  home,  1  wondered  what  would  be  the  impression 
of  my  respectable  parent,  could  he  see  me  whisking 
by,  after  midnight,  with  a  rejected  woman  and  her 
progeny  upon  my  hands ;  but  smothering  the  un 
worthy  doubt  that  re-arose  in  my  mind,  touching  the 
legitimacy  of  Master  John,  I  inwardly  vowed  that  I 
would  see  Mrs.  Thompson  at  all  risks  fairly  out  of 
her  imbroglio. 

We  pulled  up  with  a  noise  like  the  discharge  of  a  ! 
load  of  paving-stones,  and  I  was  about  saying  some 
thing  both  affectionate  and  consolatory  to  my  weeping 
charge,  when  a  tall  handsome  fellow,  with  a  face  as 
brown  as  a  berry,  sprang  to  the  coach-door,  and  seized 
her  in  his  arms!  A  shower  of  kisses  and  tender  ep 
ithets  left  me  not  a  moment  in  doubt.  Thfere  was 
another  Captain  Thompson! 

He  had   not  been  able  to  get  rooms  at  the  Marl-  ' 
borough,   as  he   had  anticipated  when  he  wrote,  and 
presuming  that  the  mail  would  come  first  to  the  post- 
office,  he  had  waited  for  her  there. 

As  I  was  passing  the  Mailborough  a  week  or  two 
afterward,  I  stopped  to  inquire  about  Captain  Thomp 
son.  I  found  that  he  was  an  old  West  India  captain, 
who  had  lived  there  between  his  cruises  for  twenty 
years  more  or  less,  and  had  generally  been  supposed  a 
bachelor.  He  had  suddenly  gone  to  sea,  the  land 
lord  told  me,  smiling  at  the  same  time,  as  if  thereby 
hung  a  tale  if  he  chose  to  tell  it. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Boniface,  when  I  pushed  him  a 
little  on  the  subject,  "he  was  sheared  off." 

"  What  scared  him  ?"  I  asked  very  innocently. 

"A  wife  and  child  from  some  foreign  port!"  he  an 
swered  laughing  as  if  he  would  burst  his  waistband, 
and  taking  me  into  the  back  parlor  to  tell  me  the  par 
ticulars. 


A  LOG  IN  THE  ARCHIPELAGO, 

THE  American  frigate,  in  which  I  had  cruised  as 
the  ward-room  guest  for  more  than  six  months,  had 
sailed  for  winter  quarters  at  Mahon,  and  my  name  was 
up  at  the  pier  of  Smyrna,  as  a  passenger  in  the  first 
ship  that  should  leave  the  port,  whatever  her  destina 
tion. 

The  flags  of  all  nations  flew  at  the  crowded  peaks  of 
the  merchantmen  lying  off  the  Marina,  and  among  them 
lay  two  small  twin  brigs,  loading  with  figs  and  opium 
for  my  native  town  in  America.  They  were  owned  by 
an  old  schoolfellow  of  my  own,  one  of  the  most  distin 
guished  and  hospitable  of  the  Smyrniote  merchants, 
and,  if  nothing  more  adventurous  turned  up,  he  had 
offered  to  land  me  from  one  of  his  craft  at  Malta  ot 
Gibraltar. 

Time  wore  on,  and  I  had  loitered  up  and  down  the 
I  narrow  street  "  in  melancholy  idleness"  by  day,  and 
I  smoked  the  narghile  with  those  "  merchant  princes" 
I  by  night,  till  I  knew  every  paving-stone  between  the 
j  beach   and  the  bazar,   and  had  learned  the  thrilling 
!  events  of  the  Greek  persecution  with  the  particularity 
I  of  a  historian.     My  heart,  too,  unsusceptible  enough 
when  "packed  for  travel,"  began  to  uncoil  with  ab 
sence  of  adventure,  and  expose  its  sluggish  pulses  to 
the  "Greek  fire,"  still  burning  in  those  Asiatic  eyes, 
and  I  felt  sensibly,  that  if,  Telemachus-like,  I  did  not 
!  soon  throw  myself  into  the  sea,  I  should  yield,  past 
I  praying  for,  to   the  cup  of  some    Smyrniote  Circe. 
!  Darker  eyes  than  are  seen  on  that  Marina  swim  not  in 
delight  out  of  paradise  ! 

I  was  sitting  on  an  opium-box  in  the  counting-house 

j  of  my  friend  L n(the  princely  and  hospitable  mer- 

j  chant  spoken  of  above),  when  enter  a  Yankee  "skip- 
;  per,"  whom  I  would  have  clapped  on  the  shoulder  for 
a  townsman  if  I  had  seen  him  on  the  top  of  the  minaret 
of  the  mosque  of  Sultan  Bajazet.    His  go-ashore  black 
i  coat  and  trowsers,  worn  only  one  month   in  twelve, 
!  were  of  costly  cloth,  but  of  the  fashion  prevailing  in 
I  the  days  of  his  promotion  to  be  second  mate  of  a  cod- 
fisher  ;  his  hat  was  of  the  richest  beaver,  but  getting 
;  brown  with  the  same  paucity  of  wear,  and  exposure  to 
!  the  corroding  air  of  the  ocean  ;  and  on  his  hands  were 
stretched  (and  they  had  well  need  to  be  elastic)  a  pair 
|  of  Woodstock  gloves  that  might  have  descended  to 
him  from  Paul  Jones  "  the  pilot."     A  bulge  just  over 
!  his  lowest  rib  gave  token  of  the  ship's  chronometer, 
j  and,  in  obedience  to  the  new  fashion  of  a  guard,  a  fine 
j  chain  of  the  softest  auburn  hair  (doubtless  his  wife's, 
|  and,  I  would  have  wagered  my  passage-money,  as  pret 
ty  a  woman  as  he  would  see  in  his  v'yage) — a  chain,  1 
say,  braided  of  silken  blond  ringlets  passed  around  his 
neck,  and  drew  its  glossy  line  over  his  broad-breasted 
white  waistcoat — the  dewdrop  on  the  lion's  mane  not 
more  entitled  to  be  astonished. 

A  face  of  hard-weather,  but  with  an  expression  of 
care  equal  to  the  amount  of  his  invoice,  yet  honest  and 
fearless  as  the  truck  of  his  mainmast;  a  round  sailor's 
back,  that  looked  as  if  he  would  hoist  up  his  deck  if 
you  battered  him  beneath  hatches  against  his  will ; 
and  teeth  as  white  as  his  new  foresail,  completed  the 
j  picture  of  the  master  of  the  brig  Metamora.  Jolly  old 

H 1, 1  shall  never  feel  the  grip  of  an  honester  hand, 

nor  return  one  (as  far  as  I  can  with  the  fisi  you  crip 
pled  at  parting)  with  a  more  kindly  pressure  !     A  fair 
I  wind  on  your  quarter,  my  old  boy,  wherever  you  may 
be  trading  ! 

"  What  sort  of  accommodations  have  you,  captain  ?" 
I  asked,  as  my  friend  introduced  me. 

"  Why,  none  to  speak  of,  sir  !    There's  a  starboard 
birth  that  a'n't  got  much  in  it — a  few  boxes  of  figs,  and 
the  new  spritsail,  and  some  of  the  mate's  traps— but  I 
could  stow  away  a  little  perhaps,  sir." 
"  You  sail  to-morrow  morning  ?" 
"  Off  with  the  land-breeze,  »ir." 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


I  took  leave  of  the  kindest  of  friends,  laid  in  a  few 
hasty  stores,  and  was  on  board  at  midnight.  The  next 
morning  I  awoke  with  the  water  rippling  beside  me, 
and  creeping  on  deck,  I  saw  a  line  of  foam  stretching 
behind  us  far  up  the  gulf,  and  the  ruins  of  the  primi 
tive  church  of  Smyrna,  mingled  with  the  turrets  of  a 
Turkish  castle,  far  away  in  the  horizon. 

The  morning  was  cool  and  fresh,  the  sky  of  an  ori 
ental  purity,  and  the  small  low  brig  sped  on  like  a 
nautilus.  The  captain  stood  by  the  binnacle,  looking 
off  to  the  westward  with  a  glass,  a  tarpaulin  hat  over 
his  black  locks,  a  pair  of  sail-cloth  pumps  on  his  feet, 
and  trowsers  and  roundabout  of  an  indefinable  tarri- 
ness  and  texture.  He  handed  me  the  glass,  and,  obey 
ing  his  direction,  I  saw,  stealing  from  behind  a  point  of 
land,  shaped  like  a  cat's  back,  the  well-known  topsails 
of  the  two  frigates  that  had  sailed  before  us. 

We  were  off  Vourla,  and  the  commodore  had  gone 
to  pay  his  respects  to  Sir  Pulteney  Malcolm,  then  ly 
ing  with  his  fleet  in  this  little  bay,  and  waiting,  we 
supposed,  for  orders  to  force  the  Dardanelles.  The 
frigates  soon  appeared  on  the  bosom  of  the  gulf,  and 
Leading  down,  neared  our  larboard  bow,  and  stood  for 
the  Archipelago.  The  Metamora  kept  her  way,  but 
the  "  United  States,"  the  fleetest  of  our  ships,  soon 
left  us  behind  with  a  strengthening  breeze,  and,  fol 
lowing  her  with  the  glass  till  I  could  no  longer  distin 
guish  the  cap  of  the  officer  of  the  deck,  I  breathed  a 
blessing  after  her,  and  went  below  to  breakfast.  It  is 
strange  how  the  lessening  in  the  distance  of  a  ship  in 
which  one  has  cruised  in  these  southern  seas,  pulls  on 
the  heartstrings ! 

I  sat  on  deck  most  of  the  day,  cracking  pecan-nuts 
with  the  captain,  and  gossiping  about  schooldays  in  j 
our  native  town,  occasionally  looking  off  over  the  hills  j 
of  Asia  Minor,  and  trying  to  realize  (the  Ixion  labor  of  j 
the  imagination  in  travel)  the  history  of  which  thdte 
barren  lands  have  been  the  scene.  I  know  not  wheth 
er  it  is  easy  for  a  native  of  old  countries  to  people  these 
desolated  lands  from  the  past,  but  for  me,  accustomed 
to  look  on  the  face  of  the  surrounding  earth  as  mere 
vegetation,  unstoried  and  unassociated,  it  is  with  a  con 
stant  mental  effort  alone  that  I  can  be  classic  on  clas 
sic  ground — find  Plato  in  the  desert  wastes  of  the 
Academy,  or  Priam  among  the  Turk-stridden  and 
prostrate  columns  of  Troy.  In  my  recollections  of 
Athens,  the  Parthenon  and  the  Theseion  and  the  sol 
emn  and  sublime  ruins  by  the  Fount  of  Callirhoe  stand 
forth  prominent  enough  ;  but  when  I  was  on  the  spot 
—a  biped  to  whom  three  meals  a  day,  a  washerwo 
man,  and  a  banker,  were  urgent  necessities — I  shame 
to  confess  that  I  sat  dangling  my  legs  over  the  classic 
Pelasgicum,  not  "  fishing  for  philosophers  with  gold 
and  figs,"  but  musing  on  the  mundane  and  proximate 
matters  of  daily  economy.  I  could  see  my  six  shirts 
hanging  to  dry,  close  by  the  temple  of  the  Winds,  and 
I  knew  my  dinner  was  cooking  three  doors  from  the 
crumbling  capitals  of  the  Agora. 

As  the  sun  set  over  Ephesus,  we  neared  the  mouth 
of  the  gulf  of  Smyrna,  and  the  captain  stood  looking 
over  the  leeward-bow  rather  earnestly. 

"  We  shall  have  a  snorter  out  of  the  nor'east,"  he 
said,  taking  hold  of  the  tiller,  and  sending  the  helms 
man  forward — "  I  never  was  up  this  sea  but  once 
afore,  and  it's  a  dirty  passage  through  these  islands  in 
any  weather,  let  alone  a  Levanter." 

He  followed  up  his  soliloquy  by  jamming  his  tiller 
hard  a-port,  and  in  ten  minutes  the  little  brig  was  run 
ning  her  nose,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  right  upon  an  in 
hospitable  rock  at  the  northern  headland  of  the  gulf. 
At  the  distance  of  a  biscuit-toss  from  the  shore,  how 
ever,  the  rock  was  dropped  to  leeward,  and  a  small 
passage  appeared,  opening  with  a  sharp  curve  into 
the  miniature  but  sheltered  bay  of  Fourgas.  We 
dropped  anchor  off  a  small  hamlet  of  forty  or  fifty 
houses,  and  lay  beyond  the  reach  of  Levanters  in  a 


circular  basin  that  seemed  shut  in  by  a  rim  of  granite 
from  the  sea. 

The  captain's  judgment  of  the  weather  was  correct, 
and,  after  the  sun  set,  the  wind  rose  gradually  to  a  vi 
olence  which  sent  the  spray  high  over  the  barriers  of 
our  protected  position.  Congratulating  ourselves  that 
we  were  on  the  right  side  of  the  granite  wall,  we  got 
out  our  jolly-boat  on  the  following  morning,  and  ran 
ashore  upon  the  beach  half  a  mile  from  town,  propo 
sing  to  climb  first  to  the  peak  of  the  neighboring  hill, 
and  then  forage  for  a  dinner  in  the  village  below. 

We  scrambled  up  the  rocky  mountain-side,  with 
some  loss  of  our  private  stock  of  wind,  and  considera 
ble  increase  from  the  nor'easter,  and  getting  under  the 
lee  of  a  projecting  shelf,  sat  looking  over  toward  Les 
bos,  and  ruminating  in  silence — I,  upon  the  old  ques 
tion,  "an  Sappho  publica  fuerit"  and  the  captain  prob 
ably  on  his  wife  at  Cape  Cod,  and  his  pecan-nuts,  figs, 
and  opium,  in  the  emerald-green  brig  below  us.  I 
don't  know  why  she  should  have  been  painted  green, 
by-the-by  (and  I  never  thought  to  suggest  that  to  the 
captain),  being  named  after  an  Indian  chief,  who  was 
as  red  as  her  copper  bottom. 

The  sea  toward  Mitylene  looked  as  wild  as  an  ea 
gle's  wing  ruffling  against  the  wind,  and  there  was  that 
smoke  in  the  sky  as  if  the  blast  was  igniting  with  its 
speed — the  look  of  a  gale  in  those  seas  when  unac 
companied  with  rain.  The  crazy-looking  vessels  of 
the  Levant  were  scudding  with  mere  rags  of  sails  for 
the  gulf;  and  while  we  sat  on  the  rock,  eight  or  ten 
of  those  black  and  unsightly  craft  shot  into  the  little 
bay  below  us,  and  dropped  anchor — blessing,  no  doubt, 
every  saint  in  the  Greek  calendar. 

Having  looked  toward  Lesbos  an  hour,  and  come  to 
the  conclusion,  that,  admitting  the  worst  with  regard 
to  the  private  character  of  Sappho,  it  would  have  been 
very  pleasant  to  have  known  her;  and  the  captain 
having  washed  his  feet  in  a  slender  tricklet  oozing 
from  a  cleft  in  a  rock,  we  descended  the  hill  on  the 
other  side,  and  stole  a  march  on  the  rear  to  the  town 
of  Fourgas.  Four  or  five  Greek  women  were  picking 
up  olives  in  a  grove  lying  halfway  down  the  hill,  and 
on  our  coming  in  sight,  they  made  for  us  with  such 
speed,  that  I  feared  the  reverse  of  the  Sabine  rape — 
not  yet  having  seen  a  man  on  this  desolate  shore  ;  they 
ran  well,  but  they  resembled  Atalanta  in  no  other  pos 
sible  particular.  We  should  have  taken  them  for  the 
Furies,  but  there  were  five.  They  wanted  snuff  and 
money — making  signs  easily  for  the  first,  but  attempt 
ing  amicably  to  put  their  hands  in  our  pockets  when 
we  refused  to  comprehend  the  Greek  for  "  Give  us  a 
para."  The  captain  pulled  from  his  pocket  an  Amer 
ican  dollar-note  (payable  at  Nantucket),  and  offered  it 
to  the  youngest  of  the  women,  who  smelt  at  it  and  re 
turned  it  to  him,  evidently  unacquainted  with  the  Cape 
Cod  currency.  On  farther  search  he  found  a  few  of 
the  tinsel  paras  of  the  country,  which  he  substituted 
for  his  "  dollar-bill,"  a  saving  of  ninety-nine  cents  to 
him,  if  the  bank  has  not  broke  when  he  arrives  at  Mas 
sachusetts. 

Fourgas  is  surrounded  by  a  very  old  wall,  very  much 
battered.  We  passed  under  a  high  arch  containing 
marks  of  having  once  been  closed  with  a  heavy  gate; 
and,  disputing  our  passage  with  cows,  and  men  that 
seemed  less  cleanly  and  civilized,  penetrated  to  the 
heart  of  the  town  in  search  of  the  barber's  shop,  cafe, 
and  kibaub  shop — three  conveniences  usually  tmited 
in  a  single  room  and  dispensed  by  a  single  Figaro  in 
Turkish  and  Greek  towns  of  this"  description.  The 
word  cafe  is  universal,  and  we  needed  only  to  pio- 
nounce  it  to  be  led  by  a  low  door  into  a  square  apart 
ment  of  a  ruinous  old  building,  around  which,  upon  a 
kind  of  shelf,  waist-high,  sat  as  many  of  ihe  inl  abit- 
ants  of  the  town  as  could  cross  their  legs  conveniently. 
As  soon  as  we  were  discerned  through  the  smoke  by 
the  omnifarious  proprietor  of  the  establishment,  two 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


87 


of  the  worst-dressed  customers  were  turned  off  the 
shelf  unceremoniously  to  make  room  for  us,  the  fire 
beneath  the  coffeepot  was  raked  open,  and  the  agree 
able  flavor  of  the  spiced  beverage  of  the  east  ascended 
refreshingly  to  our  nostrils.  With  his  baggy  trowsers 
tucked  up  to  his  thigh,  his  silk  shirt  to  his  armpits, 
an-l  his  smoke-dried  but  clean  feet  wandering  at  large 
in  a  pair  of  red  morocco  slippers,  our  Turkish  Gany 
mede  presented  the  small  cups  in  their  filagree  hold 
ers,  and  never  was  beverage  more  delicious  or  more 
welcome.  Thirsty  \vith  our  ramble,  and  unaccus 
tomed  to  such  small  quantities  as  seem  to  satisfy  the 
natives  of  the  east,  the  captain  and  myself  soon  became 
objects  of  no  small  amusement  to  the  wondering  beards 
about  us.  A  large  tablespoon  holds  rather  more  than 
a.  Turkish  coffee-cup,  and  one,  or,  at  most,  two  of 
these,  satisfies  the  dryest  clay  in  the  Orient.  To  us, 
a  dozen  of  them  was  a  bagatelle,  and  we  soon  ex 
hausted  the  copper  pot,  and  intimated  to  the  aston 
ished  cafi  Iji  that  we  should  want  another.  He  looked 
at  us  a  mituite  to  see  if  we  were  in  earnest,  and  then 
laid  his  hand  on  his  stomach,  and  rolling  up  his  eyes, 
made  some  remark  to  his  other  customers  which  pro 
voked  a  general  laugh.  It  was  our  last  "  lark"  ashore 
for  some  time,  however,  and  spite  of  this  apparent 
prophecy  of  a  colic,  we  smoked  our  narghiles  and 
kept  him  running  with  his  fairy  cups  for  some  time  j 
longer.  One  never  gets  enough  of  that  fragrant  li 
quor. 

The  sun  broke  through  the  clouds  as  we  sat  on  the  j 
high  bench,  and,  hastily  paying  our  Turk,  we  hurried  j 
to  the  seaside.  The  wind  seemed  to  have  lulled,  and  j 
was  blowing  lightly  offshore  ;  and,  impatient  of  loiter-  ' 
log  on  his  voyage,  the  captain  got  up  his  anchor  and  j 
ran  across  the  bay,  and  in  half  an  hour  was  driving  : 
through  a  sea  that  left  not  a  dry  plank  on  the  deck  of  I 
the  .Metarnora. 

The  other  vessels  at  Fourgas  had  not  stirred,  and 
the  sky  in  the  northeast  looked  to  my  eye  very  threat 
ening.  It  was  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  and  the 
captain  crowded  sail  and  sped  on  like  a  sea-bird, 
though  I  could  see  by  his  face  when  he  looked  in  the 
quarter  of  the  wind,  that  he  had  acted  more  from  im 
pulse  than  judgment  in  leaving  his  shelter.  The  heavy 
sea  kicked  us  on  our  course,  however,  and  the  smart 
little  brig  shot  buoyantly  over  the  crests  of  the  waves 
as  she  outran  them,  and  it  was  difficult  not  to  feel  that 
the  bounding  and  obedient  fabric  beneath  our  feet  was  j 
instinct  with  self-confidence,  and  rode  the  waters  like 
their  master. 

I  well  knew  that  the  passage  of  the  Archipelago  was 
a  difficult  one<  in  a  storm  even  to  an  experienced  pilot, 
and  with  the  'advantage  of  daylight ;  and  I  could  not 
but  remember  with  some  anxiety  that  we  were  enter 
ing  upon  it  at  nightfall,  and  with  a  wind  strengthening 
every  moment,  while  the  captain  confessedly  hfld  made 
the  passage  but  once  before,  and  then  in  a  calm  sea  of 
August.  The  skipper,  however,  walked  his  deck  con 
fidently,  though  he  began  to  manage  his  canvass  with  a 
more  wary  care,  and,  before  dark,  we  were  scudding 
under  a  single  sail,  and  pitching  onward  with  the  heave 
of  the  sea  at  a  rate  that,  if  we  were  to  see  Malta  at  all, 
promised  a  speedy  arrival.  As  the  night  closed  in  we 
passed  a  large  frigate  lying-to,  which  we  afterward 
found  out  was  the  Superbe,  a  French  eighty-gun  ship 
(wrecked  a  few  hours  after  on  the  island  of  Andros). 
The  two  American  frigates  had  run  up  by  Mitylene, 
and  were  still  behind  us  :  and  the  fear  of  being  run 
down  in  the  night,  in  our  small  craft,  induced  the 
captain  to  scud  on,  though  he  would  else  have  lain-to 
with  die  Frenchman,  and  perhaps  have  shared  his 
fate. 

I  stayed  on  deck  an  hour  or  two  after  dark,  and  be 
fore  going  below  satisfied  myself  that  we  should  owe 
it  to  the  merest  chance  if  we  escaped  striking  in  the 
night.  The  storm  had  become  so  furious  that  we  ran 


with  bare  poles  before  it ;  and  though  it  set  us  pretty 
fairly  on  our  way,  the  course  lay  through  a  narrow 
and  most  intricate  channel,  among  small  and  rocky 
islands,  and  we  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  trust  to  a 
providential  drift. 

The  captain  prepared  himself  for  a  night  on  deck, 
lashed  everything  that  was  loose,  and  filled  the  two 
jugs  suspended  in  the  cabin,  which,  as  the  sea  had 
been  too  violent  for  any  hope  from  the  cook,  were  to 
sustain  us  through  the  storm.  We  took  a  biscuit  and 
a  glass  of  Hollands  and  water,  holding  on  hard  by  the 
berths  lest  we  should  be  pitched  through  the  skylight, 
and  as  the  captain  tied  up  the  dim  lantern,  I  got  a 
look  at  his  face,  which  would  have  told  me,  if  I  had 
not  known  it  before,  that  though  resolute  and  un 
moved,  he  knew  himself  to  be  entering  on  the  most 
imminent  hazard  of  his  life. 

The  waves  now  broke  over  the  brig  at  every  heave, 
and  occasionally  the  descent  of  the  solid  mass  of  water 
i  on  the  quarter-deck  seemed  to  drive  her  under  like  a 
I  cork.     My  own  situation  was  the  worst  on  board,  for 
I  was  inactive.    It  required  a  seaman  to  keep  the  deck, 
I  and  as  there  was  no  standing  in  the  cabin  without  great 
!  effort,  I  disembarrassed  myself  of  all  that  would  impede 
j  a  swimmer,  and  got  into  my  berth  to  await  a  wreck 
|  which  I  considered   almost  inevitable.     Braced  with 
both  hands  and  feet,  I  lay  and  watched  the  imbroglio 
''  in  the   bottom  of  the   cabin,   my  own  dressing-case 
1  among  other  things  emptied  of  its  contents  and  swim- 
j  ming  with  some  of  my  own  clothes  and  the  captain's, 
i  and  the  water  rushing  down  the  companion-way  with 
!  every  wave  that  broke  over  us.    The  last  voice  I  heard 
!  on  deck  was  from  the  deep  throat  of  the  captain  cal- 
!  ling  his  men  aft  to  assist  in  lashing  the  helm,  and  then, 
in  the  pauses  of  the  gale,  came  the  awful  crash  upon 
|  deck,  more  like  the  descent  of  a  falling  house  than  a 
I  body  of  water,  and  a  swash  through  the  scuppers  im 
mediately  after,  seconded  by  the  smaller  sea  below,  in 
which  my  coat  and  waistcoat  were  undergoing  a  re 
hearsal  of  the  tragedy  outside. 

At  midnight  the  gale  increased,  and  the  seas  that  de 
scended  on  the  brig  shook  her  to  the  very  keel.  We 
could  feel  her  struck  under  by  the  shock,  and  reel  and 
quiver  as  she  recovered  and  rose  again  ;  and,  as  if  to 
distract  my  attention,  the  little  epitome  of  the  tempest 
going  on  in  the  bottom  of  the  cabin  grew  more  and 
more  serious.  The  unoccupied  berths  were  packed 
with  boxes  of  figs  and  bags  of  nuts,  which  "  brought 
away"  one  after  another,  and  rolled  from  side  to  side 
with  a  violence  which  threatened  to  drive  them  through 
the  side  of  the  vessel ;  my  portmanteau  broke  its  lash 
ings  and  shot  heavily  backward  and  forward  with  the 
roTl  of  the  sea  ;  and  if  I  was  not  to  be  drowned  like  a 
dog  in  a  locked  cabin,  I  feared,  at  least,  I  should  have 
my  legs  broken  by  the  leap  of  a  fig-box  into  my  berth. 
My  situation  was  wholly  uncomfortable,  yet  half  ludi 
crous. 

An  hour  after  midnight  the  captain  came  down,  pale 
and  exhausted,  and  with  no  small  difficulty  managed 
to  get  a  tumbler  of  grog. 

"  How  does  she  head  ?"  I  asked. 
"Side  to  wind,  drifting  five  knots  an  hour." 
"Where  are  you?" 

"God  only  knows.  I  expect  her  to  strike  every 
minute." 

He  quietly  picked  up  the  wick  of  the  lamp  as  it 

tossed  to   and  fro,  and  watching  the  roll  of  the  vessel, 

gained  the  companion-way,  and  mounted  to  the  deck. 

I  The  door  was  locked,  and  I  was  once  more  a  prisoner 

and  alone. 

An  hour  elapsed — the  sea,  it  appeared  to  me, 
strengthening  in  its  heaves  beneath  us,  and  the  wind 
howling  and  hissing  in  the  rigging  like  a  hundred 
devils.  °  An  awful  surge  then  burst  down  upon  the 
deck,  racking  the  brig  in  every  seam :  the  hurried 
tread  of  feet  "overhead  told  ine  that  they  were  cutting 


88 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


the  lashings  of  the  helm  ;  the  seas  succeeded  each 
other  quicker  and  quicker,  and,  conjecturing  from  the 
shortness  of  the  pitch,  that  we  were  nearing  a  reef,  1 
was  half  out  of  my  berth  when  the  cabin  door  svas 
wrenched  open,  and  a  deluging  sea  washed  down  the 
companion-way. 

"On  deck  for  your  life  !"  screamed  the  hoarse  voice 
of  the  captain. 

I  sprang  up  through  streaming  water,  barefoot  and 
bareheaded,  but  the  pitch  of  the  brig  was  so  violent 
that  I  dared  not  leave  the  ropes  of  the  companion  lad 
der,  and,  almost  blinded  with  the  spray  and  wind,  I 
stood  waiting  for  the  stroke. 

"  Hard  down  !"  cried  the  captain  in  a  voice  I  shall 
never  forget,  and  as  the  rudder  creaked  with  the  strain, 
the  brig  fell  slightly  off,  and  rising  with  a  tremendous 
surge,  I  saw  the  sky  dimly  relieved  against  the  edge 
of  a  ragged  precipice,  and  in  the  next  moment,  as  if  J 
with  the   repulse  of  a  catapult,  we  were  flung  back; 
into  the  trough  of  the  sea  by  the  retreating  wave,  and  j 
surged  heavily  beyond  the  rock.     The  noise  of  the  • 
breakers,    and   the   rapid    commands   of  the   captain  ! 
now  drowned  the  hiss  of  the  wind,  and  in  a  few  min-  | 
utes  we  were  plunging  once  more  through  the  un-  j 
certain   darkness,  the   long   and  regular  heavings  of   ! 
the  sea  alone  assuring  us  that  we  were  driving   from 
the  shore. 

The  wind   was  cold,  and  I  was  wet  to  the  skin. 
Every  third  sea  broke  over  the  brig  and  added  to  the  ^ 
deluge   in  the  cabin,  and  from  the  straining  of  the!) 
masts  I  feared  they  would  come  down  with  every  sue-  |. 
ceeding  shock.     I  crept  once  more  below,  and  regained 
my   berth,  where  wet  and  aching  in  every  joint,   I  [ 
awaited  fate  or  the  daylight. 

Morning   broke,   but  no  abatement  of  the  storm. 
The  captain  came  below  and  informed  me  (what  I  had   j 
already  presumed)  that  we  had  run  upon  the  southern-   i 
most  point  of  Negropont,  and   had   been  saved  by  a  i 
miracle  from  shipwreck.     The   back  wave  had  taken   j 
us  off,  and  with  the  next  sea  we  had  shot  beyond  it.  |j 
We  were  now  running  in  the  same  narrow  channel  for 
Cape  Colonna,   and   were  surrounded  with   dangers.  \ 
The  skipper  looked  beaten  out;  his  eyes  were  protru-  ; 
ding  and  strained,  and  his  face  seemed  to  me  to  have  j 
emaciated  in  the  night.     He  swallowed  his  grog,  and  j 
flung  himself  for  half  an  hour  into  his  berth,  and  then  { 
went  on  deck  again  to  relieve  his  mate,  where  tired  of 
my  wretched  berth,  I  soon  followed  him. 

The  deck  was  a  scene  of  desolation.     The  bulwarks 
were  carried  clean  away,  the  jolly-boat  swept  off,  and  1 
the   long-boat   the   only    moveable   thing   remaining. 
The  men  were  holding  on  to  the  shrouds,  haggard  and 
sleepy,  clinging  mechanically  to  their  support  as  the 
sea  broke  down  upon   them,  and,  silent  at  the  helm,  > 
stood  the  captain  and  the  second   mate  keeping  the 
brig  stern-on  to  the  sea,  and  straining  their  eyes  for 
land  through  the  thick  spray  before  them. 

The  day  crept  on,  and  another  night,  and  we  passed  i 
it  like  the  last.     The  storm  never  slacked,  and   all  j 
through  the  long  hours  the  same  succession  went  on, 
the  brig   plunging  and  rising,  struggling  beneath  the 
overwhelming  and  overtaking  waves,  and   recovering  j 
herself  again,  till  it  seemed  to   me  as  if  I  had  never! 
known  any  other  motion.     The  captain  came  below  j| 
for  his  biscuit  and   grog  and   went  up  again  without  '! 
speaking  a  word,  the  mates  did  the  same  with  the  same 
silence,  and  at  last  the  bracing  and  holding  on  to  pre 


with  watching,  the  brig  labored  more  and  more  heavily, 
and  the  storm  seemed  eternal. 


vent  being  flung  from  my  berth  became  mechanical, 
and  I  did  it  while  I  slept.     Cold,  wet,  hungry,  and  jj 
exhausted,   what  a  blessing  from  Heaven  were    five  | 
minutes  of  forgetfulness! 

How  the  third  night  wore  on  I  scarce  remember. 
The  storm  continued  with  unabated  fury,  and  when 
the  dawn  of  the  third  morning  broke  upon  us  the  cap 
tain  conjectured  that  we  had  drifted  four  hundred 
miles  before  the  wind.  The  crew  were  exhausted 


At  noon  of  the  third  day  the  clouds  broke  up  a  little, 
and  the  wind,  though  still  violent,  slacked  somewhat 
in  its  fury.  The  sun  struggled  down  upon  the  lashed 
and  raging  sea,  and,  taking  our  bearings,  we  found  our 
selves  about  two  hundred  miles  from  Malta.  With 
great  exertions,  the  cook  contrived  to  get  up  a  fire  in 
the  binnacle  and  boil  a  little  rice,  and  never  gourmet 
sucked  the  brain  of  a  woodcock  with  the  relish  which 
welcomed  that  dark  mess  of  pottage. 

It  was  still  impossible  to  carry  more  than  a  hand's 
breadth  of  sail,  but  we  were  now  in  open  waters  and 
flew  merrily  before  the  driving  sea.  The  pitching  and 
racking  motion,  and  the  occasional  shipping  of  a  heavy 
wave,  still  forbade  all  thoughts  or  hopes  of  comfort, 
but  the  dread  of  shipwreck  troubled  us  no  more,  and 
I  passed  the  day  in  contriving  how  to  stand  long 
enough  on  my  legs  to  get  my  wet  traps  from  my 
floating  portmanteau,  and  go  into  quarantine  like  a 
Christian. 

The  following  day,  at  noon,  Malta  became  visible 
from  the  top  of  an  occasional  mountain  wave;  and  still 
driving  under  a  reefed  topsail  before  the  hurricane,  we 
rapidly  neared  it,  and  I  began  to  hope  for  the  repose 
of  terra  firma.  The  watch  towers  of  the  castellated 
rock  soon  became  distinct  through  the  atmosphere  of 
spray,  and  at  a  distance  of  a  mile,  we  took  in  sail  and 
waited  for  a  pilot. 

While  tossing  in  the  trough  of  the  sea  the  following 
half  hour,  the  captain  communicated  to  me  some  em 
barrassment  with  respect  to  my  landing  which  had  not 
occurred  to  me.     It  appeared  that  the  agreement  to 
land  me  at  Malta  was  not  mentioned  in  his  policy  of 
|  insurance,  and  the  underwriters  of  course  were  not  re- 
j  sponsible  for  any  accident  that  might  happen   to  the 
i  brig  after  a  variation  from  his  original  plan  of  passage. 
'  This  he  would  not  have  minded   if  he  could  have  set 
j  me  ashore  in  a  half  hour,  as  he  had  anticipated,  but 
|  his  small  boat  was  lost  in  the  storm,  and  it  was  now  a 
j  question  whether  the  pilot-boat  would  take  ashore  a 
passenger  liable  to  quarantine.     To  run  his  brig  into 
harbor  would  be  a  great  expense  and  positive  loss  of 
insurance,  and  to  get  out  the  long-boat  with  his  broken 
tackle  and  exhausted  crew  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 
I  knew  very  well  that  no  passenger  from  a  plague  port 
(such  as  Smyrna  and  Constantinople)  was   permitted 
to  land  on  any  terms  at  Gibraltar,  and  il  the  pilot  here 
should  refuse  to  take  me  off,  the  alternative  was  clear, 
I  must  make  a  voyage  against  my  will  to  America! 

I  was  not  in  a  very  pleasant  state  of  mind  during  the 
delay  which  followed;  for,  though  I  had  been  three 
years  absent  from  my  country  and  loved  it  well,  1  had 
laid  my  plans  for  still  two  years  of  travel  on  this  side 
the  Atlantic,  and  certain  moneys  for  my  "charges"  lay 
waiting  my  arrival  at  Malta.  Among  lesser  reasons, 
I  had  not  a  rag  of  clothes  dry  or  clean,  and  was 
heartily  out  of  love  with  salt  water  and  the  smell  of 
figs. 

As  if  to  aggravate  my  unhappiness,  the  sun  broke 
through  a  rifVin  the  clouds  and  lit  up  the  white  and 
turreted  battlements  of  Malra  like  an  isle  of  the  blessed 
— the  only  bright  spot  within  the  limits  of  the  stormy 
horizon.  The  mountain  waves  on  which  we  were 
tossing  were  tempestuous  and  black,  the  comfortless 
and  battered  brig  with  her  weary  crew  looked  more 
like  a  wreck  than  a  seaworthy  merchantman,  and  no 
pilot  appearing,  the  captain  looked  anxiously  seaward, 
as  if  he  grudged  every  minute  of  the  strong  wind  rush 
ing  by  on  his  course. 

A  small  speck  at  last  appeared  making  toward  us 
from  the  shore,  and,  riding  slowly  over  the  tremendous 
waves,  a  boat  manned  by  four  men  came  within  hailing 
distance.  One  moment  as  high  as  our  topmast,  and 
another  in  the  depths  of  the  gulf  a  hundred  feet  below 
us,  it  was  like  conversing  from  two  buckets  in  a  well. 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


"Do  you  want  a  pilot?"  screamed  the  Maltese  in 
English,  as  the  American  flag  blew  out  to  the  wind 

"No!"  roared  the  captain,  like  a  thunder-peal, 
through  his  tin-trumpet. 

The  Maltese,  without  deigning  another  look,  put 
up  his  helm  with  a  gesture  of  disappointment,  and 
bore  away. 

"Boat  ahoy!"  bellowed  the  captain. 

"Ahoy!   ahoy!"  answered  the  pilot. 

"  Will  you  take  a  passenger  ashore  ?" 

"Where  from?" 

"  Smyrna !" 

There  was  a  sound  of  doom  in  the  angry  prolonga 
tion  of  that  detested  monosyllable  that  sunk  to  the 
bottom  of  my  heart  like  lead. 

"Clear  away  the  mainsail,"  cried  the  captain  get 
ting  round  once  more  to  the  wind.  "  I  knew  how  it 
would  be,  sir,"  he  continued,  to  me,  as  I  bit  my  lips  in 
the  effort  to  be  reconciled  to  an  involuntary  voyage  of 
four  thousand  miles;  "it  wasn't  likely  he'd  put  him 
self  and  his  boat's  crew  into  twenty  days'  quarantine 
to  oblige  you  and  me." 

I  could  not  but  own  that  it  was  an  unreasonable  ex 
pectation. 

"Never  mind,  sir,"  said  the  skipper,  consolingly, 
"  plenty  of  salt  fish  in  the  locker,  and  I'll  set  you  on 
Long  Wharf  in  no  time!" 

"  Brig  ahoy!"  came  a  voice  faintly  across  the  waves. 

The  captain  looked  over  his  shoulder  without  losing 
a  capful  of  wind  from  his  sail,  and  sent  back  the  hail 
impatiently. 

The  pilot  was  running  rapidly  down  upon  us.  and 
had  come  back  to  offer  to  tow  me  ashore  in  the  brig's 
jolly-boat  for  a  large  sum  of  money. 

"  We've  lost  our  boat,  and  you're  a  bloody  shark," 
answered  the  skipper,  enraged  at  the  attempt  at  extor 
tion.  "  He. id  your  course!"  he  muttered  gruffly  to 
the  man  at  the  helm,  who  had  let  the  brig  fall  off  that 
the  pilot  might  come  up. 

Irritated  by  this  new  and  gratuitous  disappointment, 
I  stamped  on  the  deck  in  an  ungovernable  fit  of  rage, 
and  wished  the  brig  at  the  devil. 

The  skipper  looked  at  me  a  moment,  and  instead  of 
the  angry  answer  I  expected,  an  expression"  of  kind 
commiseration  stole  over  his  rough  lace.  The  next 
moment  he  seized  the  helm  and  put  the  brig  away 
from  the  wind,  and  then  making  a  trumpet  of  his  two 
immense  hands,  he  once  more  hailed  the  returning 
pilot. 

"  I  can't  bear  to  see  you  take  it  so  much  to  heart, 
sir,"  said  the  kind  sailor,  "and  I'll  do  for  you  what  I 
wouldn't  do  for  another  man  on  the  face  o'  the  'arth. 
All  hands  there!" 

The  men  came  aft,  and  the  captain  in  brief  words 
stated  the  case  to  them,  and  appealed  to  their^ense 
of  kindness  for  a  fellow-countryman,  to  undertake  a 
task,  which,  in  the  sea  then  running,  and  with  their 
exhausted  strength,  was  not  a  service  he  could  well 
demand  in  other  terms.  It  was  to  get  out  the  long 
boat,  and  wait  off  while  the  pilot  towed  me  ashore  and 
returned  with  her. 

"Ay,  ay!  sir,"  was  the  immediate  response  from 
every  lip,  and  from  the  chief  mate  to  the  black  cabin- 
boy,  every  man  sprang  cheerily  to  the  lashings.  It 
was  no  momentary  task,  for  the  boat  was  as  firmly  set 
in  her  place  as  the  mainmast,  and  stowed  compactly 
with  barrels  of  pork,  extra  rigging,  and  spars — in  short, 
all  the  furniture  and  provision  of  the  voyage.  In  the 
course  of  an  hour,  however,  the  tackle  was  rigged  on 
the  fore  and  main  yards,  and  with  a  desperate  effort 
its  immense  bulk  was  heaved  over  the  side,  and  lay 
tossing  on  the  tempestuous  waters.  I  shook  hands 
with  the  men,  who  refused  every  remuneration  be 
yond  my  thanks,  and,  following  the  captain  over  the 
side,  was  soon  toiling  heavily  on  the  surging  waters, 


thanking  Heaven  for  the  generous  sympathies  of  home 
and  country  implanted  in  the  human  bosom.  Those 
who  know  the  reluctance  with  which  a  merchant  cap 
tain  lays-to,  even  to  pick  up  a  man  overboard  in  a  fair 
wind,  and  those  who  understand  the  meaning  of  a  for 
feited  insurance,  will  appreciate  this  instance  of  dif 
ficult  generosity.  I  shook  the  hard  fist  of  the  kind- 
hearted  skipper  on  the  quarantine  stairs,  and  watched 
his  heavy  boat  as  she  crept  out  of  the  little  harbor 
with  the  tears  in  my  eyes.  I  shall  travel  far  before  I 
find  again  a  man  1  honor  more  heartily. 


THE  REVENGE  OF  THE  SIGNOR  BASIL, 

PART  I. 

"  Un  homme  capable  de  faire  des  dominos  av  ec  les  os  de  son 
pere."— PEBE  GOR;OT. 

IT  was  in   the  golden  month  of  August,  not  very 

|   long  ago,  that  the  steamer  which  plies  between   St. 

:    Mark's  Stairs,  at  Venice,  and   the  river  into  which 

1    Phaeton  turned  a  somerset  with  the  horses  of  the  sun, 

1  started  on  its  course  over  the  lagoon  with  an  unusual 

God-send  of  passengers.     The  moon  was  rising  from 

the  unchaste  bed  of  the  Adriatic  (wedded  every  year 

1  to  Venice,  yet  every  day  and  night  sending  the  sun 

j   and  moon  from  her  lovely  bosom  to  the  sky),  and  while 

the  gold  of  the  west  was  still  glowing  on  the  landward 

!  side  of  the  Campanile,  a  silver  gleam  was  brightening 

momently  on  the  other,  and  the  Arabic  domes  of  St. 

|  Mark  and  the  flying  Mercury  on  the  Dogana  paled  to 

j  the  setting  orb  and  kindled  to  the  rising  with  the  same 

'  Talleyrand-esque  facility. 

For  the  first  hour  the  Mangia-foco  sputtered  on  her 
way  with  a  silent  company  ;  the  poetry  of  the  scene, 
or  the  regrets  at  leaving  the  delicious  city  lessening 
in  the  distance,  affecting  all  alike  with  a  thoughtful 
incommunicativeness.  Gradually,  however,  the  dol 
phin  hues  over  the  Brenta  faded  away — the  marble 
city  sank  into  the  sea,  with  its  turrets  and  bright  spires 
— the  still  lagoon  became  a  sheet  of  polished  glass — 
I,  and  the  silent  groups  leaning  over  the  rails  found 
tongues  and  feet,  and  began  to  stir  and  murmur. 

With  the  usual  unconscious  crystallization  of  so- 

!   ciety,  the  passengers  of  the  Mangia-foco  had  yielded 

;   one  side  of  the  deck  to  a  party  of  some  rank,  who  had 

left  their  carriages  at  Ferrara  in  coming  from  Florence 

to  Venice,  and  were  now  upon  their  return  to  the  city 

of  Tasso,  stomaching,  with  what  grace  they  might,  the 

contact  of  a  vulgar  conveyance,  which  saved  them  the 

hundred  miles  of  posting   between  Ferrara  and  the 

Brenta.     In  the  centre  of  the  aristocratic  circle  stood 

a  lady  enveloped  in  a  cashmere,  but  with  her  bonnet 

hung  by  the  string  over  her  arm — one  of  those  women 

of  Italy  upon  whom  the  divinest  gifts  of  loveliness  are 

showered  with  a  profusion  which  apparently  impover- 

,   ishes  the  sex  of  the  whole  nation.    A  beautiful  woman 

I   in  that  "land  is  rarely  met;  but  when  she  does  appear, 

she  is  what  Venus  would   have  been  after  the  contest 

I   for  beauty  on  Ida,  had  the  weapons  of  her  antagonists, 

;   as  in  the  tournaments  of  chivalry,  been  added  to  the 

i   palm  of  victory.     The  marchesa  del  Marmore  was  ap- 

:   parently  twenty-three,  and  she  might  have  been  an 

incarnation  of  the  morning-star  for  pride  and  bright- 

j   ness. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  deck  stood  a  group  of 

young  men,  who,  by  their  careless  and  rather  shabby 

j   dress,  but  pale  and  intellectual  faces,  were  of  that  class 

li  met  in  every  public  conveyance  of  Italy.     The  port- 

I   folios  under  their  arms,  ready  for  a  sketch,  would  have 

removed  a  doubt  of  their  profession,  had  one  existed  ; 

and  with  that  proud  independence  for  which  the  class 


00 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


is  remarkable,  they  had  separated  themselves  equally 
from  the  noble  and  ignoble — disqualified  by  inward 
superiority  from  association  with  the  one,  and  by  acci 
dental  poverty  from  the  claims  cultivation  might  give 
them  upon  the  other.  Their  glances  at  the  divine 
face  turned  toward  them  from  the  party  I  have  alluded 
to,  were  less  constant  than  those  of  the  vulgar,  who 
could  not  offend  ;  but  they  were  evidently  occupied 
more  with  it  than  with  the  fishing-boats  lying  asleep 
on  the  lagoon  :  and  one  of  them,  half-buried  in  the 
coil  of  rope,  and  looking  under  the  arm  of  another, 
had  already  made  a  sketch  of  her  that  might  some  day 
make  the  world  wonder  from  what  seventh  heaven  of 
fancy  such  an  angelic  vision  of  a  head  had  descended 
upon  the  painters  dream. 

In  the  rear  of  this  group,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
would  conceal  himself  from  view,  stood  a  young  man 
who  belonged  to  the  party,  but  who,  with  less  of  the 
pallor  of  intellectual  habits  in  his  face,  was  much  bet 
ter  dressed  than  his  companions,  and  had,  in  spite  of 
the  portfolio  under  his  arm,  and  a  hat  of  the  Salvator 
breadth  of  rim,  the  undisguisable  air  of  a  person  ac 
customed  to  the  best  society.  While  maintaining  a 
straggling  conversation  with  his  friends,  with  whom  he 
seemed  a  favorite,  Signer  Basil  employed  himself  in 
looking  over  the  sketch  of  the  lovely  marchesa  going 
on  at  his  elbow — occasionally,  as  if  to  compare  it  with 
the  original,  stealing  a  long  look  from  between  his 
hand  and  his  slouched  hat  at  the  radiant  creature  sit 
ting  so  unconsciously  for  her  picture,  and  in  a  low 
voice  correcting,  as  by  the  result  of  his  gaze,  the  rapid 
touches  of  the  artist. 

"  Take  a  finer  pencil  for  the  nostril,  caro  mio  !"  said 
he  ;  "it  is  as  thin  as  the  edge  of  a  violet,  and  its  trans 
parent  curve " 

"  Cospetto  !"  said  the  youth ;  "  but  you  see  by  this 
faint  light  better  than  I :  if  she  would  but  turn  to  the 
moon " 

The  signor  Basil  suddenly  flung  his  handkerchief 
into  the  lagoon,  bringing  its  shadow  between  the  queen 
of  night  and  the  marchesa  del  Marmore  ;  and,  attract 
ed  from  her  revery  by  the  passing  object,  the  lady 
moved  her  head  quickly  to  the  light,  and  in  that  mo 
ment  the  spirited  lip  and  nostril  were  transferred  to  the 
painter's  sketch. 

"  Thanks,  mio  bravo  !"  enthusiastically  exclaimed 
the  looker-on  ;  "  Giorgione  would  not  have  beaten 
thee  with  the  crayon  !" — and,  with  a  rudeness  which 
surprised  the  artist,  he  seized  the  paper  from  beneath 
his  hand,  walked  away  with  it  to  the  stern,  and  lean 
ing  far  over  the  rails,  perused  it  fixedly  by  the  mellow 
lustre  of  the  moon.  The  youth  presently  followed 
him,  and  after  a  few  words  exchanged  in  an  under 
tone,  Signor  Basil  slipped  a  piece  of  gold  into  his 
hand,  and  carefully  placed  the  sketch  in  his  own  port 
folio. 

II. 

It  was  toward  midnight  when  the  Mangia-foco  en 
tered  the  Adige,  and  keeping  its  steady  way  between 
the  low  banks  of  the  river,  made  for  the  grass-grown 
and  flowery  canal  which  connects  its  waters  with  the 
Po.  Most  of  the  passengers  had  yielded  to  the  drowsy 
influence  of  the  night  air,  and,  of  the  aristocratic  party 
on  the  larboard  side,  the  young  marchesa  alone  was 
waking  :  her  friends  had  made  couches  of  their  cloaks 
and  baggage,  and  were  reclining  at  her  feet,  while  the 
artists,  all  except  the  signor  Basil,  were  stretched  fairly 
on  the  deck,  their  portfolios  beneath  their  heads,  and 
their  large  hats  covering  their  faces  from  the  powerful 
rays  of  the  moon. 

"  Miladi  does  justice  to  the  beauty  of  the  night,'' 
said  the  waking  artist,  in  a  low  and  respectful  tone, 
as  he  rose  from  her  feet  with  a  cluster  of  tuberoses  she 
had.  let  fall  from  her  hand. 


"  It  is  indeed  lovely,  Signor  Pittore,"  responded  the 
marchesa,  glancing  at  his  portfolio,  and  receiving  the 
flowers  with  a  gracious  inclination  ;  "  have  you  touched 
Venice  from  the  lagoon  to-night  ?'' 

The  signor  Basil  opened  his  portfolio,  and  replied 
to  the  indirect  request  of  the  lady  by  showing  her  a 
very  indifferent  sketch  of  Venice  from  the  island  of 
St.  Lazzaro.  As  if  to  escape  from  the  necessity  of 
praising  what  had  evidently  disappointed  her,  she 
turned  the  cartoon  hastily,  and  exposed,  on  the  sheet 
beneath,  the  spirited  and  admirable  outline  of  her  own 
matchless  features. 

A  slight  start  alone  betrayed  the  surprise  of  the 
highborn  lady,  and  raising  (he  cartoon  to  examine  it 
more  closely,  she  said  with  a  smile,  "  You  may  easier 
tread  on  Titian's  heels  than  Canaletti's.  Bezzuoli  has 
painted  me,  and  not  so  well.  I  will  awake  the  mar 
quis,  and  he  shall  purchase  it  of  you." 

"  Not  for  the  wealth  of  the  Medici,  madam  !"  said 
the  young  man,  clasping  his  portfolio  hastily,  •'  pray 
do  not  disturb  monsignore  !  The  picture  is  dear  to 
me!" 

The  marchesa,  looking  into  his  face,  and  with  a 
glance  around,  which  the  accomplished  courtier  be 
fore  her  read  better  than  she  dreamed,  she  drew  her 
shawl  over  her  blanched  shoulders,  and  settled  her 
self  to  listen  to  the  conversation  of  her  new  acquaint 
ance. 

u  You  would  be  less  gracious  if  you  were  observed, 
proud  beauty,"  thought  Basil ;  "  but  while  you  think 
the  poor  painter  may  while  away  the  tediousness  of  a 
vigil,  he  may  feed  his  eyes  on  your  beauty  as  well." 

The  Mangia-foco  turned  info  the  canal,  threaded 
its  lily-paved  waters  for  a  mile  or  two.  and  then,  put 
ting  forth  upon  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Po,  went  on 
her  course  against  the  stream,  and,  with  retarded  pace, 
penetrated  toward  the  sun-beloved  heart  of  Italy.  And 
while  the  later  hours  performed  their  procession  with 
the  stars,  the  marchesa  del  Marmore  leaned  sleepless 
and  unfatigued  against  the  railing,  listening  with  min 
gled  curiosity  and  scorn  to  the  passionate  love-murmur 
of  the  enamored  painter.  His  hat  was  thrown  aside, 
his  fair  and  curling  locks  were  flowing  in  the  night 
air,  his  form  was  bent  earnestly  but  respectfully  toward 
her,  and  on  his  lip,  with  all  its  submissive  tenderness, 
there  sat  a  shadow  of  something  she  could  not  define, 
but  which  rebuked,  ever  and  anon,  as  with  the  fierce 
regard  of  a  noble,  the  condescension  she  felt  toward 
him  as  an  artist. 


III. 


Upon  the  lofty  dome  of  the  altar  in  the  cathedral  of 
Bologna  stands  poised  an  angel  in  marble,  not  spoken 
of  in  the  books  of  travellers,  but  perhaps  the  loveliest 
incarnation  of  a  blessed  cherub  that  ever  lay  in  the 
veined  bosom  of  Pentelicus.  Lost  and  unobserved  on 
the  vast  floor  of  the  nave,  the  group  of  artists,  who  had 
made  a  day's  journey  from  Ferrara,  sat  in  the  wicker 
chairs  hired  for  a  baioch  during  the  vesper,  and  drew 
silently  from  this  angel,  while  the  devout  people  of 
Bologna  murmured  their  Ave  Marias  around.  Signor 
Basil  alone  was  content  to  look  over  the  work  of  his 
companions,  and  the  twilight  had  already  begun  to 
brighten  the  undying  lamps  at  the  shrine,  when  he 
started  from  the  pillar  against  which  he  leaned,  and 
crossed  hastily  toward  a  group  issuing  from  a  private 
chapel  in  the  western  aisle.  A  lady  walked  between 
two  gentlemen  of  noble  mien,  and  behind  her,  attend- 

'  ed  by  an  equally  distinguished  company,  followed  that 
lady's  husband,  the  marchese  del  Marmore.  They 
were  strangers  passing  through  Bologna,  and  had  been 
attended  to  vespers  by  some  noble  friends. 

The  companions  of  the  signor  Basil  looked  on  with 
some  surprise  as  their  enamored  friend  stepped  confi- 

[  dently  before  the  two  nobles  in  attendance  upon  the 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


91 


lady,  nnd  arrested  her  steps  with  a  salutation  which, 
though  respectful  as  became  a  gentleman,  was  marked 
with  the  easy  politeness  of  one  accustomed  to  a  favora 
ble  reception. 

"  May  I  congratulate  miladi,"  he  said,  rising  slowly 
from  his  bow,  and  fixing  his  eyes  with  unembarrassed 
admiration  on  her  own  liquid  but  now  frowning  orbs, 
"  upon  her  safe  journey  over  the  marches  !  Bologna," 
he  continued,  glancing  at  the  nobles  with  a  courteous 
smile,  "  welcomes  her  fittingly." 

The  lady  listened  with  a  looU  of  surpiise,  and  the 
Bolognese  glanced  from  the  dusty  boots  of  the  artist 
to  his  portfolio. 

•'  Has  the  painter  the  honor  to  know  la  signora?" 
asked  the  cavalier  on  her  right. 

"  Signor,  si !"  said  the  painter,  fiercely,  as  a  curl 
arched  the  lady's  lip,  and  she  prepared  to  answer. 

The  color  mounted  to  the  temples  of  the  marchesa, 
and  her  husband,  who  had  loitered  beneath  the  ma 
donna  of  Domenichino,  coming  up  at  the  instant,  she 
bowed  coldly  to  the  signor  Basil,  and  continued  down 
the  aisle.  The  artist  followed  to  her  carriage,  and 
lifted  his  hat  respectfully  as  the  lumbering  equipage 
took  its  way  by  the  famous  statue  of  Neptune,  and 
then  with  a  confident  smile,  which  seemed  to  his  com 
panions  somewhat  mistimed,  he  muttered  between  his 
teeth,  "  Ciascuno  son  bel'giorno  !"  and  strolled  loiter 
ing  on  with  them  to  the  trattoria. 

IV. 

The  court  of  the  grand-duke  of  Florence  is  perhaps 
the  most  cosmopolitan  and  the  most  easy  of  access  in 
all  Europe.  The  Austrian-born  monarch  himself, 
adopting  in  some  degree  the  frank  and  joyous  charac 
ter  of  the  people  over  whom  he  reigns,  throws  open 
his  parks  and  palaces,  his  gardens  and  galleries,  to  the 
strangers  passing  through  ;  and  in  the  season  of  gayety 
almost  any  presentable  person,  resident  at  Florence, 
may  procure  the  entree  to  the  court  balls,  and  start 
f.iir  with  noble  dames  and  gentlemen  for  grace  in 
courtly  favor.  The  fetes  at  the  Palaz/.o  Pitti,  albeit 
not  always  exempt  from  a  leaven  of  vulgarity,  are  al 
ways  brilliant  and  amusing,  and  the  exclusives  of  the 
court,  though  they  draw  the  line  distinctly  enough  to 
their  own  eye,  mix  with  apparent  abandonment  in  the 
motley  waltz  and  mazurka,  and  either  from  good-na 
ture  or  a  haughty  conviction  of  their  superiority,  never 
suffer  the  offensive  cordon  to  be  felt,  scarce  to  be  sus 
pected,  by  the  multitude  who  divert  them.  The 
grand-duke,  to  common  eyes,  is  a  grave  and  rather 
timid  person,  with  more  of  the  appearance  of  the 
scholar  than  of  the  sovereign,  courteous  in  public,  and 
benevolent  and  earnest  in  his  personal  attentions  to 
his  guests  at  the  palace.  The  royal  quadrille  may  be 
shared  without  permission  of  the  grand  chamberlain, 
and  the  royal  eye,  after  the  first  one  or  two  dances  of 
ceremony,  searches  for  partners  by  the  lamp  of  beauty, 
heedless  of  the  diamonds  on  the  brow,  or  the  star  of 
nobility  on  the  shoulder.  The  grand  supper  is  scarce 
more  exclusive,  and  on  the  disappearance  of  the  royal 
cortege,  the  delighted  crowd  take  their  departure, 
having  seen  no  class  more  favored  than  themselves, 
and  enchanted  with  the  gracious  absence  of  pretension 
in  the  nobilita  of  Tuscany. 

Built  against  the  side  of  a  steep  hill,  the  Palazzo 
Pitti  encloses  its  rooms  of  state  within  massive  and 
sombre  walls  in  front,  while  in  the  rear  the  higher  sto 
ries  of  the  palace  open  forth  on  a  level  with  the  deli 
cious  gardens  of  the  Boboli,  and  contain  suites  of 
smaller  apartments,  filled  up  with  a  cost  and  luxury 
which  would  beggar  the  dream  of  a  Sybarite.  Here 
lives  the  monarch,  in  a  seclusion  rendered  deeper  and 
more  sa«:re;l  by  the  propinquity  of  the  admitted  world 
in  the  apartments  below;  and  in  this  sanctuary  of  roy 
alty  is  enclosed  a  tide  of  life  as  silent  and  unsuspected 


by  the  common  inhabitant  of  Florence  as  the  flow  of 
the  ocean-veiled  Arethusa  by  the  mariner  of  the  Ionian 
main.  Here  the  invention  of  the  fiery  genius  of  Italy 
is  exhausted  in  poetical  luxury;  here  the  reserved  and 
silent  sovereign  throws  off  his  maintcin  of  royal  conde 
scension,  and  enters  with  equal  arms  into  the  lists  of 
love  and  wit ;  here  burn  (as  if  upon  an  altar  fed  with 
spice-woods  and  precious  gums)  the  fervent  and  uncal- 
culating  passions  of  this  glowing  clime,  in  senses  re 
fined  by  noble  nurture,  and  hearts  prompted  by  the 
haughty  pulses  of  noble  blood  ;  and  here — to  the 
threshold  of  this  sanctuary  of  royal  pleasure — press  all 
who  know  its  secrets,  and  who  imagine  a  claim  to  it 
in  their  birth  and  attractions,  while  the  lascia-passarc 
is  accorded  with  a  difficulty  which  alone  preserves  its 
splendor. 

Some  two  or  three  days  after  the  repulse  of  the 
signor  Basil  in  the  cathedral  of  Bologna,  the  group  of 
Ij  travelling  artists  were  on  their  way  from  the  grand  gal- 
I  lery  at  Florence  to  their  noonday  meal.  Loitering 
with  slow  feet  through  the  crowded  and  narrow  Via 
Calzaiole,  they  emerged  into  the  sunny  Piazza,  and 
looking  up  with  understanding  eyes  at  the  slender  shaft 
of  the  Campanile  (than  which  a  fairer  figure  of  reli 
gious  architecture  points  not  to  heaven),  they  took 
their  way  toward  the  church  of  Santa  Triniia,  propo 
sing  to.  eat  their  early  dinner  at  a  house  named,  from 
its  excellence  in  a  certain  temperate  beverage,  La 
Birra.  The  traveller  should  be  advised,  also,  that  by 
paying  an  extra  paul  in  the  bottle,  he  may  have  at  this 
renowned  eating-house  an  old  wine  sunned  on  the 
southern  shoulder  of  Fiesole,  that  hath  in  its  flavor  a 
certain  redolence  of  Boccaccio — scarce  remarkable, 
since  it  grew  in  the  scene  of  the  Decameron — but  of  a 
virtue  which,  to  the  Hundred  Tales  of  Love  (read 
drinking),  is  what  the  Gradus  ad.  Parnassum  should 
be  to  the  building  of  a  dithyrambic.  The  oil  of  two 
r.razie  upon  the  palm  of  the  fat  waiter  Giuseppe  will 
assist  in  calling  the  vintage  to  his  memory. 

A  thundering  rap  upon  the  gate  of  the  adjoining 

i  Palazzo  arrested  the  attention  of  the  artists  as  they 

[|  were  about  to  enter  the  Birra,  and  in  the  occupant  of 

a  dark-green  cabriolet,  drawn  by  a  pampered  horse  of 

the  duke's  breed,  they  recognised,  elegantly  dressed 

and  posed  on   his  seat  a  la  d'Orsay,  the  signor  Basil. 

His  coat  was  of  an  undecided  cut  and  color,  and  his 

gloves  were  of  primrose  purity. 

The  recognition  was  immediate,  and  the  cordiality 

of  the  greeting  mutual.     They  had  parted  from  their 

companion  at  the  gate  of  Florence,  as  travellers  part, 

without  question,  and  they  met  without  reserve  to  part 

as  questionless  again.     The  artists  were  surprised   at 

j  the  signor  Basil's   transformation,  but  no  follower  of 

,   their  refined  art  would  have  been  so  ill-bred  as  to  ex- 

<  press  it.     He  wished  them  the  bon  appetito,  as  a  tall 

!   chasseur  came  out  to  say   that  her  ladyship  was   at 

I   home;  and  with  a  slacked  rein  the  fiery  horse  sprang 

|  through  the   gateway,  and   the   marble   court  of  the 

I  palace  rang  with  his  prancing  hoofs. 

He  who  was  idle  and  bought  flowers  at  the  Cafe  of 
I  the  Colonna  at  Florence  will  have  remarked,  as  he  sat 
!  in   his  chair  upon  the  street  in  the  sultry  evening  the 
I  richly  ornamented  terrace  and  balustrade   of  the   Pa 
lazzo  Corsi   giving   upon    the   Piazza  Trinita.     The 
!|  dark  old  Ghibelline  palace  of  the  Strozzi  lets  the  eye 
down  upon  it,  as  it  might  pass  from  a  helmeted  knight 
I  with  closed    vizor  to    his  un bonneted   and    laughing 
I  page.     The  crimson  curtains  of  the  window  opening 
I  upon  the  terrace,  at  the  time  of  our  story,  reminded 
every  passing  Florentine  of  the  lady  who  dwelt  within 
— a  descendant  of  one  of  the  haughtiest  lines  of  Eng 
lish  chivalry — resident  in   Italy  since   many  years  for 
health,   but    bearing    in    her   delicate    frame   and   ex 
quisitely  transparent  features,  the  loftiest  type  of  pa 
trician  beauty  that  had  ever  filled  the  eye  that  looked 
upon  her.     In  the  inner  heaven  of  royal  exclusiveness 


92 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


at  the  Pitti — in  its  constellation  of  rank  and  wit — the 
lady  Geraldine  had  long  been  the  worshipped  and  as 
cendant  cynosure.  Happy  in  a  husband  without  rank 
and  but  of  moderate  fortune,  she  maintained  the  spot 
less  character  of  an  English  wife  in  this  sphere  of 
conventional  corruption;  and  though  the  idol  of  the 
duke  and  his  nobles,  it  would  have  been  like  a  whisper 
against  the  purity  of  the  brightest  Pleiad,  to  have 
linked  her  name  with  love. 

With  her  feet  upon  a  sofa  covered  with  a  gossamer 
cashmere,  her  lovely  head  pillowed  on  a  cushion  of 
silk,  and  a  slight  stand  within  arm's  length  holding  a 
vase  of  flowers  and  the  volume  from  which  she  had 
been  reading,  the  lady  Geraldine  received  the  count 
Basil  Spiriford,  some  time  attache  to  the  Russian  em 
bassy  at  Paris  (where  he  had  first  sunned  his  eyes  in 
her  beauty),  and  at  present  the  newly-appointed  sec 
retary  to  the  minister  of  the  same  monarch  near  the 
court  of  Tuscany. 

Without  a  bow,  but  with  the  hasty  step  and  gesture 
of  a  long  absent  and  favored  friend,  the  count  Basil 
ran  to  the  proffered  hand,  and  pressed  its  alabaster 
fingers  to  his  lips.  Had  the  more  common  acquaint 
ances  of  the  diplomate  seen  him  at  this  moment,  they 
would  have  marvelled  how  the  mask  of  manhood  may 
drop,  and  disclose  the  ingenuous  features  of  the  boy. 
The  secretary  knew  his  species,  and  the  lady  Geral 
dine  was  one  of  those  women  for  whom  the  soul  is 
unwilling  to  possess  a  secret. 

After  the  first  inquiries  were  over,  the  lady  ques 
tioned  her  recovered  favorite  of  his  history  since  they 
had  parted.  "I  left  you,"  she  said,  "swimming  the 
dangerous  tide  of  life  at  Paris.  How  have  you  come 
to  shore?" 

"  Thanks,  perhaps,  to  your  friendship,  which  made 
life  worth  the  struggle !  For  the  two  extremes,  how 
ever,  you  know  what  I  was  at  Paris — and  yesterday  I 
was  a  wandering  artist  in  velveteen  and  a  sombrero!" 

Lady  Geraldine  laughed. 

"Ah!  you  look  at  my  curls — but  Macassar  is  at  a 
discount !  It  is  the  only  grace  I  cherished  in  my  in 
cognito.  A  resumcr — I  got  terribly  out  of  love  by  the 
end  of  the  year  after  we  parted,  and  as  terribly  in 
debt.  My  promotion  in  diplomacy  did  not  arrive,  and 
the  extreme  hour  for  my  credit  did.  Pozzo  di  Borgo 
kindly  procured  me  conge  for  a  couple  of  years,  and  I 
dived  presently  under  a  broad-rimmed  hat,  got  into  a 
vetturino  with  portfolio  and  pencils,  joined  a  troop  of 
wandering  artists,  and  with  my  patrimony  at  nurse, 
have  been  two  years  looking  at  life  without  spectacles 
at  Venice." 

"And  painting?" 

"Painting!" 

"  Might  one  see  a  specimen  ?"  asked  the  lady  Geral 
dine,  with  an  incredulous  smile. 

"  I  regret  that  my  immortal  efforts  in  oils  are  in  the 
possession  of  a  certain  Venetian,  who  lets  the  fifth 
floor  of  a  tenement  washed  by  the  narrowest  canal  in 
that  fair  city.  But  if  your  ladyship  cares  to  see  a 
drawing  or  two — " 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  his  jocki  Anglais  presently 
brought  from  the  pocket  of  his  cabriolet  a  wayworn 
and  thinly  furnished  portfolio.  The  lady  Geraldine 
turned  over  a  half-dozen  indifferent  views  of  Venice, 
but  the  last  cartoon  in  the  portfolio  made  her  start. 

"  La  Marchesa  del  Marmore!"  she  exclaimed,  look 
ing  at  Count  Basil  with  an  inquiring  and  half  uneasy 
eye. 

"Is  it  well  drawn?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"Well  drawn?  It  is  a  sketch  worthy  of  Raphael. 
Do  you  really  draw  so  well  as  this,  or" — she  added, 
after  a  slight  hesitation — "is  it  a  miracle  of  love?" 

"  It  is  a  divine  head,"  soliloquized  the  Russian,  half 
closing  his  eyes,  and  looking  at  the  drawing  from  a 
distance,  as  if  to  fill  up  the  imperfect  outline  from  his 
memory. 


The  lady  Geraldine  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "  My 
dear  Basil,"  she  said  seriously,  "I  should  be  wretched 
if  I  thought  your  happiness  was  in  the  power  of  this 
woman.  Do  you  love  her?" 

"  The  portrait  was  not  drawn  by  me,"  he  answered, 
"though  I  have  a  reason  for  wishing  her  to  think  so. 
It  was  done  by  a  fellow-traveller  of  mine,  whom  I  wish 
to  make  a  sketch  of  yourself,  and  I  have  brought  it 
here  to  interest  you  in  him  as  an  artist.  Mais  revenons 
a  nos  moutons- — la  marchesa  was  also  a  fellow-traveller 
of  mine,  and  without  loving  her  too  violently,  1  owe 
her  a  certain  debt  of  courtesy  contracted  on  the  way. 
Will  you  assist  me  to  pay  it?" 

Relieved  of  her  fears,  and  not  at  all  suspecting  the 
good  faith  of  the  diplomatist  in  his  acknowledgments 
of  gratitude,  the  lady  Geraldine  inquired  simply  how 
she  could  serve  him. 

"In  the  twenty-four  hours  since  my  arrival  at  Flor 
ence,"  he  said,  "I  have  put  myself,  as  you  will  see, 
au  courant  of  the  minor  politics  of  the  Pitti.  Thanks 
to  my  Parisian  renown,  the  duke  has  enrolled  me  al 
ready  under  the  back-stairs  oligarchy,  and  to-morrow 
night  I  shall  sup  with  you  in  the  saloon  of  Hercules 
after  the  ball  is  over.  La  marchesa,  as  you  well  know, 
has,  with  all  her  rank  and  beauty,  never  been  able  to 
set  foot  within  those  guarded  penetralia — soil  her  ma 
licious  tongue,  soit  the  interest  against  her  of  the  men 
she  has  played  upon  her  hook  too  freely.  The  road 
to  her  heart,  if  there  be  one,  lies  over  that  threshold, 
and  I  would  take  the  toll.  Do  you  understand  me, 
most  beautiful  lady  Geraldine?" 

The  count  Basil  imprinted  another  kiss  upon  the 
fingers  of  the  fair  Englishwoman,  as  she  promised  to 
put  into  his  hand  the  following  night  the  illuminated 
ticket  which  was  to  repay,  as  she  thought,  too  gener 
ously,  a  debt  of  gratitude  ;  and  plucking  a  flower  from 
her  vase  for  his  bosom,  he  took  his  leave  to  return  at 
twilight  to  dinner.  Dismissing  his  cabriolet  at  the 
gate,  he  turned  on  foot  toward  the  church  of  San 
Gaetano,  and  with  an  expression  of  unusual  elation  in 
his  step  and  countenance,  entered  the  trattoria,  where 
dined  at  that  moment  his  companions  of  the  pencil. 


The  green  lamps  glittering  by  thousands  amid  the 
foliage  of  the  Boboli  had  attained  their  full  brightness, 
and  the  long-lived  Italian  day  had  died  over  the  distant 
mountains  of  Carrara,  leaving  its  inheritance  of  light 
apparently  to  the  stars,  who.  on  their  fields  of  deepen 
ing  blue,  sparkled,  each  one  like  the  leader  of  an  un 
seen  host  in  the  depths  of  heaven,  himself  the  fore 
most  and  the  most  radiant.  The  night  was  balmy  and 
voluptuous.  The  music  of  the  ducal  band  swelled 
forth  from  the  perfumed  apartments  on  the  air.  A 
single  nightingale,  far  back  in  the  wilderness  of  the 
garden,  poured  from  his  melodious  heart  a  chant  of 
the  most  passionate  melancholy.  The  sentinel  of  the 
body-guard  stationed  at  the  limit  of  the  spray  of  the 
fountain  leaned  on  his  halberd  and  felt  his  rude  senses 
melt  in  the  united  spells  of  luxury  and  nature.  The 
ministers  of  a  monarch's  pleasure  had  done  their  ut 
most  to  prepare  a  scene  of  royal  delight,  and  night  and 
summer  had  flung  in  their  enchantments  when  in 
genuity  was  exhausted. 

The  dark  architectural  mass  of  the  Pitti,  pouring  a 
blaze  of  light  scarce  endurable  from  its  deeply-sunk 
windows,  looked  like  the  side  of  an  enchanted  moun 
tain  laid  open  for  the  revels  of  sorcery.  The  aigrette 
and  plume  passed  by;  the  tiara  and  the  jewel  upon 
the  breast;  the  gayly-dressed  courtiers  and  glittering 
dames;  and  to  that  soldier  at  his  dewy  post,  it  seemed 
like  the  realized  raving  of  the  improvisatore  when  he 
is  lost  in  some  fable  of  Araby.  Yet  within  walked 
malice  and  hate,  and  the  light  and  perfume  that  might 
have  fed  an  angel's  heart  with  love,  but  deepened 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


03 


in  many  a  beating  bosom  the  consuming  fires  of 
envy. 

With  the  gold  key  of  office  on  his  cape,  the  grand 
chamberlain  stood  at  the  feet  of  the  dowager  grand 
dutchess,  and  by  a  sign  to  the  musicians,  hidden  in 
a  latticed  gallery  behind  the  Corinthian  capital  of  the 
hall,  retarded  or  accelerated  the  soft  measure  of  the 
waltz.  On  a  raised  seat  in  the  rear  of  the  chairs  of 
state,  sat  the  ladies  of  honor  and  the  noble  dames 
nearest  allied  to  royal  blood  ;  one  solitary  and  privi 
leged  intruder  alone  sharing  the  elevated  place — the 
lady  Geraldine.  Dressed  in  white,  her  hair  wound 
about  her  head  in  the  simplest  form,  yet  developing 
its  divine  shape  with  the  clear  outline  of  statuary,  her 
eyes  lambent  with  purity  and  sweetness,  heavily  fring 
ed  with  lashes  a  shade  darker  than  the  light  auburn 
braided  on  her  temples,  and  the  tint  of  the  summer's 
most  glowing  rose  turned  out  from  the  threadlike  part 
ing  of  her  lips  ;  she  was  a  vision  of  loveliness  to  take 
into  the  memory,  as  the  poet  enshrines  in  his  soul 
the  impossible  shape  of  his  ideal,  and  consumes  youth 
and  age  searching  in  vain  for  its  like.  Fair  Lady  Ger 
aldine  !  thou  wilt  rend  these  passionate  words  from 
one  whose  worship  of  thy  intoxicating  loveliness  has 
never  before  found  utterance,  but  if  this  truly-told  tale 
should  betray  the  hand  that  has  dared  to  describe  thy 
beauty,  in  thy  next  orisons  to  St.  Mary  of  pity,  breathe 
from  those  bright  lips  a  prayer  that  he  may  forget 
thee  ! 

By  the  side  of  the  lady  Geraldine,  but  behind  the 
chair  of  the  grand  dutchess,  who  listened  to  his  con 
versation  with  singular  delight,  stood  a  slight  young 
man  of  uncommon  personal  beauty,  a  stranger  appa 
rently  to  every  other  person  present.  His  brilliant  uni 
form  alone  betrayed  him  to  be  in  the  Russian  diploma 
cy  ;  and  the  marked  distinction  shown  him,  both  by  the 
reigning  queen  of  the  court,  and  the  more  powerful 
and  inaccessible  queen  of  beauty,  marked  him  as  an 
object  of  keen  and  universal  curiosity.  By  the  time 
the  fifth  mazurka  had  concluded  its  pendulous  refrain, 
the  grand  chamberlain  had  tolerably  well  circulated 
the  name  and  rank  of  Count  Basil  Spirifort,  the  re 
nowned  wit  and  elegant  of  Paris,  newly  appointed  to 
the  court  of  his  royal  highness  of  Tuscany.  Fair 
eyes  wandered  amid  his  sunny  curls,  and  beating  bo 
soms  hushed  their  pulses  as  he  passed. 

Count  Basil  knew  the  weight  of  a  first  impression. 
Count  Basil  knew  also  the  uses  of  contempt.  Upon 
the  first  principle  he  kept  his  place  between  the  grand 
dutchess  and  Lady  Geraldine,  exerting  his  deeply- 
studied  art  of  pleasing,  to  draw  upon  himself  their  ex 
clusive  attention.  Upon  the  second  principle,  he  was 
perfectly  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  another  hu 
man  being  ;  and  neither  the  gliding  step  of  the  small- 
eared  princess  S in  the  waltz,  nor  the  solely 

advance  of  the  last  female  of  the  Medici  in  the  mazur 
ka,  distracted  his  large  blue  eyes  a  moment  from  their 
idleness.  With  one  hand  on  the  eagle-hilt  of  his 
sword,  and  his  side  leaned  against  the  high  cushion  of 
red  velvet  honored  by  the  pressure  of  the  lady  Geral 
dine,  he  gazed  up  into  that  beaming  face,  when  not 
bending  respectfully  to  the  dutchess,  and  drank  stead 
fastly  from  her  beauty,  as  the  lotus-cup  drinks  light 
from  the  sun. 

The  new  secretary  had  calculated  well.  In  the 
deep  recess  of  the  window  looking  toward  San  Minia- 
to,  stood  a  lady  nearly  hidden  from  view  by  the  muslin 
curtains  just  stirring  with  the  vibration  of  the  music, 
who  gazed  on  the  immediate  circle  of  the  grand  dutch 
ess  with  an  interest  that  was  not  attempted  to  b*e  dis 
guised.  On  her  first  entrance  into  the  hall,  the  mar- 
chesa  del  Mannore  had  recognised  in  the  new  minion 
of  favor  her  impassioned  lover  of  the  lagoon,  herslight- 
ed  acquaintance  of  the  cathedral.  When  the  first  shock 
of  surprise  was  over,  she  looked  on  the  form  which 
she  had  found  beautiful  even  in  the  disguise  of  pover 


ty,  and,  forgetting  her  insulting  repulse  when  he  would 
have  claimed  in  public  the  smile  she  had  given   him 
when  unobserved,  she  recalled  with  delight  every  syl 
lable  he  had  murmured  in  her  ear,  and  every  look  she 
had  called  forth  in  the  light  of  a  Venetian  moon.    The 
man  who  had  burned  upon  the  altar  of  her  vanity  the 
!  most  intoxicating  incense — who  had  broken  through 
the  iron  rules  of  convention  and  ceremony,  to  throw 
his  homage  at  her  feet — who  had  portrayed  so  incom 
parably  (she  believed)   with  his  love-inspired   pencil 
|  the  features  imprinted  on  his  heart — this  chance-won 
i  worshipper,  this  daring  but  gifted  plebeian,  as  she  had 
|  thought  him,  had  suddenly  shot  into  her  sphere  and 
become  a  legitimate  object  of  love  ;  and,  beautified  by 
the  splendor  of  dress,  and  distinguished  by  the  prefer 
ence  and  favor  of  those  incomparably  above  her,  he 
seemed  tenfold,  to  her  eyes,  the  perfection  of  adorable 
beauty.     As  she  remembered  his  eloquent  devotion  to 
herself,  and  saw  the  interest  taken  in  him  by  a  woman 
whom  she  hated  and  had  calumniated — a  woman  who 
j  she  believed  stood  between  her  and  all  the  light  of  ex 
istence — she  anticipated  the  triumph  of  taking   him 
from  her  side,  of  exhibiting  him  to  the  world  as  a  fal 
con  seduced  from  his  first  quarry  ;  and  never  doubting 
that  so  brilliant  a  favorite  would  control  the  talisman 
of  the  paradise  she  had  so  long  wished  to  enter,  she 
j  panted  for  the  moment  when  she  should  catch  his  eye 
i  and   draw  him  from  his  lure,  and  already  heard  the 
1  chamberlain's  voice  in  her  ear  commanding  her  pres- 
i  ence  after  the  ball  in  the  saloon  of  Hercules. 

The  marchesa  had  been  well  observed  from  the  first 
!  by  the  wily  diplomate.     A  thorough  adept  in  the  art 
'  (so  necessary  to  his  profession)  of  seeing  without  ap 
pearing  to  see,  he  had  scarce  lost  a  shade  of  the  vary- 
•  ing  expressions  of  her  countenance  ;   and  while  she 
|  fancied  him  perfectly  unconscious  of  her  presence,  he 
!  read  her  tell-tale  features  as  if  they  had  given  utter 
ance  to  her  thoughts.     He  saw,  with  secret  triumph, 
the  effect  of  his  brilliant  position  upon  her  proud  and 
vain  heart ;  watched  her  while  she  made  use  of  her 
throng  of  despised  admirers  to  create  a  sensation  near 
i  him  and  attract  his  notice;  and  when  the  ball  wore  on, 
and  he  was  still  in  unwearied  and  exclusive  attendance 
upon  the  lady  Geraldine,  he  gazed  after  her  with  a 
momentary  curl  of  triumph  on  his  lip,  as  she  took  up 
her  concealed  position  in  the  embayed  window,  and 
abandoned  herself  to  the  bitter  occupation  of  watching 
the  happiness  of  her  rival.     The  lady  Geraldine  had 
never  been  so  animated  since  her  first  appearance  at 
1   the  court  of  Tuscany. 

It  was  past  midnight  when  the  grand-duke,  flushed 
|   and  tired  with  dancing,  came  to  the  side  of  the  lady 
|   Geraldine.     Count  Basil  gave  place,  and,  remaining  a 
}    moment  in  nominal  obedience  to  the  sovereign's  polite 
request  which  he  was  too  politic  to  construe  literally, 
he  looked  down  the  dance  with  the  air  of  one  who  has 
turned  his  back  on  all  that  could  interest  him,  and, 
passing  close  to  the  concealed  position  of  the  marche 
sa,  stepped  out  upon  the  balcony. 

The  air  was  cool,  and  the  fountain  played  refresh 
ingly  below.  The  count  Basil  was  one  of  those  minds 
which  never  have  so  much  leisure  for  digression  as 
when  they  are  most  occupied.  A  love,  as  deep  and 
profound  as  the  abysses  of  his  soul,  was  weaving  thread 
for  thread  with  a  revenge  worthy  of  a  Mohican  ;  yet, 
1  after  trying  in  vain  to  count  eight  in  the  Pleiades,  he 
raised  himself  upon  the  marble  balustrade,  and  perfect- 
|  ly  anticipating  the  interruption  to  his  solitude  which 
i  presently  occurred,  began  to  speculate  aloud  on  the 
|  dead  and  living  at  that  hour  beneath  the  roof  of  the 
j  Pitti. 

»  A  painter's  mistress,"  he  said,  "  immortal  in  her 
!  touch  of  her  paramour's  pencil,  is  worshipped  for  cen 
turies  on  these  walls  by  the  pilgrims  of  art ;  while  the 
warm  perfection  of  all  loveliness — the  purest  and  di- 
vinest  of  highborn  women — will  perish  utterly  with  the 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


eyes  that  have  seen  her!  The  Bella  of  Titian,  the 
Fornarina  of  RafFaelle — peasant-girls  of  Italy — have, 
at  this  moment,  more  value  in  this  royal  palace  than 
the  breathing  forms  that  inhabit  it !  The  lady  Geral- 
dine  herself,  to  whom  the  sovereign  offers  at  this  mo 
ment  his  most  flattering  homage,  would  be  less  a  loss 
to  him  than  either  !  Yet  they  despise  the  gods  of  the 
pencil  who  may  thus  make  them  immortal !  The  dull 
blood  in  their  noble  veins,  that  never  bred  a  thought 
beyond  the  instincts  of  their  kind,  would  look  down, 
forsooth,  on  the  inventive  and  celestial  ichor  that  in 
flames  the  brain,  and  prompts  the  fiery  hand  of  the 
painter!  How  long  will  this  very  sovereign  live  in  the 
memories  of  men?  The  murderous  Medici,  the  am 
bitious  cardinals,  the  abandoned  women,  of  an  age  gone 
by,  hang  in  imperishable  colors  on  his  walls  ;  while  of 
him,  the  lord  of  this  land  of  genius,  there  is  not  a  bust 
or  a  picture  that  would  bring  a  sequin  in  the  market 
place  !  They  would  buy  genius  in  these  days  like 
wine,  and  throw  aside  the  flask  in  which  it  ripened. 
Raffaelle  and  Buonarotti  were  companions  for  a  pope 
and  his  cardinals  :  Titian  was  an  honored  guest  for  the 
doge.  The  stimulus  to  immortalize  these  noble  friends 
was  in  the  love  they  bore  them  ;  and  the  secret  of  their 
power  to  do  it  lay  half  in  the  knowledge  of  their  char 
acters,  gained  by  daily  intimacy.  Painters  were  princes 
then,  as  they  are  beggars  now;  and  the  princely  art  is 
beggared  as  well !" 

The  marchesa  del  Marmore  stepped  out  upon 
the  balcony,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  grand 
chamberlain.  The  soliloquizing  secretary  had  fore 
told  to  himself  both  her  coming  and  her  compan 
ion. 

"  Monsieur  le  comte,"  said  the  chamberlain,  "  la 
marchesa  del  Marmore  wishes  for  the  pleasure  of  your 
acquaintance." 

Count  Basil  bowed  low,  and  in  that  low  and  musical 
tone  of  respectful  devotion  which,  real  or  counterfeit, 
made  him  irresistible  to  a  woman  who  had  a  soul  to  be 
thrilled,  he  repeated  the  usual  nothings  upon  the  beau 
ty  of  the  night ;  and  when  th°,  chamberlain  returned 
to  his  duties,  the  marchesa  walked  forth  with  her 
companion  to  the  cool  and  fragrant  alleys  of  the  gar 
den,  and,  under  the  silent  and  listening  stars,  implored  j 
forgiveness  for  her  pride  ;  and,  with  I  he  sudden  aban- 
donment  peculiar  to  the  clime,  poured  into  his  ear  j 
the  passionate  and  weeping  avowal  of  her  sorrow  and  ! 
love. 

"  Those  hours  of  penitence  in  the  embayed  win-  ; 
dow,"  thought  Count  Basil,  "  were  healthy  for  your  j 
soul."     And  as  she  walked  by  his  side,  leaning  heavi-  j 
ly  on  his  arm,  and  half-dissolved  in  a  confiding  tender-  j 
ness,  his  thoughts  reverted  to  another  and  a  far  sweet-  i 
er  voice;  and  while  the  caressing  words  of  the  marchesa 
fell  on  an  unlistening  ear,  his  footsteps  insensibly  turned 
back  to  the  lighted  hall. 


VI. 


As  the  daylight  stole  softly  over  Vallombrosa,  the 
luxurious  chariot  of  the  marchesa  del  Marmore  stopped 
at  the  door  of  Count  Basil.  The  lady  Geraldine's  suit 
had  been  successful ;  and  the  hitherto  excluded  Flor 
entine  had  received,  from  the  hand  of  the  man  she  had 
once  so  ignorantly  scorned,  a  privilege  for  which  she 
would  have  bartered  her  salvation  :  she  had  supped  at 
his  side  in  the  saloon  of  Hercules.  With  many  faults 
of  character,  she  was  an  Italian  in  feeling,  and  had  a 
capacity,  like  all  her  countrywomen,  for  a  consuming 
and  headlong  passion.  She  had  better  have  been  born 
of  marble. 

"  I  have  lifted  you  to  heaven,"  said  Count  Basil,  as 
her  chariot-wheels  rolled  from  his  door ;  "  but  it  is  as 
the  eagle  soars  into  the  clouds  with  the  serpent.  We 
will  see  how  you  will  relish  the  fall !" 


PART  II. 

THE  grand-duke's  carriages,  with  their  six  horses 
and  outriders,  had  turned  down  the  Borg'ognisanti, 
and  the  "City  of  the  Red  Lily,"  waking  from  her 
noonday  slumber,  was  alive  with  the  sound  of  wheels. 
The  sun  was  sinking  over  the  Apennine  which  kneels 
at  the  gate  of  Florence  ;  the  streets  were  cool  and 
shadowy;  the  old  women,  with  the  bambino,  between 
their  knees,  braided  straw  at  the  doors  ;  the  booted 
guardsman  paced  his  black  charger  slowly  over  the 
jeweller's  bridge  ;  the  picture-dealer  brought  forward 
his  brightest  "  master"  to  the  fading  light ;  and  while 
the  famous  churches  of  that  fairest  city  of  the  earth 
called  to  the  Ave-Maria  with  impatient  bell,  the  gal 
lantry  and  beauty  of  Tuscany  sped  through  the  damp 
ening  air  with  their  swift  horses,  meeting  and  passing 
with  gay  greetings  amid  the  green  alleys  of  the  Cas- 
cine. 

The  twilight  had  become  gray,  when  the  carriages 
and  horsemen,  scattered  in  hundreds  through  the  in 
terlaced  roads  of  this  loveliest  of  parks,  turned  by  com 
mon  consent  toward  the  spacious  square  in  the  centre, 
and  drawing  up  in  thickly-serried  ranks,  the  soiree  on 
wheels,  the  reunion  en  plein  air,  which  is  one  of  the 
most  delightful  of  the  peculiar  customs  of  Florence, 
commenced  its  healthful  gayeties.  The  showy  car 
riages  of  the  grand-duke  and  the  ex-king  of  Wurtern- 
berg  (whose  rank  would  not  permit  them  to  share  in 
the  familiarities  of  the  hour)  disappeared  by  the  avenue 
skirting  the  bank  of  the  Arno,  and  with  much  delicate 
and  some  desperate  specimens  of  skill,  the  coachmen 
of  the  more  exclusive  nobility  threaded  the  embar 
rassed  press  of  vehicles,  and  laid  their  wheels  together 
on  the  southern  edge  of  the  piazza.  The  beaux  in  the 
saddle,  disembarrassed  of  ladies  and  axletrees,  enjoyed 
their  usual  butterfly  privilege  of  roving,  and  with  light 
rein  and  ready  spur  pushed  their  impatient  horses  to 
the  coronetted  panels  of  the  loveliest  or  most  power 
ful  ;  the  laugh  of  the  giddy  was  heard  here  and  there 
over  the  pawing  of  restless  hoofs;  an  occasional  scream 
— half  of  apprehension,  half  of  admiration — rewarded 
the  daring  caracole  of  some  young  and  bold  rider ; 
and  while  the  first  star  sprang  to  its  place,  and  the  dew 
of  heaven  dropped  into  the  false  flowers  in  the  hat  of 
the  belle,  and  into  the  thirsting  lips  of  the  violet  in  the 
field  (simplicity,  like  virtue,  is  its  own  reward  !),  the 
low  murmur  of  calumny  and  compliment,  of  love  and 
lightheartedness,  of  politeness,  politics,  puns,  and  po 
etry,  arose  over  that  assembly  upon  wheels  :  and  if  it 
was  not  a  scene  and  an  hour  of  happiness,  it  was  the 
fault  neither  of  the  fragrant  eve  nor  of  the  provisions 
of  nature  and  fortune.  The  material  for  happiness 
was  there. 

A  showy  caleche  with  panels  of  dusky  crimson,  the 
hammer-cloth  of  the  same  shade,  edged  with  a  broad 
fringe  of  white,  the  wheels  slightly  picked  out  with  the 
same  colors,  and  the  coachman  and  footman  in  corre 
sponding  liveries,  was  drawn  up  near  the  southern  edge 
of  the  Piazzi.  A  narrow  alley  had  been  left  for  horse 
men  between  this  equipage  and  the  adjoining  ones, 
closed  up  at  the  extremity,  however,  by  a  dark-green 
and  very  plain  chariot,  placed  with  a  bold  violation  of 
etiquette  directly  across  the  line,  and  surrounded  just 
now  by  two  or  three  persons  of  the  highest  rank  lean 
ing  from  their  saddles  in  earnest  conversation  with  the 
occupant.  Not  far  from  the  caleche,  mounted  upon 
an  English  blood-horse  of  great  beauty,  a  young  man 
had  just  drawn  rein  as  if  interrupted  only  for  a  mo 
ment  on  some  pressing  errand,  and  with  his  hat  slight 
ly  raised,  was  paying  his  compliments  to  the  venerable 
Prince  Poniatowski,  at  that  time  the  Amphytrion  of 
Florence.  From  moment  to  moment,  as  the  pauses 
occurred  in  the  exchange  of  courteous  phrases,  the 
rider,  whose  spurred  heel  was  close  at  his  saddle- 
girths,  stole  an  impatient  glance  up  the  avenue  of 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


93 


carriages  to  the  dark-green  chariot,  arid,  excited  by 
the  lifted  rein  and  (he  proximity  of  the  spur,  the  grace 
ful  horse  fretted  on  his  million  feet,  and  the  bending 
figures  from  a  hundred  vehicles,  and  the  focus  of 
bright  eyes  radiating  from  all  sides  to  the  spot,  would 
have  betrayed,  even  to  a  stranger,  that  the  horseman 
was  of  no  common  mark.  Around  his  uncovered  tem 
ples  floated  fair  and  well-cherished  locks  of  the  sunni 
est  auburn  ;  and  if  there  was  beauty  in  the  finely-drawn 
lines  of  his  lips,  there  was  an  inexpressibly  fierce  spirit 
as  well. 


II. 


The  count  Basil  had  been  a  month  at  Florence.    In 
that  time  he  had  contrived  to  place  himself  between 
the  duke's  ear  and  all  the  avenues  of  favor,  and  had 
approached  as  near,  perhaps  nearer,  to  the  hearts  of 
the  women  of  his  court.     A  singular  and  instinctive 
knowledge  of  the  weaknesses  of  human  nature,  per 
fected  and  concealed  by  conversance  with  the  consum 
mate  refinement  of  life  at  Paris,  remarkable  personal 
beauty,  and  a  quality  of  scornful  bitterness  for  which 
no  one  could  divine  a  reason  in  a  character  and  fate 
else  so  happily  mingled,  but  which  at  the  same  time 
added  to  his  fascination,  had  given  Count  Basil  a  com-  j 
mand  over  the  varied  stops  of  society,  equalled  by  few  i 
plnyers  on   that  difficult  and   capricious  instrument.  I: 
His  worldly  ambition  went  swimmingly  on,  and  the  : 
same  wind  filled  the  sails  of  his  lighter  ventures  Mil 
well.     The  love  of  the  marchesa  del  Marmore,  as  he  ji 
had  very  well  anticipated,  grew  with  his  influence  and  j 
renown.     A  woman's  pride,  he  perfectly  knew,  is  diffi-  j 
cult  to  wake  after  she  has  once  believed  herself  adored  ;   j 
and,  satisfied  that  the  portrait  taken  on  the  lagoon,  and 
the  introduction  he  had  given  her  to  the  exclusive  pen 
etralia  of  the  Pilti,  would  hold  her  till  his  revenge  was 
complete,  he  left  her  love  for  him  to  find  its  own  food 
in  his  successes,  and  never  approached  her  but  to  lay 
to  her  heart  more  mordently  the  serpents  of  jealousy 
and  despair. 

For  the  lady  Geraldine  the  count  Basil  had  con 
ceived  a  love,  the  deepest  of  which  his  nature  was  ca 
pable.     Long  as  he   had  known  her,  it  was  a  passion 
born  in  Italy,  and  while  it  partook  of  the  qualities  of 
the  clime,  it  had  for  its  basis  the  habitual  and  well- 
founded  respect  of  a  virtuous  and  sincere  friendship. 
At  their  first  acquaintance  at  Paris,  the  lovely  English 
woman,   newly  arrived   from  the   purer  moral  atmo 
sphere  of  her  own  country,  was  moving  in  the  disso 
lute,  but  skilfully  disguised  society  of  the  Faubourg 
St.  Germain,  with  the  simple  unconsciousness  of  the  : 
pure  in  heart,  innocent  herself,  and  naturally  unsus-  j 
picious  of  others.     The  perfect  frankness  with  which  ! 
she  established  an  intimacy  with  the  clever  and  accoin-  ! 
plished  attache,  had  soon  satisfied  that  clear-sighted  j 
person  that  there  was  no  passion   in  her  preference,  I 
and,  giddy  with  the  thousand   pleasures  of  that   me-  { 
tropolis  of  delight,  he  had  readily  sunk  his  first  startled 
admiration  of  her  beauty  in  an  affectionate  and   con-  ; 
fiding  friendship.     He  had  thus  shown  her  the  better 
qualities  of  his  character  only,  and,  charmed  with  his 
wit  and  penetration,  and  something;  flattered,  perhaps, 
with  the  devotion   of  so  acknowledged  an  autocrat  of 
fashion  and  talent,  she  had  formed  an  attachment  for 
him  that  had  all   the  earnestness  of  love  without  its 
passion.     They  met  at  Florence,  but  the  "knowledge 
of  good   and  evil"  had  by  this  time  driven  the  lady 
Geraldine  from   her  Eden  of  unconsciousness.     Still 
as  irreproachable  in  conduct,  and  perhaps  as  pure  in 
heart  as  before,  an  acquaintance  with  the  forms  of  vice 
had  introduced  into  her  manners  those  ostensible  cau 
tions  which,  while  they  protect,  suggest  also  what  is 
to  be  feared. 

A  change  had  taken  pi  ice  also  in  Count  Basil.     He 
had  left  the  vitreous  and  mercurial  clime  of  France, 


with  its  volatile  and  superficial  occupations,  for  the 
voluptuous  arid  indolent  air  of  Italy,  and  the  study  of 
its  impassioned  deifications  of  beauty.  That  which 
had  before  been  in  him  an  instinct  of  gay  pleasure — a 
pursuit  which  palled  in  the  first  moment  of  success, 
and  was  second  to  his  ambition  or  his  vanity — had  be 
come,  in  those  two  years  of  a  painter's  life,  a  thirst 
both  of  the  senses  and  the  imagination,  which  had 
usurped  the  very  throne  of  his  soul.  Like  the  Hindoo 
youth,  who  finds  the  gilded  plaything  of  his  childhood 
elevated  in  his  maturer  years  into  a  god,  he  bowed  his 
heart  to  what  he  held  so  lightly,  and  brought  the 
costly  sacrifice  of  time  and  thought  to  its  altars.  He 
had  fed  his  eyes  upon  the  divine  glories  of  the  pencil, 
and  upon  the  breathing  wonders  of  love  in  marble,  be 
neath  the  sky  and  in  the  dissolving  air  in  which  they 
rose  to  the  hand  of  inspiration ;  and  with  his  eye  dis 
ciplined,  and  his  blood  fused  with  taste  and  enthusi 
asm,  that  idolatry  of  beauty,  which  had  before  seemed 
sensual  or  unreal,  kindled  its  first  fires  in  his  mind, 
and  his  senses  were  intoxicated  with  the  incense. 
There  is  a  kind  of  compromise  in  the  effects  of  the 
atmosphere  and  arts  of  Italy.  If  the  intellect  takes 
a  warmer  hue  in  its  study  of  the  fair  models  of  an 
tiquity,  the  senses  in  turn  become  more  refined  and 
intellectual.  In  other  latitudes  and  lands  woman  is 
loved  more  coldly.  After  the  brief  reign  of  a  passion 
of  instinct,  she  is  happy  if  she  can  retain  her  empire 
by  habit,  or  the  qualities  of  the  heart.  That  divine 
form,  meant  to  assimilate  her  to  the  angels,  has  never 
been  recognised  by  the  dull  eye  that  should  have 
seen  in  it  a  type  of  her  soul.  To  the  love  of  the  painter 
or  the  statuary,  or  to  his  who  has  made  himself  con 
versant  with  their  models,  is  added  the  imperishable 
enthusiasm  of  a  captivating  and  exalted  study.  The 
mistress  of  his  heart  is  the  mistress  of  his  mind.  She 
is  the  breathing  realization  of  that  secret  ideal  which 
exists  in  every  mind,  but  which,  in  men  ignorant  of  the 
fine  arts,  takes  another  form,  and  becomes  a  woman's 
rival  and  usurper.  She  is  like  nothing  in  ambition — 
she  is  like  nothing  in  science  or  business — nothing  in 
out-of-door  pleasures.  If  politics,  or  the  chase,  or  the 
acquisition  of  wealth,  is  the  form  of  this  ruling  passion, 
she  is  unassociated  with  that  which  is  nearest  his  heart, 
and  he  returns  to  her  with  an  exhausted  interest  and  a 
flagging  fancy.  It  is  her  strongest  tie  upon  his  affec 
tion,  even,  that  she  is  his  refuge  when  unfit  for  that 
which  occupies  him  most — in  his  fatigue,  his  disap 
pointment,  his  vacuity  of  head  and  heart.  He  thinks 
of  her  only  as  she  receives  him  in  his  most  worthless 
hours;  and,  as  his  refreshed  intellects  awake,  she  is 
forgotten  with  the  first  thought  of  his  favorite  theme— 
for  what  has  a  woman's  loveliness  to  do  with  that? 

Count  Basil  had  not  concluded  his  first  interview 
with  the  lady  Geraldine,  without  marvelling  at  the  new 
feelings  with  which  he  looked  upon  her.  He  had 
never  before  realized  her  singular  and  adorable  beauty. 
The  exquisitely  turned  head,  the  small  and  pearly 
ears,  the  spiritual  nostril,  the  softly  moulded  chin,  the 
clear  loftiness  of  expression  yet  inexpressible  delicacy 
and  brightness  in  the  lips,  and  a  throat  and  bust  than 
which  those  of  Faustina  in  the  delicious  marble  oi  the 
Gallery  of  Florence  might  be  less  envied  by  the  queen 
of  love— his  gaze  wandered  over  these,  and  followed 
her  in  the  harmony  of  her  motions,  and  the  native  and 
unapproachable  grace  of  every  attitude;  and  the  pic 
tures  he  had  so  passionately  studied  seemed  to  fade  in 
his  mind,  and  the  statues  he  had  half  worshipped 
seemed  to  descend  from  their  pedestals  depreciated. 
The  lady  Geraldino,  for  the  first  time,  felt  his  eye. 
For  the  first  time  in  their  acquaintance,  she  was  of 
fended  with  its  regard.  Her  embarrassment  was  rend 
by  the  quick  diplomate,  and  at  that  moment  sprang 
into  being  a  passion,  which  perhaps  had  died  but  for 
the  conscious  acknowledgment  of  her  rebuke. 

Up  to  the  evening  in  the  Cascine,  with  which  the 


96 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


second  chapter  of  this  simply  true  tale  commences, 
but  one  of  the  two  leading  threads  in  the  count  Basil's 
woof  had  woven  well.  "The  jealous  are  the  damned," 
and  the  daily  and  deadly  agony  of  the  marchesa  del 
Marmore  was  a  dark  ground  from  which  his  love  to 
the  lady  Geraldine  rose  to  his  own  eye  in  heightened 
relief.  His  dearest  joy  forwarded  with  equal  step  his 
dearest  revenge ;  and  while  he  could  watch  the  work 
ing  of  his  slow  torture  in  the  fascinated  heart  of  his 
victim,  he  was  content  to  suspend  a  blow  to  which 
that  of  death  would  be  a  mercy.  "  The  law,"  said 
Count  Basil,  as  he  watched  her  quivering  and  im 
ploring  lip,  "takes  cognizance  but  of  the  murder  of 
the  body.  It  has  no  retribution  for  the  keener  dagger 
of  the  soul." 

III. 

The  conversation  between  the  Russian  secretary 
and  the  prince  Poniatowski  ended  at  last  in  a  graceful 
bow  from  the  former  to  his  horse's  neck;  and  the 
quicker  rattling  of  the  small  hoofs  on  the  ground,  as 
the  fine  creature  felt  the  movement  in  the  saddle  and 
prepared  to  bound  away,  drew  all  eyes  once  more 
upon  the  handsomest  and  most  idolized  gallant  of 
Florence.  The  narrow  lane  of  carriages,  commencing 
with  the  showy  ca/eche  of  the  marchesa  del  Marmore, 
and  closed  up  by  the  plain  chariot  of  the  lady  Geral 
dine,  was  still  open,  and  with  a  glance  at  the  latter 
which  sufficiently  indicated  his  destination,  Count 
Basil  raised  his  spurred  heel,  and  with  a  smile  of  de 
light  and  the  quickness  of  a  barb  in  the  desert,  gal 
loped  toward  the  opening.  In  the  same  instant  the 
marchesa  del  Marmore  gave  a  convulsive  spring  for 
ward,  and,  in  obedience  to  an  imperative  order,  her 
coachman  violently  drew  rein  and  shot  the  back  and 
forward  wheels  of  the  caleche  directly  across  his  path. 
Met  in  full  career  by  this  sudden  obstacle,  the  horse 
of  the  Russian  reared  high  in  air;  but  ere  the  screams 
of  apprehension  had  arisen  from  the  adjacent  carriages, 
the  silken  bridle  was  slacked,  and  with  a  low  bow  to 
the  foiled  and  beautiful  marchesa  as  he  shot  past,  he 
brushed  the  hammer-cloths  of  the  two  scarce  separa 
ted  carriages,  and  at  the  same  instant  stood  at  the 
chariot  window  of  the  lady  Getaldine,  as  calm  and 
respectful  as  if  he  had  never  known  danger  or  emotion. 

A  hundred  eyes  had  seen  the  expression  of  his  face 
as  he  leaped  past  the  unhappy  woman,  and  the  drama 
of  which  that  look  was  the  key  was  understood  in  Flor 
ence.  The  lady  Geraldine  alone,  seated  far  back  in 
her  chariot,  was  unconscious  of  the  risk  run  for  the 
smile  with  which  she  greeted  its  hero ;  and  uncon 
scious,  as  well,  of  the  poignant  jealousy  and  open  mor 
tification  she  had  innocently  assisted  to  inflict,  she 
stretched  her  fair  and  transparent  hand  from  the  car 
riage,  and  stroked  the  glossy  neck  of  his  horse,  and 
while  the  marchesa  del  Marmore  drove  past  with  a 
look  of  inexpressible  anguish  and  hate,  and  the  dis 
persing  nobles  and  dames  took  their  way  to  the  city 
gates,  Count  Basil  leaned  close  to  the  ear  of  that  love 
liest  of  breathing  creatures,  and  forgot,  as  she  forgot 
in  listening  to  the  besvildering  music  of  his  voice,  that 
the  stars  had  risen,  or  that  the  night  was  closing 
around  them. 

The  Cascine  had  long  been  silent  when  the  chariot 
of  the  lady  Geraldine  took  its  way  to  the  town,  and, 
with  the  reins  loose  upon  his  horse's  neck,  Count 
Basil  followed  at  a  slower  pace,  lost  in  the  revery  of  a 
tumultuous  passion.  The  sparkling  and  unobstructed 
stars  broke  through  the  leafy  roof  of  the  avenue  whose 
silence  was  disturbed  by  those  fine  and  light-stepping 
hoofs,  and  the  challenge  of  the  duke's  forester,  going 
his  rounds  ere  the  gates  closed,  had  its  own  deep- 
throated  echo  for  its  answer.  The  Arno  rippled 
among  the  rushes  on  its  banks,  the  occasional  roll  of 
wheels  passing  the  paved  arch  of  the  Ponte  Seraglio, 


came  faintly  down  the  river  upon  the  moist  wind,  the 
pointed  cypresses  of  the  convent  of  Bello  Sguardo 
laid  their  slender  fingers  against  the  lowest  stars  in  the 
southern  horizon,  and  with  his  feet  pressed,  carelessly, 
far  through  his  stirrups,  and  his  head  dropped  on  his 
bosom,  the  softened  diplomate  turned  instinctively  to 
the  left  in  the  last  diverging  point  of  the  green  al 
leys,  and  his  horse's  ears  were  already  pricked  at 
the  tread,  before  the  gate,  of  the  watchful  and  idle 
doganieri. 

Close  under  the  city  wall  on  this  side  Florence, 
the  traveller  will  remember  that  the  trees  are  more 
thickly  serried,  and  the  stone  seats,  for  the  comfort 
and  pleasure  of  those  who  would  step  forth  from  the 
hot  streets  for  an  hour  of  fresh  air  and  rest,  are  mossy 
with  the  depth  of  the  perpetual  shade.  In  the  midst 
of  this  dark  avenue,  the  unguided  animal  beneath  the 
careless  and  forgetful  rider  suddenly  stood  still,  and 
the  next  moment  starting  aside,  a  female  sprang  high 
against  his  neck,  and  Count  Basil,  ere  awake  from  his 
revery,  felt  the  glance  of  a  dagger-blade  across  his  bo 
som. 

With  the  slender  wrist  that  had  given  the  blow- 
firmly  arrested  in  his  left  hand,  the  count  Basil  slowly 
dismounted,  and  after  a  steadfast  look,  by  the  dim 
light,  into  the  face  of  the  lovely  assassin,  he  pressed 
her  fingers  respectfully,  and  with  well  counterfeited 
emotion,  to  his  lips.  .' 

"  Twice  since  the  Ave-Maria  !"  he  said  in  atone  of 
reproachful  tenderness,  "  and  against  a  life  that  is  your 
own  !" 

He  could  see,  even  in  that  faint  light,  the  stern  com 
pression  of  those  haughty  lips,  and  the  flash  of  the 
darkest  eyes  of  the  Val  d'Arno.  But  leading  her  gen 
tly  to  a  seat,  he  sat  beside  her,  and  with  scarce  ten 
brief  moments  of  low-toned  and  consummate  elo 
quence,  he  once  more  deluded  her  soul !  '- 

"  We  meet  to-morrow,"  she  said,  as,  after  a  burst 
of  irrepressible  tears,  she  disengaged  herself  from  his 
neck,  and  looked  toward  the  end  of  the  avenue,  where 
Count  Basil  had  already  heard  the  pawing  of  her  im 
patient  horses. 

"  To-morrow!"  lie  answered  ;  "  but,?)n'<7  carissima!" 
he  continued,  opening  his  breast  to  stanch  the  blood  of 
his  wound,  "you  owe  me  a  concession  after  this  rude 
evidence  of  your  love." 

She  looked  into  his  face  as  if  answer  were  superflu 
ous. 

"  Drive  to  my  palazzo  at  noon,  and  remain  with  me 
till  the  Ave-Maria." 

For  but  half  a  moment  the  impassioned  Italian  hesi 
tated.  Though  the  step  he  demanded  of  her  was  ap 
parently  without  motive  or  reason — though  it  was  one 
that  sacrificed  to  a  whim  her  station,  her  fortune,  and 
her  friends — she  hesitated  but  to  question  her  reason 
if  the  wretched  price  of  this  sacrifice  would  be  paid — 
if  the  love,  to  which  she  fled  from  this  world  and  heav 
en,  was  her  own.  In  other  countries,  the  crime  of  in 
fidelity  is  punished  :  in  Italy  it  is  the  appearance  only 
that  is  criminal.  In  proportion  as  the  sin  is  overlook 
ed,  the  violation  of  the  outward  proprieties  of  life  is 
severely  visited  ;  and  while  a  lover  is  stipulated  for  in 
the  marriage-contract,  an  open  visit  to  that  lover's 
house  is  an  offence  which  brands  the  perpetrator  with 
irremediable  shame.  The  marchesa  del  Marmore 
well  knew  that  in  going  forth  from  the  ancestral  pal 
ace  of  her  husband  on  a  visit  to  Count  Basil,  she  took 
\\  leave  of  it  forever.  The  equipage  that  would  bear 
j  her  to  him  would  never  return  for  her  ;  the  protection, 
|  the  fortune,  the  noble  relations,  the  troops  of  friends, 
;  would  all  drop  from  her.  In  the  pride  of  her  youth 
!  and  beauty — from  the  highest  pinnacle  of  rank — from 
:|  the  shelter  of  fortune  and  esteem — she  would  descend, 
.  i  by  a  single  step,  to  be  a  beggar  for  life  and  love  from 
1 1  the  mercy  of  the  heart  she  fled  to  ! 

"  I  will  come,"  she  said,  in  a  firm  voice,  looking 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


close  into  his  face,  as  if  she  would  read  in  his  dim  fea 
tures  the  prophetic  answer  of  his  soul. 

The  count  Basil  strained  her  to  his  bosom,  and  start 
ing  back  as  if  with  the  paiu  of  his  wound,  he  pleaded 
the  necessity  of  a  surgeon,  and  bade  her  a  hasty  good 
night.  And  while  she  pained  her  own  carriage  in  se 
crecy,  he  rode  round  to"  the  other  gate,  which  opens 
upon  the  Borg'ognisanti,  and  dismounting  at  the 
Cafe  Colonna,  where  the  artists  were  at  this  hour  usu 
ally  assembled,  he  sought  out  his  fellow-traveller, 
Giannino  Speranza,  who  had  sketched  the  inarchesa 
upon  the  lagoon,  and  made  an  appointment  with  him 
for  the  morrow. 


While  the  count  Basil's  revenge  sped  thus  merrily, 
the  just  Fates  were  preparing  for  him  a  retribution  in 
his  love.  The  mortification  of  the  marchesa  del  Mar- 
more,  at  the  Cascine,  had  been  made  the  subject  of 
conversation  at  the  prima  sera  of  the  lady  Geraldine  ; 
and  other  details  of  the  same  secret  drama  transpiring 
at  the  same  time,  the  whole  secret  of  Count  Basil's 
feelings  toward  that  unfortunate  woman  flashed  clearly 
and  fully  upon  her.  His  motives  for  pretending  to 
have  drawn  the  portrait  of  the  lagoon — for  procuring 
her  an  admission  to  the  exclusive  suppers  of  the  Pitti 
— for  a  thousand  things  which  had  been  unaccounta 
ble,  or  referred  to  more  amiable  causes — were  at  once 
unveiled.  Even  yet,  with  no  suspicion  of  the  extent 
of  his  revenge,  the  lady  Geraldine  felt  an  indignant  pity 
for  the  unconscious  victim,  and  a  surprised  disappro 
val  of  the  character  thus  unmasked  to  her  eye.  Upon 
further  reflection,  her  brow  flushed  to  remember  that 
she  herself  had  been  made  the  most  effective  tool  of 
his  revenge  ;  and  as  she  recalled  circumstance  after 
circumstance  in  the  last  month's  history,  the  attention 
and  preference  he  had  shown  her,  and  which  had  grat 
ified  her,  perhaps,  more  than  she  admitted  to  herself, 
seemed  to  her  sensitive  and  resentful  mind  to  have 
been  only  the  cold  instruments  of  jealousy.  Incapable 
as  she  was  of  an  unlawful  passion,  the  unequalled  fas 
cinations  of  Count  Basil  had  silently  found  their  way 
to  her  heart,  and  if  her  indignation  was  kindled  by  a 
sense  of  justice  and  womanly  pity,  it  was  fed  and 
fanned  unaware  by  mortified  pride.  She  rang,  and 
sent  an  order  to  the  gate  that  she  was  to  be  denied  for 
the  future  to  Count  Basil  Spirifort. 

The  servant  had  appeared  with  his  silver  tray  in  his 
hand,  and  before  leaving  h,er  presence  to  communi 
cate  the  order,  he  presented  her  with  a  letter.  Well 
foreseeing  the  eclaircissement  which  must  follow  the 
public  scene  in  the  Cascine,  the  count  Basil  had  left 
the  cafe  for  his  own  palazzo  ;  and,  in  a  letter,  of  which 
the  following  is  the  passage  most  important  to  our 
story,  he  revealed  to  the  lady  he  loved  a  secret,  which 
he  hoped  would  anticipate  the  common  rumor  : — 

*****  "But  these  passionate  words  will  have 
offended  your  ear,  dearest  lady,  and  1  must  pass  to  a 
theme  on  which  I  shall  be  less  eloquent.  You  will 
hear  to-night,  perhaps,  that  which,  with  all  your  im 
agination,  will  scarce  prepare  you  for  what  you  will 
hear  to-morrow.  The  marchesa  del  Marmore  is  the 
victim  of  a  revenge  which  has  only  been  second  in  my 
heart  to  the  love  I  have  for  the  first  time  breathed  to 
you.  I  can  never  hope  that  you  will  either  under 
stand  or  forgive  the  bitterness  in  which  it  springs  ;  yet 
it  is  a  demon  to  which  I  am  delivered,  soul  and  body, 
and  no  spirit  but  my  own  can  know  its  power.  When 
I  have  called  it  by  its  name,  and  told  you  of  its  exas 
peration,  if  you  do  not  pardon,  you  will  pity  me. 

"  You  know  that  I  am  a  Russian,  and  you  know  the 
station  my  talents  have  won  me  ;  but  you  do  not  know 
that  I  was  horn  a  seif  and  a  slave  !  If  you  could  rend 
open  my  heart  and  see  the  pool  of  blackness  and  bit 
terness  that  lies  in  its  bottom — fallen,  drop  by  drop, 
7 


from  this  accursed  remembrance — there  would  be  lit 
tle  need  to  explain  to  you  how  this  woman  has  offend 
ed  me.  Had  I  been  honorably  born,  like  yourself,  I 
feel  that  I  could  have  been,  like  you,  an  angel  of  light  : 
as  it  is,  the  contumely  of  a  look  has  stirred  me  to  a 
revenge  which  has  in  it,  I  do  not  need  to  be  told,  the 
darkest  elements  of  murder. 

"  My  early  history  is  of  no  importance,  yet  I  may 
tell  you  it  was  such  as  to  expose  to  every  wind  this 
lacerated  nerve.  In  a  foreign  land,  and  holding  an 
official  rank,  it  was  seldom  breathed  upon.  I  wore, 
mostly,  a  gay  heart  at  Paris.  In  my  late  exile  at  Ven 
ice  I  had  time  to  brood  upon  my  dark  remembrance, 
and  it  was  revived  and  fed  by  the  melancholy  of  my 
solitude.  The  obscurity  in  which  I  lived,  and  the  oc 
casional  comparison  between  myself  and  some  passing 
noble  in  the  Piazza,  served  to  remind  me,  could  I  have 
forgotten  it.  I  never  dreamed  of  love  in  this  humble 
disguise,  and  so  never  felt  the  contempt  that  had  most 
power  to  wound  me.  On  receiving  the  letters  of  my 
new  appointment,  however,  this  cautious  humility  did 
not  wait  to  be  put  off  with  my  sombrero.  I  started 
for  Florence,  clad  in  the  habiliments  of  poverty,  but 
with  the  gay  mood  of  a  courtier  beneath.  The  first 
burst  of  my  newly-released  feelings  was  admiration  for 
a  woman  of  singular  beauty,  who  stood  near  me  on 
one  of  the  most  love-awakening  and  delicious  eves 
that  I  ever  remember.  My  heart  was  overflowing,  and 
she  permitted  me  to  breathe  my  passionate  adoration 
in  her  ear.  The  marchesa  del  Marmore,  but  for  the 
scorn  of  the  succeeding  day,  would,  I  think,  have  been 
the  mistress  of  my  soul.  Strangely  enough,  I  had 
seen  you  without  loving  you. 

"  f  have  told  you,  as  a  bagatelle  that  might  amuse 
you,  my  rencontre  with  del  Marmore  and  his  dame  in 
the  cathedral  of  Bologna.  The  look  she  gave  me 
there  sealed  her  doom.  It  was  witnessed  by  the  com 
panions  of  my  poverty,  and  the  concentrated  resent 
ment  of  years  sprang  up  at  the  insult.  Had  it  been  a 
man,  I  must  have  struck  him  dead  where  he  stood  : 
she  was  a  woman,  and  I  swore  the  downfall  of  her 
pride."  *  * 

Thus  briefly  dismissing  the  chief  topic  of  his  letter, 
Count  Basil  returned  to  the  pleading  of  his  love.  It 
was  dwelt  on  more  eloquently  than  his  revenge  ;  but 
as  the  lady  Geraldine  scarce  read  it  to  the  end,  it  need 
not  retard  the  procession  of  events  in  our  story.  The 
fair  Englishwoman  sat  down  beneath  the  Etruscan 
lamp,  whose  soft  light  illumined  a  brow  cleared,  as  if 
by  a  sweep  from  the  wing  of  her  good  angel,  of  the 
troubled  dream  which  had  overhung  it,  and  in  brief 
and  decided,  but  kind  and  warning  words,  replied  to" 
the  letter  of  Count  Basil. 


It  was  noon  on  the  following  day,  and  the  Contadini 
from  the  hills  were  settling  to  their  siesta  on  the  steps 
of  the  churches,  and  against  the  columns  of  the  Piaz 
za  del  Gran'  Duca.  The  artists  alone,  in  the  cool  gal 
lery,  and  in  the  tempered  halls  of  the  Pitti,  shook  off 
the  drowsiness  of  the  hour,  and  strained  sight  and 
thought  upon  the  immortal  canvass  from  which  they 
drew  ;  while  the  sculptor,  in  his  brightening  studio, 
weary  of  the  mallet,  yet  excited  by  the  bolder  light, 
leaned  on  the  rough  block  behind  him,  and  with  list 
less  body  but  wakeful  and  fervent  eye,  studied  the  last 
touches  upon  his  marble. 

Prancing  hoofs,  and  the  sharp  quick  roll  peculiar  to 
the  wheels' of  carriages  of  pleasure,  awakened  the  aris 
tocratic  sleepers  of  the  Via  del  Servi,  and  with  a  lash 
and  jerk  of  violence,  the  coachman  of  the  marchesa 
del  Marmore,  enraged  at  the  loss  of  his  noonday  re 
pose,  brought  up  her  showy  caliche  at  the  door  of 
Count  Basil  Spirifort.  The  fair  occupant  of  that  luxu- 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


rious  vehicle  was  pale,  but  the  brightness  of  joy  and 
hope  binned  almost  fiercely  in  her  eye. 

The  doors  flew  open  as  the  marchesa  descended, 
and  following  a  servant  in  the  count's  livery,  of  whom 
she  asked  no  question,  she  found  herself  in  a  small  sa 
loon,  furnished  with  the  peculiar  luxury  which  marks 
the  apartment  of  a  bachelor,  and  darkened  like  a  paint 
er's  room.  The  light  came  in  from  a  single  tall  win 
dow,  curtained  below,  and  under  it  stood  an  easel,  at 
which,  on  her  first  entrance,  a  young  man  stood 
sketching  the  outline  of  a  female  head.  As  she  ad 
vanced,  looking  eagerly  around  for  another  face,  the 
artist  laid  down  his  palette,  and  with  a  low  reverence 
presented  her  with  a  note  from  Count  Basil.  It  in 
formed  her  that  political  news  of  the  highest  impor 
tance  had  called  him  suddenly  to  the  cabinet  of  his 
chef,  but  that  he  hoped  to  be  with  her  soon  ;  and, 
meantime,  he  begged  of  her,  as  a  first  favor  in  his 
newly-prospered  love,  to  bless  him  with  the  possession 
of  her  portrait,  done  by  the  incomparable  artist  who 
would  receive  her. 

Disappointment  and  vexation  overwhelmed  the  heart 
of  the  marchesa,  and  she  burst  into  tears.  She  read 
the  letter  again,  and  grew  calmer;  for  it  was  laden  with 
epithets  of  endearment,  and  seemed  to  her  written  in 
the  most  sudden  haste.  Never  doubting  for  an  instant 
the  truth  of  his  apology,  she  removed  her  hat,  and 
with  a  look  at  the  deeply-shaded  mirror,  while  she 
shook  out  from  their  confinement  the  masses  of  her 
luxuriant  hair,  she  approached  the  painter's  easel,  and 
with  a  forced  cheerfulness  inquired  in  what  attitude 
she  should  sit  to  him. 

"  If  the  signora  will  amuse  herself,"  he  replied, 
with  a  bow,  "  it  will  be  easy  to  compose  the  picture, 
and  seize  the  expression  without  annoying  her  with  a 
pose." 

Relieved  thus  of  any  imperative  occupation,  the  un 
happy  marchesa  seated  herself  by  a  table  of  intaglios 
and  prints,  and  while  she  apparently  occupied  herself 
in  the  examination  of  these  specimens  of  art,  she  was 
delivered,  as  her  tormentor  had  well  anticipated,  to  the 
alternate  tortures  of  impatience  and  remorse.  And 
while  the  hours  wore  on,  and  her  face  paled,  and  her 
eyes  grew  bloodshot  with  doubt  and  fear,  the  skilful 
painter,  forgetting  everything  in  the  enthusiasm  of  his 
art,  and  forgotten  utterly  by  his  unconscious  subject, 
transferred  too  faithfully  to  the  canvass  that  picture  of 
agonized  expectation. 

The  afternoon,  meantime,  had  worn  away,  and  the 
gay  world  of  Florence,  from  the  side  toward  Fiesole, 
rolled  past  the  Via  dei  Servi  on  their  circuitous  way 
to  the  Cascine,  and  saw,  with  dumb  astonishment,  the 
carriage  and  liveries  of  the  marchesa  del  Marmore  at 
the  door  of  Count  Basil  Spirifort.  On  they  swept  by 
the  Via  Mercata  Nova  to  the  Lung'  Arno,  and  there 
their  astonishment  redoubled  :  for  in  the  window  of 
the  Casino  dei  Nobili,  playing  with  a  billiard-cue,  and 
laughing  with  a  group  of  lounging  exquisites,  stood 
Count  Basil  himself,  the  most  unoccupied  and  listless 
of  sunset  idlers.  There  was  but  one  deduction  to  be 
drawn  from  this  sequence  of  events;  and  when  they 
remembered  the  demonstration  of  passionate  jealousy 
on  the  previous  evening  in  the  Cascine,  Count  Basil, 
evidently  innocent  of  participation  in  her  passion,  was 
deemed  a  persecuted  man,  and  the  marchesa  del  Mar- 
more  was  lost  to  herself  and  the  world  ! 

Three  days  after  this  well-remembered  circumstance 
in  the  history  of  Florence,  an  order  was  received  from 
the  grand-duke  to  admit  into  the  exhibition  of  mod 
ern  artists  a  picture  by  a  young  Venetian  painter,  an 
eleve  of  Count  Basil  Spirifort.  It  was  called  "  The 
Lady  expecting  an  Inconstant,"  and  had  been  pro 
nounced  by  a  virtuoso,  who  had  seen  it  on  private 
view,  to  be  a  masterpiece  of  expression  and  color.  It 
was  instantly  and  indignantly  recognised  as  the  por 
trait  of  the  unfortunate  marchesa,  whose  late  abau> 


I  donment  of  her  husband  was  fresh  on  the  lips  of  com 
mon  rumor  ;  but  ere  it  could  be  officially  removed, 
the  circumstance  had  been  noised  abroad,  and  the 
picture  had  been  seen  by  all  the  curious  in  Florence. 
The  order  for  its  removal  was  given  ;  but  the  purpose 
of  Count  Basil  had  been  effected,  and  the  name  of  the 
unhappy  marchesa  had  become  a  jest  on  the  vulgar 
tongue. 

This  tale  had  not  been  told,  had  there  not  been 
more  than  a  common  justice  in  its  sequel.  The  worst 
passions  of  men,  in  common  life,  are  sometimes  in 
scrutably  prospered.  The  revenge  of  Count  Basil, 
however,  was  betrayed  by  the  last  which  completed 
it ;  and  while  the  victim  of  his  fiendish  resentment 
finds  a  peaceful  asylum  in  England  under  the  roof  of 
the  compassionate  Lady  Geraldine,  the  once  gay  and 
admired  Russian  wanders  from  city  to  city,  followed 
by  an  evil  reputation,  and  stamped  unaccountably  as  a 
jattatore.* 


LOVE  AND  DIPLOMACY. 

"  Pray  pardon  me, 

For  I  am  like  a  boy  that  hath  found  money — 
Afraid  I  dream  still." 

FORD  OR  WEBSTEH. 

IT  was  on  a  fine  September  evening,  within  my  time 
(and  I  am  not,  I  trust,  too  old  to  be  loved),  that  Count 

Anatole  L ,  of  the  impertinent  and  particularly 

useless  profession  of  attache,  walked  up  and  down  be 
fore  the  glass  in  his  rooms  at  the  "Archduke  Charles," 
the  first  hotel,  as  you  know,  if  you  have  travelled,  in 
the  green-belted  and  fair  city  of  Vienna.  The  brass 
ring  was  still  swinging  on  the  end  of  the  bell-rope,  and, 
in  a  respectful  attitude  at  the  door,  stood  the  just- 
summoned  Signor  Attilio,  valet  and  privy  councillor 
to  one  of  the  handsomest  coxcombs  errant  through 
the  world.  Signor  Attilio  was  a  Tyrolese,  and,  like 
his  master,  was  very  handsome. 

Count  Anatole  had  been  idling  away  three  golden 
summer  months  in  the  Tyrol,  for  the  sole  purpose, 
as  far  as  mortal  eyes  could  see,  of  disguising  his  fine 
Phidian  features  in  a  callow  mustache  and  whiskers. 
The  crines  ridentes  (as  Eneas  Sylvius  has  it)  being  now 
in  a  condition  beyond  improvement,  Signor  Attilio  had 
for  some  days  been  rather  curious  to  know  what  course 
of  events  would  next  occupy  the  diplomatic  talents  of 
his  master. 

After  a  turn  or  two  more,  taken  in  silence,  Count 
Anatole  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  eying 
the  well-made  Tyrolese  from  head  to  foot,  begged  to 
know  if  he  wore  at  the  present  moment  his  most  be 
coming  breeches,  jacket,  and  beaver. 

Attilio  was  never  astonished  at  anything  his  master 
did  or  said.  He  simply  answered,  "Si,  signore." 

"Be  so  kind  as  to  strip  immediately,  and  dress  your 
self  in  that  travelling  suit  lying  on  the  sofa." 

As  the  green,  gold-corded  jacket,  knee-breeches, 
buckles,  and  stockings,  were  laid  aside,  Count  Anatole 
threw  off  his  dressing-gown,  and  commenced  encasing 
his  handsome  proportions  in  the  cast-off  habiliments. 
He  then  put  on  the  conical,  slouch-rimmed  hat,  with 
the  tall  eagle's-feather  stuck  jauntily  on  the  side,  and 
the  two  rich  tassels  pendant  over  his  left  eye  ;  and,  the 
toilet  of  the  valet  being  completed  at  the  same  moment, 
they  stood  looking  at  one  another  with  perfect  gravity 
— rathertransformed,  but  each  apparently  quite  at  home 
in  his  new  character. 

"  You  look  very  like  a  gentleman,  Attilio,"  said  the 
count. 

"  Your  excellency  has  caught  to  admiration,  I'aria 

•  A  man  with  aa  evil  eye. 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


del  paese,"  complimented  back  again  the  sometime 
Tyrolese. 

44  Attilio  !" 

"  Signore  ?" 

44  Do  you  remember  the  lady  in  the  forest  of 
Friuli  ?" 

Attilio  began  to  have  a  glimmering  of  things.    Some 
three  months  before,  the  count  was  dashing  on  at  a 
rapid  post-pace  through  a  deep  wood  in  the  moun-  ' 
tains  which  head  in  the  Adriatic.     A  sudden  pull-up 
at  a  turning  in  the  road  nearly  threw  him  from  his  j 
britska  ;  and  looking  out  at  the  "anima  di  porco  .'"  of 
the  postilion,  he  found  his  way  impeded  by  an  overset 
carriage,  from  which  three  or  four  servants  were  en 
deavoring  to  extract  the  body  of  an  old  man,  killed 
by  the  accident. 

There  was  more  attractive  metal  for  the  traveller, 
however,  in  the  shape  of  a  young  and  beautiful  woman, 
leaning,  pale  and  faint,  against  a  tree,  and  apparently 
about  to  sink  to  the  ground,  unassisted.  To  bring  a 
hat  full  of  water  from  the  nearest  brook,  and  receive 
her  falling  head  on  his  shoulder,  was  the  work  of  a 
thought.  She  had  fainted  quite  away,  and  taking  her, 
like  a  child,  into  his  arms,  he  placed  her  on  a  bank  by 
the  road-side,  bathed  her  forehead  and  lips,  and  chafed 
her  small  white  hands,  till  his  heart,  with  all  the  dis 
tress  of  the  scene,  was  quite  mad  with  her  perfect 
beauty. 

Animation  at  last  began  to  return,  and  as  the  flush 
was  stealing  into  her  lips,  another  carriage  drove  up 
with  servants  in  the  same  livery,  and  Count  Anatole,  I 
thoroughly  bewildered  in  his  new  dream,  mechanically  ! 
assisted  them  in  getting  their  living  mistress  and  dead 
master  into  it,  and  until  they  were  fairly  out  of  sight, 
it  had   never  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  possibly 
wish  to  know  the  name  and  condition  of  the  fairest 
piece  of  work  he  had  ever  seen  from  the  hands  of  his 
Maker. 

An  hour  before,  he  had  doubled  his  bono  mano  to 
the  postilion,  and  was  driving  on  to  Vienna  as  if  to  sit 
at  a  new  congress.  Now,  he  stood  leaning  against  the 
tree,  at  the  foot  of  which  the  grass  and  wild  flowers 
showed  the  print  of  a  new-made  pressure,  and  the 
postilion  cracked  his  whip,  and  Attilio  reminded  him 
of  the  hour  he  was  losing,  in  vain. 

He  remounted  after  a  while  ;  but  the  order  was  to 
go  back  to  the  last  post-house. 

Three  or  four  months  at  a  solitary  albergo  in  the  j 
neighborhood  of  this  adventure,  passed  by  the  count 
in  scouring  the  country  on  horseback  in  every  direc 
tion,  and  by  his  servant  in  very  particular  ennui,  brings 
up  the  story  nearly  to  where  the  scene  opens. 

44 1  have  seen  her!"  said  the  count. 

Attilio  only  lifted  up  his  eyebrows. 

44 She  is  here,  in  Vienna!" 

"Felice  lei!"  murmured  Attilio. 

44  She  is  the  princess  Leichstenfels,  and,  by  the 
death  of  that  old  man,  a  widow.' 

41  Vtra.me.nle! 
inflexio 

too  well  not  to  foresee  a  damper  in  the  possibility  of 
matrimony. 

44  Veramente .'"  gravely  echoed  the  count.  "And 
now  listen.  The  princess  lives  in  close  retirement. 
An  old  friend  or  two,  and  a  tried  servant,  are  the  only 
persons  who  see  her.  You  are  to  contrive  to  see  this 
servant  to-morrow,  corrupt  him  to  leave  her,  and  rec 
ommend  me  in  his  place,  and  then  you  are  to  take 
him  as  your  courier  to  Paris :  whence,  if  I  calculate 
well,  you  will  return  to  me  before  long,  with  impor 
tant  despatches.  Do  you  understand  me?" 

44  Signor,  si!" 

In  the  small  boudoir  of  a  masin  de  plaisance,  be 
longing  to  the  noble  family  of  Leichstenfels,  sat  the 
widowed  mistress  of  one  of  the  oldest  titles  and  finest  II 


dow  opening  down  t«  the  floor  and  leading  out  upon 
a  terrace  of  flowers,  was  subdued  by  a  heavy  crimson 
curtain,  looped  partially  away,  a  pastille  lamp  was 
sending  up  from  its  porphyry  pedestal  a  thin  and  just 
perceptible  curl  of  smoke,  through  which  the  lady 
musingly  passed  backward  and  forward  one  of  her 
slender  fingers,  and,  on  a  table  near,  lay  a  sheet  of 
black-edged  paper,  crossed  by  a  small  silver  pen,  and 
scrawled  over  irregularly  with  devices  and  discon 
nected  words,  the  work  evidently  of  a  fit  of  the  most 
|  absolute  and  listless  idleness. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  servant  in  mourning  livery 
I  stood  before  the  lady. 

44 1  have  thought  over  your  request,  Wilhelm,"  she 
!  said.  "  I  had  become  accustomed  to  your  services, 
j  and  regret  to  lose  you ;  but  I  should  regret  more  to 
:  stand  in  the  way  of  your  interest.  You  have  my  per 
mission." 

Wilhelm  expressed  his  thanks  with  an  effort  that 
showed  he  had  not  obeyed  the  call  of  mammon  with 
out  regret,  and  requested  leave  to  introduce  the  person 
he  had  proposed  as  his  successor. 

44  Of  what  country  is  he?" 

44  Tyrolese,  your  excellency." 

"And  why  does  he  leave  the  gentleman  with  whom 
he  came  to  Vienna?" 

"//  est  amoureux  d'une  Vicnnaise,  madatnc"  an 
swered  the  ex-valet,  resorting  to  French  to  express 
what  he  considered  a  delicate  circumstance. 

44  Pamre  enfant!"  said  the  princess,  with  a  sigh 
that  partook  as  much  of  envy  as  of  pity  ;  let  him 
come  in !" 

And  the  count  Anatole,  as  the  sweet  accents  reached 
his  ear,  stepped  over  the  threshold,  and  in  the  coarse 
but  gay  dress  of  the  Tyrol,  stood  in  the  presence  of 
her  whose  dewy  temples  he  had  bathed  in  the  forest, 
whose  lips  he  had  almost  "pried  into  for  breath," 
whose  snowy  hands  he  had  chafed  and  kissed  when  the 
senses  had  deserted  their  celestial  organs — the  angel 
of  his  perpetual  dream,  the  lady  of  his  wild  and  un 
controllable,  but  respectful  and  honorable  love. 

The  princess  looked  carelessly  up  as  he  approached, 
but  her  eyes  seemed  arrested  in  passing  over  his  fea 
tures.  It  was  but  momentary.  She  resumed  her 
occupation  of  winding  her  taper  fingers  in  the  smoke- 
curls  of  the  incense-lamp,  and  with  half  a  sigh,  as  if 
she  had  repelled  a  pleasing  thought,  she  leaned  back 
in  the  silken  fauteuil,  and  asked  the  new-comer  his 
name. 

44  Anatole,  your  excellency." 

The  voice  again  seemed  to  stir  something  in  her 
memory.  She  passed  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  and 
was  for  a  moment  lost  in  thought. 

44  Anatole,"  she  said  (oh,  how  the  sound  of  his  own 
name,  murmured  in  that  voice  of  music  thrilled 
through  the  fiery  veins  of  the  disguised  lover!) 
"Anatole,  I  receive  you  into  my  service.  Wilhelm 
will  inform  you  of  your  duties,  and — 1  have  a  fancy 
may  wear  it  instead 


'amente?"   responded  the  valet,  with  a  rising  '   for  the  dress  of  the  Tyrol — you 
n;  for  he  knew  his  master  and  French  morals  j  of  my  livery,  if  you  will." 

And  witli  one  stolen  and  warm  gaze  from  under  his 
drooping  eyelids,  and  heart  and  lips  on  fire,  as  he 
thanked  her  for  her  condescension,  the  new  retainer 
took  his  leave. 

Month  after  month  passed  on — to  Count  Anatole  in 
a  bewildering  dream  of  ever  deepening  passion.  It 
was  upon  a  soft  and  amorous  morning  of  April,  that  a 
clashing  equipage  stood  at  the  door  of  the  proud  palace 

of  Leichstenfels.     The  arms  of  E blazed  on  the 

panels,  and  the  insoucianls  chasseurs  leaned  against 
the  marble  columns  of  the  portico,  waiting  for  their 
master,  and  speculating  on  the  gayety  likely  to  ensue 
from  the  suite  he  was  prosecuting  within.  How  could 

a  prince  of  E be  supposed  to  sue  in  vain? 

The  disguised   footman  had  ushered  the  gay  and 
estates  of  Austria.     The  light  from  a  single  long  win-  ii  handsome  nobleman  to  his  mistress'  presence.     After 


100 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


rearranging  a  family  of  very  well-arranged  flower 
pots,  shutting  the  window  to  open  it  again,  changing 
the  folds  of  the  curtains  not  at  all  for  the  better," and 
lookinsr  a  stolen  and  fierce  look  at  the  unconscious 
visitor,  he  could  find  no  longer  an  apology  for  remain 
ing  in  the  room.  He  shut  the  door  after  him  in  a 
tempest  of  jealousy. 

"  Did  your  excellency  ring  ?"  said  he,  opening  the 
door  again,  after  a  few  minutes  of  intolerable  torture. 

The  prince  was  on  his  knees  at  her  feet ! 

"No,  Anatole;  but  you  may  bring  me  a  glass  of 
water." 

As  he  entered  with  a  silver  tray  trembling  in  his 
hand,  the  prince  was  rising  to  go.  His  face  expressed 
delight,  hope,  triumph — everything  that  could  mad 
den  the  soul  of  the  irritated  lover.  After  waiting  on 
his  rival  to  his  carriage,  he  returned  to  his  mistress, 
and  receiving  the  glass  upon  the  tray,  was  about 
leaving  the  room  in  silence,  when  the  princess  called 
to  him. 

la  all  this  lapse  of  time  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that 
Count  Anatole  played  merely  his  footman's  part.  His 
respectful  and  elegant  demeanor,  the  propriety  of  his 
language,  and  that  deep  devotedness  of  manner  which 
wins  a  woman  more  than  all  things  else,  soon  gained 
upon  the  confidence  of  the  princess;  and  before  a 
week  was  passed  she  found  that  she  was  happier  when 
he  stood  behind  her  chair,  and  gave  him,  with  some 
self-denial,  those  frequent  permissions  of  absence  from 
the  palace  which  she  supposed  he  asked  to  prosecute 
the  amour  disclosed  to  her  on  his  introduction  to  her 
service.  As  time  flew  on,  she  attributed  his  earnest 
ness  and  occasional  warmth  of  manner  to  gratitude; 
and,  without  reasoning  much  on  her  feelings,  gave 
herself  up  to  the  indulgence  of  a  degree  of  interest  in 
him  which  would  have  alarmed  a  woman  more  skilled 
in  the  knowledge  of  the  heart.  Married  from  a  con 
vent,  however,  to  an  old  man  who  had  secluded  her 
from  the  world,  the  voice  of  the  passionate  count  in 
the  forest  of  Friuli  was  the  first  sound  of  love  that  had 
ever  entered  her  ears.  She  knew  not  why  it  was  that 
the  tones  of  her  new  footman,  and  now  and  then  a  look 
of  his  eyes,  as  he  leaned  over  to  assist  her  at  table, 
troubled  her  memory  like  a  trace  of  a  long-lost  dream. 

But,  oh,  what  moments  had  been  his  in  these  fleet 
ing  months !  Admitted  to  her  presence  in  her  most 
unguarded  hours — seeing  her  at  morning,  at  noon,  at 
night,  in  all  her  unstudied  and  surpassing  loveliness — 
for  ever  near  her,  and  with  the  world  shut  out — her 
rich  hair  blowing  with  the  lightest  breeze  across  his 
fingers  in  his  assiduous  service — her  dark  full  eyes, 
unconscious  of  an  observer,  filling  with  unrepressed 
tears,  or  glowing  with  pleasure  over  some  tale  of  love 
— her  exquisite  form  flung  upon  a  couch,  or  bending 
over  flowers,  or  moving  about  the  room  in  all  its  native 
and  untrammelled  grace — and  her  voice,  tender,  most 
tender  to  him,  though  she  knew  it  not,  and  her  eyes, 
herself  unaware,  ever  following  him  in  his  loitering 
attendance— and  he,  the  while,  losing  never  a  glance 
nor  a  motion,  but  treasuring  all  up  in  his  heart  with 
the  avarice  of  a  miser — what,  in  common  life,  though 
it  were  the  life  of  fortune's  most  favored  child,  could 
compare  with  it  for  bliss? 

Pale  and  agitated,  the  count  turned  back  at  the  call 
of  his  mistress,  and  stood  waiting  her  pleasure. 

"Anatole!" 

"Madame!" 

The  answer  was  so  low  and  deep  it  startled  even 
himself. 

She  motioned  him  to  come  nearer.  She  had  sunk 
upon  the  sofa,  and  as  he  stood  at  her  feet  she  leaned 
forward,  buried  her  hands  and  arms  in  the  long  curls 
which,  in  her  retirement,  she  allowed  to  float  luxuri 
antly  over  her  shoulders,  and  sobbed  aloud.  Over 


come  and  forgetful  of  all  but  the  distress  of  the  lovely 
creature  before  him,  the  count  dropped  upon  the  cush 
ion  on  which  rested  the  small  foot  in  its  mourning 
slipper,  and  taking  her  hand,  pressed  it  suddenly  and 
fervently  to  his  lips. 

The  reality  broke  upon  her!  She  was  beloved — 
but  by  whom  ?  A  menial !  and  the  appalling  answer 
drove  all  the  blood  of  her  proud  race  in  a  torrent  upon 
her  heart,  sweeping  away  all  affection  as  if  her  nature 
had  never  known  its  name.  She  sprang  to  her  feet, 
and  laid  her  hand  upon  the  bell. 

"  Madame !"  said  Anatole,  in  a  cold  proud  tone. 

She  stayed  her  arm  to  listen. 

"I  leave  you  for  ever." 

And  again,  with  the  quick  revulsion  of  youth  and 
passion,  her  woman's  heart  rose  within  her,  and  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  dropped  her  head  in 
utter  abandonment  on  her  bosom. 

It  was  the  birthday  of  the  emperor,  and  the  courtly 
nobles  of  Austria  were  rolling  out  from  the  capital  to 
offer  their  congratulations  at  the  royal  palace  of 
Schoenbrunn.  In  addition  to  the  usual  attractions 
of  the  scene,  the  drawing-room  was  to  be  graced  by 
the  first  public  appearance  of  a  new  ambassador, 
whose  reputed  personal  beauty,  and  the  talents  he  had 
displayed  in  a  late  secret  negotiation,  had  set  the  whole 
court,  from  the  queen  of  Hungary  to  the  youngest 
dame  d'honneur,  in  a  flame  of  curiosity. 

To  the  prince  E —  —  there  was  another  reason  for 
writing  the  day  in  red  letters.  The  princess  Leich- 
stenfels,  by  an  express  message  from  the  emperess, 
was  to  throw  aside  her  widow's  weeds,  and  appear 
once  more  to  the  admiring  world.  She  had  yielded 
to  the  summons,  but  it  was  to  be  her  last  day  of  splen 
dor.  Her  heart  and  hand  were  plighted  to  her  Ty- 
rolese  minion;  and  the  brightest  and  loveliest  ornament 
of  the  court  of  Austria,  when  the  ceremonies  of  the 
day  were  over,  was  to  lay  aside  the  costly  bauble 
from  her  shoulder,  and  the  glistening  tiara  from  her 
brow,  and  forget  rank  and  fortune  as  the  wife  of  his 
bosom  ! 

The  dazzling  hours  flew  on.  The  plain  and  kind 
old  emperor  welcomed  and  smiled  upon  all.  The 
wily  Metternich,  in  the  crime  of  his  successful  man 
hood,  cool,  polite,  handsome,  and  winning,  gathered 
golden  opinions  by  every  word  and  look  ;  the  young 
duke  of  Reichstadt,  the  mild  and  gentle  son  of  the 
struck  eagle  of  St.  Helena,  surrounded  and  caressed 
by  a  continual  cordon  of  admiring  women,  seemed  for 
getful  that  opportunity  and  expectation  awaited  him, 
like  two  angels  with  their  wings  outspread  ;  and  haugh 
ty  nobles  and  their  haughtier  dames,  statesmen,  schol 
ars,  soldiers,  and  priests,  crowded  upon  each  other's 
heels,  and  mixed  together  in  that  doubtful  podrida, 
which  goes  by  the  name  of  pleasure.  I  could  moralize 
here  had  T  time  ! 

The  princess  of  Leichstenfels  had  gone  through  the 
ceremony  of  presentation,  and  had  heard  the  murmur 
of  admiration,  drawn  by  her  beauty,  from  all  lips.  Diz 
zy  with  the  scene,  and  with  a  bosom  full  of  painful  and 
conflicting  emotions,  she  had  accepted  the  proffered 

arm  of  Prince  E to  breathe  a  fresher  air  upon 

the  terrace.  They  stood  near  a  window,  and  he  was 
pointing  out  to  his  fair  but  inattentive  companion  the 
various  characters  as  they  passed  within. 

"  I  must  contrive,"  said  the  prince,  "  to  show  you 
the  new  envoy.  Oh  !  you  have  not  heard  of  him. 
Beautiful  as  Narcissus,  modest  as 'Pastor  Corydon, 
clever  as  the  prime  minister  himself,  this  paragon  of 
diplomatists  has  been  here  in  disguise  these  three 
months,  negotiating  about — Melternich  and  the  devil 
knows  what — but  rewarded  at  last  with  an  ambassa 
dor's  star,  and — but  here  he  is  :  Princess  Leichsten 
fels,  permit  me  to  present " 

She  heard  no  more.     A  glance  from  the  diamond 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


101 


star  on  his  breast  to  the  Hephaestion  mouth  and  keen 
dark  eye  of  Count  Anatole,  revealed  to  her  the  mys 
tery  of  months.  And  as  she  leaned  against  the  win 
dow  for  support,  the  hand  that  sustained  her  in  the 
forest  of  Friuli,  and  the  same  thrilling  voice,  in  almost 
the  same  never-forgotten  cadence,  offered  his  impas 
sioned  sympathy  and  aid — and  she  recognised  and  re 
membered  all. 

I  must  go  back  so  far  as  to  inform  you,  that  Count 
Anatole,  on  the  morning  of  this  memorable  day,  had 
sacrificed  a  silky  but  prurient  mustache,  and  a  pair 
of  the  very  sauciest  dark  whiskers  out  of  Coventry. 

Whether  the  prince  E recognised  in  the  new 

envoy  the  lady's  gentleman  who  so  inopportunely 
broke  in  upon  his  tender  avowal,  I  am  not  prepared  to 
say.  I  only  know  (for  I  was  there)  that  the  princess 
Leichstenfels  was  wedded  to  the  new  ambassador  in 

the  "  leafy  month  of  June  ;"  and  the  prince  E- , 

unfortunately  prevented  by  illness  from  attending  the 
nuptials,  lost  a  very  handsome  opportunity  of  singing 
with  effect — 

"  If  she  be  not  fair  for  me" — 

supposing  it  translated  into  German. 

Whether  the  enamored  ambassadress  prefers  her 
husband  in  his  new  character,  I  am  equally  uncertain  ; 


home  on  board,  and  as  ready  to  enter  into  any  scheme 
of  amusement,  as  the  maddest-brained  midshipman 
could  desire. 

The  companion-hatch  was  covered  with  its  grating, 
lest  some  dizzy  waltzer  should  drop  his  partner  into  the 
steerage,  the  band  got  out  their  music-stand,  and  the 
bright  buttons  were  soon  whirling  round  from  larboard 
to  starboard,  with  forms  in  their  clasp,  and  dark  eyes 
glowing  over  their  shoulders,  that  might  have  tempted 
the  devil  out  of  Stromboli. 

Being  only  a  passenger  myself,  I  was  contented  with 
sitting  on  the  slide  of  a  carronade,  and  with  the  music 
in  my  ear,  and  the  twilight  flush  deepening  in  the  fine- 
traced  angles  of  the  rigging,  abandoning  myself  to  the 
delicious  listlessness  with  which  the  very  air  is  pregnant 
in  these  climates  of  paradise. 

The  light  feet  slid  by,  and  the  waltz,  the  gallopade, 
and  the  mazurka,  had  followed  each  other  till  it  was 
broad  moonlight  on  the  decks.  It  was  like  a  night 
without  an  atmosphere,  the  radiant  flood  poured  down 
with  such  an  invisible  and  moonlike  clearness. 

"  Do  you  see  the  lady  leaning  on  that  old  gentle 
man's  arm  by  the  hammock-rail  ?"  said  the  first  lieu 
tenant,  who  sat  upon  the  next  gun — like  myself,  a 
spectator  of  the  scene. 

I  had  remarked  her  well.     She  had  been  in  the  ship 


though  from  much  knowledge  of  German  courts  and  i  five  or  ten  minutes,  and  in  that  time,  it  seemed  to  me 
a  little  of  human  nature,  I  think  she  will  be  happy  if  i  I  had  drunk  her  beauty,  even  to  intoxication.  The 
at  some  future  day  she  would  not  willingly  exchange  |  frigate  was  slowly  swinging  round  to  the  land  breeze, 
her  proud  envoy  for  the  devoted  Tyrolese,  and  does  j  and  the  moon,  from  drawing  the  curved  line  of  a  gip- 
not  sigh  that  she  can  no  more  bring  him  to  her  feet  sy-shaped  capclla  di  paglia  with  bewitching  conceal- 
with  a  pull  of  a  silken  string.  I  ment  across  her  features,  gradually  fell  full  upon  the 

dark  limit  of  her  orbed  forehead.  Heaven  !  what  a 
vision  of  beauty!  Solemn,  and  full  of  subdued  paiu 
as  the  countenance  seemed,  it  was  radiant  with  an  al 
most  supernatual  light  of  mind.  Thought  and  feeling 
seemed  steeped  into  every  line.  Her  mouth  was  large 
— the  only  departure  from  the  severest  model  of  the 
Greek — an(]  stamped  with  calmness,  as  if  it  had  been 
a  legible  word  upon  her  lips.  But  her  eyes — what  can 


THE  MADHOUSE  OF  PALERMO, 

HE  who  has  not  skimmed  over  the  silvery  waters  of   ,  -  -,0— -  ,  .  . 

the  Lipari,  with  a  summer  breeze  right  from  Italy  in  j|  I  say  of  their  unnatural  lightning— of  the  depth,  tn 
his  tonsails.  the  smoke  of  Stromboli  alone  staining  the  \   fulness,  the  wild  and  maniac-like  passionateness  of  their 


his  topsails,  the  sm 

unfathomable-looking  blue  of  the  sky,  and,  as  the  sun 

dipped  his  flaming  disk  in  the  sea,  put  up  his  helm  for 


every  look  ? 


My  curiosity  was  strongly  moved.     I  walked  aft  to 


ppe        s    amng     s     n  , 

the  bosom  of  La  Concha  d'Oro,  the  Golden  Shell,  as  |j  the  capstan,  and  throwing  oft  my  habitual  reserve  with 
they  beautifully  call  the  bay  of  Palermo  :  he  who  has   I  some  effort,  approached  the  old  gentleman  < 
not  thus  entered,  I  say,  to  the  fairest  spot  on  the  face  |   arm  she  leaned,  and  begged  permission  to  lead  1 
of  this  very  fair  earth,"  has  a  leaf  worth  the  turning  in  :   for  a  waltz. 
his  book  of  observation.  "  If  you  wish  ,t,  canssima  mia  /"  sa,d  he,  turning  to 


In  ten  minutes  after  dropping  the  anchor,  with  sky  i 


her  with  all  the  tenderness  in  his  tone  of  whic 


, 

and  water  still  in  a  glow,  the  men  were  all  out  of  the  i   honeyed  language  of  Italy  is  capable. 
rigging,  the  spars  of  the  tall  frigate  were  like  lines  pen-   i      But  she  clung  to  his  arm  with  startled  clos  ness,  and 
cilled  on  the  sky,  the  band  played  inspiringly  on  the  :' 
poop,  and  every  boat  along  the  gay  Marina  was  Right 
ed  with  fair  Palermitans  on   its  way  to  the  stranger 
ship. 

I  was  standing  with  the  oflicer-of-the-deck  by  the  ; 
capstan,  looking  at  the  first  star  which  had  just  sprung 
into  its  place  like  a  thing  created  with  a  glance  of  the  i 


without  even  looking  at  me,  turned  her  lips  up  to  his 
ear,  and  murmured,  "Mcdpiu!" 

At  my  request  the  officer  on  duty  paid  them  the  com 
pliment  of  sending  them  ashore  in  one  of  the  frigate's 
boats;  and  after  assisting  them  down  the  ladder,  I  stood 
upon  the  broad  stair  on  the  level  of  the  water,  and 
watched  the  phosphoric  wake  of  the  swift  cutter  till 


eye 


"Shall  we  let  the  ladies  aboard,  sir  ?"  said  a  smiling 


middy,  coming  aft  from  the  gangway. 

"  Yes,  sir.     And  tell  the  boatswain's  mate  to  clear 
away  for  a  dance  on  the  quarter-deck." 

In  most  of  the  ports  of  the  Mediterranean,  a  ship-of-   !  gunroom  preparatory  to  Crinkled 

r,  on  a  summer  cruise,  is  as  welcome  as  the  breeze    j  forms  lay  about  upon  the  chairs  an  1  ta! les,  sprn klecl 
Bringing  with  her  forty  or  fifty  gay   !  with  swords,  epaulettes,  and  cocked  hats  ,  very  well 
' 


the  bright  sparkles  were  lost  amid  the  vessels  nearer 
land.  The  coxswain  reported  the  boat's  return  ;  but 
all  that  belonged  to  the  ship  had  not  come  back  in  her. 
My  heart  was  left  behind. 

The  next  morning  there  was  the  usual  bustle  in  the 
ing  ashore.    Glittering  uni- 


wa 

from   the  sea. 


from   tlie  sea.     r> ringing  wuu   w      iuiij   u     un>  ^..j  0K,.,,cJiprl    and   vprv 

young  officers  overcharged  with  life  and  spirits,  a  band     brushed  boots  were  sent  to   b«  rebrushed    and  very 
of  music  never  so  well  occupied  as  when  playing  for  a     nice  coats  to  be  made,  ,1   possible,  to 
dance,  and  a  deck  whiter  and  smoother  than  a  ball-  ,!  ships  barber  was  cursed  for  not  having .the 

*     r  the  warlike  vessel  seems  made  for  a  scene     Briareus,  and  no  good  was  wishe  01   ine 

re.     Whatever   her   nation,  she  no   sooner   !  washerwoman  of  the  last  port  where 
anchor,  than  she  is  surrounded  by  boats  from  ,  j  anchored.     Cologne-water  was  m  great  n*™*  •£ 
;  and  when  the  word  is  passed  for  admission,    :  the  purser  had  an  uncommon  number  of     pnv 

ucrTat  i  i     Amid  til  the  bustle,  the  question  of  how  to  pass  the 


102 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


day  was  busily  agitated.  Twenty  plans  were  proposed  ; 
but  the  sequel— a  dinner  at  the  Hotel  Anglais,  and  a 
"  stroll  for  a  lark"  after  it— was  the  only  point  on  which 
the  speakers  were  quite  unanimous. 

One  proposition  was  to  go  to  Bagaria,  and  see  the 
palace  of  Monsters.  This  is  a  villa  about  ten  miles 
from  Palermo,  which  the  owner,  Count  Pallagonia,  an 
eccentric  Sicilian  noble,  has  ornamented  with  some 
hundreds  of  statues  of  the  finest  workmanship,  repre 
senting  the  form  of  woman  in  every  possible  combina 
tion,  with  beasts,  fishes,  and  birds.  It  looks  like  the 
temptation  of  St.  Anthony  on  a  splendid  scale,  and  is 
certainly  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  spectacles  in 
the  world. 

Near  it  stands  another  villa,  the  property  of  Prince 
Butera  (the  present  minister  of  Naples  at  the  court  of 
France),  containing,  in  the  depths  of  its  pleasure- 
grounds,  a  large  monastery,  with  wax  monks,  of  the 
size  and  appearance  of  life,  scattered  about  the  pas 
sages  and  cells,  and  engaged  in  every  possible  uncleri- 
cal  avocation.  It  is  a  whimsical  satire  on  the  order, 
done  to  the  life. 

Another  plan  was  to  go  to  the  Capuchin  convent, 
and  see  the  dried  friars — six  or  eight  hundred  bearded 
old  men,  baked,  as  they  died,  in  their  cowls  and  beards, 
and  standing  against  the  walls  in  ghastly  rows,  in  the 
spacious  vaults  of  the  monastery.  A  more  infernal 
spectacle  never  was  seen  by  mortal  eyes. 

A  drive  to  Monreale,  a  nest  of  a  village  on  the  moun 
tain  above  the  town — a  visit  to  the  gardens  of  a  noble 
man  who  salutes  the  stranger  with  a  jet  d'eau  at  every 
turning — and  a  lounge  in  the  public  promenade  of 
Palermo  itself — shared  the  honors  of  the  argument. 

I  had  been  in  Sicily  before,  and  was  hesitating  which 
of  these  various  lions  was  worthy  of  a  second  visit, 
when  the  surgeon  proposed  to  me  to  accompany  him 
on  a  visit  to  a  Sicilian  count  living  in  the  neighborhood, 
who  had  converted  his  chateau  into  a  lunatic  asylum, 
and  devoted  his  time  and  a  large  fortune  entirely  to 
this  singular  hobby.  He  was  the  first  to  try  the  sys 
tem,  now,  thank  God,  generally  approved,  of  winning 
back  reason  to  these  most  wretched  of  human  suffer 
ers  by  kindness  and  gentle  treatment. 

We  jumped  into  one  of  the  rattling  calesini  standing 
in  the  handsome  corso  of  Palermo,  and  fifteen  minutes 
beyond  the  gates  brought  us  to  the  Casa  del  Pazzi. 
My  friend's  uniform  and  profession  were  an  immediate 
passport,  and  we  were  introduced  into  a  handsome 
court,  surrounded  by  a  colonnade,  and  cooled  by  a 
fountain,  in  which  were  walking  several  well-dressed 
people,  with  books,  drawing-boards,  battledores,  and 
other  means  of  amusement.  They  all  bowed  politely  ! 
as  we  passed,  and  at  the  door  of  the  interior  we  were  ' 
met  by  the  count. 

"  Good  God  !'?  I  exclaimed — "  she  was  insane, 
then  !" 

It  was  the  old  man  who  was  on  board  the  night  be 
fore  ! 

"  E  clla?"  said  I,  seizing  his  arm,  before  he  had 
concluded  his  bow,  quite  sure  that  he  must  under 
stand  me  with  a  word. 

"  Era  pazza."1  He  looked  at  me  as  he  answered, 
with  a  scrutiny,  as  if  he  half  suspected  my  friend  had 
brought  him  a  subject. 

The  singular  character  of  her  beauty  was  quite  ex- 
pi, lined.  Yet  what  a  wreck! 

I  followed  the  old  count  around  his  establishment 
in  a  kind  of  dream,  but  I  could  not  avoid  being  inter 
ested  at  every  step.  Here  were  no  chains,  no  whips, 
no  harsh  keepers,  no  cells  of  stone  and  straw.  The 
walls  of  the  long  corridors  were  painted  in  fresco,  rep 
resenting  sunny  landscapes,  and  gay  dancing  figures. 
Fountains  and  shrubs  met  us  at  every  turn.  The 
people  were  dressed  in  their  ordinary  clothes,  and  all 
employed  in  some  light  work  or  amusement.  It  was 
ijke  what  it  might  havfc  been  in  the  days  of  the  count's 


ancestors — a  gay  chateau,  filled  with  guests  and  de 
pendants,  with  no  more  apparent  constraint  than  the 
ties  of  hospitality  and  service. 

We  went  first  to  the  kitchen.  Here  were  tsn 
people,  all,  but  the  cook,  stark  mad!  It  was  one  of 
the  peculiarities  of  the  count's  system,  that  his  pa 
tients  led  in  his  house  the  lives  to  which  they  had  pre 
viously  been  accustomed.  A  stout  Sicilian  peasant 
girl  was  employed  in  filling  a  large  brasier  from  the 
basin  of  a  fountain.  While  we  were  watching  her 
task,  the  fit  began  to  come  on  her,  and  after  a  fierce 
look  or  two  around  the  room,  she  commenced  dashing 
the  water  about  her  with  great  violence.  The  cook 
turned,  not  at  all  surprised,  and  patting  her  on  the 
back,  with  a  loud  laugh,  cried,  "  Brava,  Pepinu! 
brava!"  ringing  at  the  same  moment  a  secret  bell. 

A  young  girl  of  sixteen  with  a  sweet,  smiling  coun 
tenance,  answered  the  summons,  and  immediately 
comprehending  the  case,  approached  the  enraged 
creature,  and  putting  her  arms  affectionately  round  her 
neck,  whispered  something  in  her  ear.  The  expres 
sion  of  her  face  changed  immediately  to  a  look  of  de 
light,  and  dropping  the  bucket,  she  followed  the  young 
attendant  out  of  the  room  with  peals  of  laughter. 

"  Vcnitc!"  said  the  count,  "you  shall  see  how  we 
manage  our  furies." 

We  followed  across  a  garden  filled  with  the  sweet 
est  flowers  to  a  small  room  opening  on  a  lawn.  From 
the  centre  of  the  ceiling  was  suspended  a  hammock, 
and  Pepina  was  already  in  it,  swung  lightly  from  side 
to  side  by  a  servant,  while  the  attendant  stood  by,  and, 
as  if  in  play,  threw  water  upon  her  face  at  every  ap 
proach.  It  had  all  the  air  of  a  frolic.  The  violent 
laughter  of  the  poor  maniac  grew  less  and  less  as  the 
soothing  motion  and  the  coolness  of  the  water  took 
effect,  and  in  a  few  minutes  her  strained  eyes  gently 
closed,  the  hammock  was  swung  more  and  more 
gently,  and  she  fell  asleep. 

"  This,"  said  the  count,  with  a  gratified  smile,  "  is 
iny  substitute  for  a  forced  shower-bath  and  chains; 
and  this,"  kissing  his  little  attendant  on  the  forehead, 
"  for  the  whip  and  the  grim  turnkey."  I  blessed  him 
in  my  heart. 

"  Come !"  said  he,  as  we  left  the  sleeper  to  her  re 
pose,  "I  must  show  you  my  grounds." 

We  followed  him  to  an  extensive  garden,  opening 
from  the  back  of  the  chateau,  laid  out  originally  in  the 
formal  style  of  an  Italian  villa.  The  long  wa'iks  had 
been  broken  up,  however,  by  beautiful  arbors  with 
grottoes  in  their  depths,  in  which  wooden  figures,  of 
the  color  and  size  of  life,  stood  or  sat  in  every  altitude 
of  gayety  or  grotesqueness.  It  was  difficult,  in  the 
deep  shadow  of  the  vines  and  oleanders,  not  to  believe 
them  real.  We  walked  on  through  many  a  winding 
shrubbery,  perfumed  with  all  the  scented  flowers  of 
the  luxuriant  climate,  continually  surprised  with  little 
deceptions  of  perspective,  or  figures  half  concealed  in 
the  leaves,  till  we  emerged  at  the  entrance  of  a  charm 
ing  summer  theatre,  with  sodded  seats,  stage,  orches 
tra,  and  scenery,  complete.  ^ Orange- trees,  roses,  and 
clematis,  were  laced  together  for  a  wall  in  the  rear. 

"Here,"  said  the  old  man,  bounding  gayly  upon  the 
stage,  "here  we  act  plays  the  summer  long." 

"What!   not  with  your  patients?" 

" Si,  si gnore !  Who  else?"  And  he  went  on  to 
describe  to  us  the  interest  they  took  in  it,  and  the  sin 
gular  power  with  which  the  odd  idea  seized  upon  their 
whimsied  intellects.  We  had  been  accompanied  fiom 
the  first,  by  a  grave,  respectable  looking  man,  whom  I 
had  taken  for  an  assistant.  While  we  were  listening 
to  the  description  of  the  first  attempt  they  had  made 
at  a  play,  he  started  out  from  the  group,  and  pulling 
himself  in  an  attitude  upon  the  stage,  commenced 
spouting  a  furious  passage  in  Italian. 

The  count  pointed  to  his  forehead,  and  made  a  sign 
to  us  to  listen,.  The  tragedian  stopped  at  the  end  of 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


103 


his  sentence,  and  after  a  moment's  delay,  apparently 
in  expectation  of  a  reply,  darted  suddenly  oft'  and  dis 
appeared  behind  the  scenes. 

"PovercUo!"  said  the  count,  "it  is  my  best  actor!" 

Near  the  theatre  stood  a  small  chapel,  with  a  circu 
lar  lawn  before  it,  on  which  the  grass  had  been  lately 
much  trodden.  It  was  surrounded  partly  by  a  green 
bank,  and  here  the  count  seated  us,  saying  with  a  sig 
nificant  look  at  me,  that  he  would  tell  us  a  story. 

I  should  like  to  give  it  you  in  his  own  words — still 
more  with  his  own  manner;  for  never  was  a  tale  told 
with  more  elegance  of  language,  or  a  more  natural 
and  pleasant  simplicity.  But  a  sheet  of  "  wire-wove" 
is  not  a  Palermitan  cavaliere,  and  the  cold  English 
has  not  the  warm  eloquence  of  the  Italiun.  He  laid 
aside  his  hat,  ordered  fruit  and  wine,  and  proceeded. 

"  Almost  a  year  ago  I  was  called  upon  by  a  gen 
tleman  of  a  noble  physiognomy  and  address,  who  in 
quired  very  particularly  into  my  system.  I  explained 
it  to  him  at  his  request,  and  he  did  me  the  honor,  as 
you  gentlemen  have  done,  to  go  over  my  little  establish 
ment.  He  seemed  satisfied,  and  with  some  hesitation 
informed  me  that  lie  had  a  daughter  in  a  very  des 
perate  state  of  mental  alienation.  Would  I  go  and 
see  her? 

"This  is  not,  you  know,  gentlemen,  a  public  insti 
tution.  I  am  crazy,"  he  said  it  very  gravely,  "quite 
crazy — the  first  of  my  family  of  fools,  on  this  particular 
theme — and'this  asylum  is  my  toy.  Of  course  it  is 
only  as  the  whim  seizes  me  that  I  admit  a  patient;  for 
there  are  some  diseases  of  the  brain  seated  in  causes 
with  which  I  wish  not  to  meddle. 

"  However,  I  went.  With  the  freedom  of  a  physi 
cian  I  questioned  the  father,  upon  the  road,  of  the 
girl's  history.  He  was  a  Greek,  a  prince  of  the  Fanar, 
who  had  left  his  degraded  people  in  their  dirty  and 
dangerous  suburb  at  Constantinople,  to  forget  oppres 
sion  and  meanness  in  a  voluntary  exile.  It  was  just 
before  the  breaking  out  of  the  last  Greek  revolution, 
and  so  many  of  his  kinsmen  and  friends  had  been  sac 
rificed  to  the  fury  of  the  Turks,  that  he  had  renounced 
all  idea  of  ever  returning  to  his  country. 

"  '  And  your  daughter  ?' 

"'My  dear  Katinka,  my  only  child,  fell  ill  upon  re 
ceiving  distressing  news  from  the  Fanar,  and  her 
health  and  reason  never  rallied  after.  It  is  now  several 
years,  and  she  has  lain  in  bed  till  her  limbs  are  with 
ered,  never  having  uttered  a  word,  or  made  a  sign 
which  would  indicate  even  consciousness  of  the  pres 
ence  of  those  about  her.' 

"  I  could  not  get  from  him  that  there  was  any  disap 
pointment  of  the  heart  at  the  bottom  of  it.  It  seemed 
to  be  one  of  those  cases  of  sudden  stupefaction,  to 
which  nervously  sensitive  minds  are  liable  after  a  vio 
lent  burst  of  grief;  and  I  began,  before  I  had  seen  her, 
to  indulge  in  bright  hopes  of  starting  once  more  the 
sealed  fountains  of  thought  and  feeling. 

"We  entered  Palermo,  and  passing  out  at  the  other 
gate,  stopped  at  a  vine-laced  casino  on  the  lip  of  the 
bay,  scarcely  a  mile  from  the  city  wall.  It  was  a 
pretty,  fanciful  place,  and,  on  a  bed  in  its  inner  cham 
ber,  lay  the  most  poetical-looking  creature  I  had  ever 
seen  out  of  my  dreams*.  Her  head  was  pillowed,  in  an 
abundance  of  dark  hair,  which  fell  away  from  her  fore 
head  in  masses  of  glossy  curls,  relieving  with  a  striking 
effect,  the  wan  and  transparent  paleness  of  a  face  which 
the  divinest  chisel  could  scarce  have  copied  in  alabas 
ter.  Dio  mio  ! — how  transcendant  was  the  beauty  of 
that  poor  girl !" 

The  count  stopped  and  fed  his  memory  a  moment 
with  closed  eyes  upon  the  image. 

"At  the  first  glance  I  inwardly  put  up  a  prayer  to 
the  Virgin,  and  determined,  with  her  sweet  help,  to 
restore  reason  to  the  fairest  of  its  earthly  temples.  I 
took  up  her  shadow  of  a  hand,  and  spread  out  the  thin 
fingers  in  my  palm,  and  as  she  turned  her  large  wan 


dering  eye  toward  me,  I  felt  that  the  blessed  Mary 
had  heard  my  prayer,  '  You  shall  see  her  well  again,' 
said  I  confidently. 

"Quite  overcome,  the  prince  Ghika  fell  on  the  bej 
and  embraced  his  daughter's  knees  in  an  agony  of 
tears. 

"You  shall  not  have  the  seccatura,  gentlemen,  of 
listening  to  the  recital  of  all  my  tedious  experiments 
for  the  first  month  or  two.  I  brought  her  to  my  house 
upon  a  litter,  placed  her  in  a  room  filled  with  every 
luxury  of  the  east,  and  suffered  no  one  to  approach 
her  except  two  Greek  attendants,  to  whose  services 
she  was  accustomed.  I  succeeded  in  partially  re 
storing  animation  to  her  benumbed  limbs  by  friction, 
and  made  her  sensible  of  music,  and  of  the  perfumes 
of  the  east,  which  I  burned  in  a  pastille-lamp  in 
her  chamber.  Here,  however,  my  skill  was  baffled. 
I  could  neither  amuse  nor  vex.  Her  mind  was  beyond 
me.  After  trying  every  possible  experiment,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  my  invention  was  exhausted,  and  I 
despaired. 

"  She  occupied,  however,  much  of  my  rnind. 
Walking  up  and  down  yonder  orange-alley  one  sweet 
morning,  about  two  months  ago,  I  started  oft' suddenly 
to  my  chamber  with  a  new  thought.  You  would 
have  thought  me  the  maddest  of  my  household,  to 
have  seen  me,  gentlemen.  I  turned  out  by  the  shoul- 
ders  the  regazza,  who  was  making  my  bed,  washed 
and  scented  myself,  as  if  for  a  ball,  covered  my  white 
hairs  with  a  handsome  brown  wig,  a  relic  of  my  cox 
combical  days,  rouged  faintly,  and,  with  white  gloves, 
and  a  most  youthful  appearance  altogether,  sought 
i  the  chamber  of  my  patient. 

"She  was  lying  with  her  head  in  the  hollow  of  her 
th;n  arm,  and,  as  I  entered,  her  dark  eyes  rested  full 
upon  me.  I  approached,  kissed  her  hand  with  a  re 
spectful  gallantry,  and  in  the  tenderest  tones  of  which 
my  damaged  voice  was  susceptible,  breathed  into  her 
ear  a  succession  of  delicately-turned  compliments  to 
II  her  beauty. 

"She  lay  as  immovable  as  marble,  but  I  had  not 
calculated  upon  the  ruling  passion  of  the  sex  in  vain. 
A  thin  flush  on  her  cheek,  and  a  flutter  in  her  temple, 
only  perceptible  to  my  practised  eye,  told  me  that  the 
words  had  found  their  way  to  her  long-lost  conscious 
ness. 

"I  waited  a  few  moments,  and  then  took  up  a  ring 
let  that  fell  negligently  over  her  hand,  and  asked  per 
mission  to  sever  it  from  the  glossy  mass  in  which  the 
arm  under  her  head  was  literally  buried. 

"  She  clutched  her  fingers  suddenly  upon  it,  and 
glancing  at  me  with  the  fury  of  a  roused  tigress,  ex 
claimed  in  a  husky  whisper,  '  Lasdale  me,  signore  ." 

"  I  obeyed  her,  and,  as  I  left  the  room,  1  thanked 
the  Virgin  in  my  heart.  It  was  the  first  word  she  had 
spoken  for  years. 

"  The  next  day,  having  patched  myself  up  more 
successfully  in  my  leisure,  in  a  disguise  so  absolute 
that  not  one  even  of  my  pets  knew  me  as  I  passed 
through  the  corridor,  I  bowed  myself  up  once  more  to 
her  bedside. 

'VShe  lay  with  her  hands  clasped  over  her  eyes,  and 
took  no  notice  of  my  first  salutation.  I  commenced 
with  a  little  raillery,  and  under  cover  of  finding  fault 
with  her  attitude,  contrived  to  pay  an  adroit  compli 
ment  to  the  glorious  orbs  she  was  hiding  from  admira 
tion.  She  Jay  a  moment  or  two  without  motion,  but 
the  muscles  of  her  slight  mouth  stirred  just  percepti 
bly,  and  presently  she  drew  her  fingers  quickly  apart, 
and  looking  at  me  with  a  most  confiding  expression 
in  her  pale  features,  a  full  sweet  smile  broke  like  sud 
den  sunshine  through  her  lips.  I  could  have  wept  for 

joy- 

"  I  soon  acquired  all  the  influence  over  her  I  could 
wish.  She  made  an  effort  at  my  request  to  leave  her 
bed,  and  in  a  week  or  two  walked  with  me  in  the  gar- 


104 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


den.  Her  mind,  however,  seemed  to  have  capacity  |j 
but  for  one  thought,  and  she  soon  began  to  grow  un- 
Vppv.  and  would  weep  for  hours.  I  endeavored  to 
dfcnv  from  her  the  cause,  but  she  only  buried  her  face 
in  "niy  bosom,  and  wept  more  violently,  till  one  day, 
sobbiog  out  her  broken  words  almost  inarticulately,  I 
gathered  her  meaning.  She  was  grieved  that  I  did  not 
marry^her ! 

"  Poor  girl !"  soliloquized  the  count,  after  a  brief 
pause,  "'she  was  only  true  to  her  woman's  nature.  In 
sanity  had  but  removed  the  veil  of  custom  and  restraint. 
She  "would  have  broken  her  heart  before  she  had  be 
trayed  such  a  secret,  with  her  reason. 

"  I  was  afraid  at  last  she  would  go  melancholy  mad, 
this  one  thought  preyed  so  perpetually  on  her  brain — 
and  I  resolved  to  delude  her  into  the  cheerfulness  ne 
cessary  to  her  health  by  a  mock  ceremony. 

"  The  delight  with  which  she  received  my  promise 
almost  alarmed  me.  I  made  several  delays,  with  the 
hope  that  in  the  convulsion  of  her  feelings  a  ray  of 
reason  would  break  through  the  darkness;  but  she 
took  every  hour  to  heart,  and  I  found  it  was  inevi 
table. 

"  You  are  sitting,  gentlemen,  in  the  very  scene  of  our 
mad  bridal.  My  poor  grass  has  not  yet  recovered,  you 
see,  from  the  tread  of  the  dancers.  Imagine  the  spec 
tacle.  The  chapel  was  splendidly  decorated,  and  at 
the  bottom  of  the  lawn  stood  three  long  tables,  cov 
ered  with  fruits  and  flowers,  and  sprinkled  here  and 
there  with  bottles  of  colored  water  (to  imitate  wine), 
sherbels,  cakes,  and  other  such  innocent  things  as  I 
could  allow  my  crazy  ones.  They  were  all  invited." 

"  Good  God  !"  said  the  surgeon,  "  your  lunatics  ?" 

"All — all!  And  never  was  such  a  sensation  pro 
duced  in  a  household  since  the  world  was  created. 
Nothing  else  was  talked  of  for  a  week.  My  worst  pa 
tients  seemed  to  suspend  for  the  time  their  fits  of  vio 
lence.  I  sent  to  town  for  quantities  of  tricksy  stuffs, 
and  allowed  the  women  to  deck  themselves  entirely 
after  their  own  taste.  You  can  conceive  nothing  like 
the  business  they  made  of  it !  Such  apparitions  ! — 
Santa  Maria  .'  shall  I  ever  forget  that  Babel  ? 

"  The  morning  came.  My  bride's  attendants  had 
dressed  her  from  her  Grecian  wardrobe ;  and  with  her 
long  braid  parted  over  her  forehead,  and  hanging  back 
from  her  shoulders  to  her  very  heels,  her  close-fitted 
jacket,  of  gorgeous  velvet  and  gold,  her  costly  brace 
lets,  and  the  small  spangled  slippers  upon  her  unstock- 
inged  feet,  she  was  positively  an  angelic  vision  of  beau 
ty.  Her  countenance  was  thoughtful,  but  her  step  was 
unusually  elastic,  and  a  small  red  spot,  like  a  rose-leaf 
tinder  the  skin,  blushed  through  the  alabaster  paleness 
of  her  cheek. 

"  My  maniacs  received  her  with  shouts  of  admira 
tion.  The  women  were  kept  from  her  at  first  with 
great  difficulty,  and  it  was  only  by  drawing  their  at 
tention  to  their  own  gaudier  apparel,  that  their  .anx 
iety  to  touch  her  was  distracted.  The  men  looked  at 
her,  as  she  passed  along  like  a  queen  of  love  and 
beamy,  and  their  wild,  gleaming  eyes,  and  quickened  j 
breaths,  showed  the  effect  of  such  loveliness  upon  the 
unconcealed  feelings.  I  had  multiplied  my  attend-  j 
ants,  scarce  knowing  how  the  excitement  of  the  scene 
miffht  affect  them  ;  but  the  interest  of  the  occasion, 
and  the  imposing  decencies  of  dress  and  show,  seemed 
to  overcome  them  effectually.  The  most  sane  guests 
at  a  bridal  could  scarce  have  behaved  with  more  pro 
priety. 

"  The  ceremony  was  performed  by  an  elderly  friend 
of  mine,  the  physician  to  rny  establishment.  Old  as  I 
am,  gentlemen,  I  could  have  wished  that  ceremony  to 
litive  been  in  earnest.  As  she  lifted  up  her  large  liquid 
eyes  to  heaven,  and  swore  to  be  true  to  me  till  death,  I 
forgot  my  manhood,  and  wept.  If  I  had  been  younger 
— ma  che  porcheria  ! 

"  After  the  marriage  the  women  were  invited  to  sa 


lute  the  bride,  and  then  all  eyes  in  my  natural  party 
turned  at  once  to  the  feast.  I  gave  the  word.  Fruits, 
cakes,  and  sherbets,  disappeared  with  the  rapidity  of 
magic,  and  then  the  music  struck  up  from  the  shrub 
bery,  and  they  danced — as  you  see  by  the  grass. 

"  I  committed  the  bride  to  her  attendants  at  sunset, 
but  I  could  with  difficulty  tear  myself  away.  On  the 
following  day  I  called  at  her  door,  but  she  refused  to 
see  me.  The  next  day  and  the  next  I  could  gain  no 
admittance  without  exerting  my  authority.  On  the 
fourth  morning  I  was  permitted  to  enter.  She  had  re 
sumed  her  usual  dress,  and  was  sad,  calm,  and  gentle. 
She  said  little,  but  seemed  lost  in  thought  to  which 
she  was  unwilling  or  unable  to  give  utterance. 

"  She  has  never  spoken  of  it  since.  Her  mind,  1 
think,  has  nearly  recovered  its  tone,  but  her  memory 
seems  confused.  I  scarce  think  she  remembers  her 
illness,  and  its  singular  events,  as  more  than  a  troubled 
dream.  On  all  the  common  affairs  of  life  she  seems 
quite  sane,  and  I  drive  out  with  her  daily,  and  have 
taken  her  once  or  twice  to  the  opera.  Last  night  we 
were  strolling  on  the  Marina  when  your  frigate  came 
into  the  bay,  and  she  proposed  to  join  the  crowd  and 
go  off  to  hear  the  music.  We  went  on  board,  as  you 
know  ;  and  now,  if  you  choose  to  pay  your  respects 
to  the  lady  who  refused  to  waltz  with  you,  take  an 
other  sip  of  your  sherbet  and  wine,  and  come  with 
me." 

To  say  more  would  be  trespassing  perhaps  on  the 
patience  of  my  readers,  but  certainly  on  my  own  feel 
ings.  I  have  described  this  singular  case  of  madness 
and  its  cure,  because  I  think  it  contains  in  itself  the 
seeds  of  much  philosophy  on  the  subject.  It  is  only 
within  a  very  few  years  that  these  poor  sufferers  have 
been  treated  otherwise  than  as  the  possessors  of  in 
carnate  devils,  whom  it  was  necessary  to  scourge  out 
with  unsparing  cruelty.  If  this  literal  statement  of  a 
cure  in  the  private  madhouse  of  the  eccentric  conte 
,  of  Palermo,  induce  the  friends  of  a  single  un 
fortunate  maniac  to  adopt  a  kind  and  rational  system 
for  his  restoration,  the  writer  will  have  been  repaid  for 
bringing  circumstances  before  the  public  which  have 
since  had  much  to  do  with  his  own  feelings. 


MINUTE  PHILOSOPHIES, 

"  Nature  there 

Was  with  thee  ;  she  who  loved  us  hoth,  she  still 
Was  with  thee  ;  and  even  so  didst  thou  become 
A  silent  poet  ;  from  tlie  solitude 
Of  the  vast  sea  didst  bring  a  watchful  heart 


Of  the 

Still  couchant,  an  inevitabi 

And  an  eye  practised  lik 


ear, 
blind  man's  touch." 

WORDSWORTH. 


A  SUMMER  or  two  since,  I  was  wasting  a  college  va 
cation  among  the  beautiful  creeks  and  falls  in  the 
neighborhood  of  New  York.  In  the  course  of  my 
wanderings,  up-stream  and  down-stream,  sometimes 
on  foot,  sometimes  on  horseback,  and  never  without 
a  book  for  an  excuse  to  loiter  orf  the  mossy  banks  and 
beside  the  edge  of  running  water,  I  met  frequently  a 
young  man  of  a  peculiarly  still  and  collected  eye,  and 
a  forehead  more  like  a  broad  slab  of  marble  than  a  hu 
man  brow.  His  mouth  was  small  and  thinly  cut  ;  his 
chin  had  no  superfluous  flesh  upon  it;  and  his  whole 
appearance  was  that  of  a  man  whose  intellectual  na 
ture  prevailed  over  the  animal.  He  was  evidently  a 
scholar.  We  had  met  so  frequently  at  last,  that,  on 
passing  each  other  one  delicious  morning,  we  bowed 
and  smiled  simultaneously,  and,  without  further  intro 
duction,  entered  into  conversation. 

It  was  a  temperate  day  in  August,  with  a  clear  but 
not  oppressive  sun,  and  we  wandered  down  a  long 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


105 


creek  together,  mineralizing  here,  botanizing  there, 
and  examining  the  strata  of  the  ravines,  with  that  sort 
of  instinctive  certainty  of  each  other's  attainments 
which  scholars  always  feel,  and  thrusting  in  many  a 
little  wayside  parenthesis,  explanatory  of  each  other's 
history  and  circumstances.  I  found  that  he  was  one 
of  those  pure  and  unambitious  men,  who,  by  close 
application  and  moderate  living  while  in  college,  be 
come  in  love  with  their  books  ;  and,  caring  little  for 
anything  more  than  the  subsistence,  which  philosophy 
tells  them  is  enough  to  have  of  this  world,  settle  down 
for  life  into  a  wicker-bottomed  chair,  more  content 
edly  than  if  it  were  the  cushion  of  a  throne. 

We  were  together  three  or  four  days,  and  when  I 
left  him,  he  gave  me  his  address,  and  promised  to  write 
to  me.  I  shall  give  below  an  extract  from  one  of  his 
letters.  I  had  asked  him  for  a  history  of  his  daily 
habits,  and  any  incidents  which  he  might  choose  to 
throw  in — hinting  to  him  that  I  was  a  dabbler  in  lit 
erature,  and  would  be  obliged  to  him  if  he  would  do  it 
minutely,  and  in  a  form  of  which  I  might  avail  myself 
in  the  way  of  publication. 

After  some  particulars,  unimportant  to  the  reader, 
he  proceeds : — 

"  I  keep  a  room  at  a  country  tavern.  It  is  a  quiet, 
out-of-the-way  place,  with  a  whole  generation  of  elms 
about  it ;  and  the  greenest  grass  up  to  the  very  door, 
and  the  pleasantest  view  in  the  whole  country  round 
from  my  chamber-window.  Though  it  is  a  public 
house,  and  the  word  '  HOTEL'  swings  in  golden  capi 
tals  under  a  landscape  of  two  hills  and  a  river,  painted 
for  a  sign  by  some  wandering  Tinto,  it  is  so  orderly  a 
town,  that  not  a  lounger  is  ever  seen  about  the  door  ; 
and  the  noisiest  traveller  is  changed  to  a  quiet  man,  as 
if  it  were  by  the  very  hush  of  the  atmosphere. 

"  Here,  in  my  pleasant  room,  upon  the  second  floor, 
with  my  round  table  covered  with  choice  books,  my 
shutters  closed  just  so  much  as  to  admit  light  enough 
for  a  painter,  and  my  walls  hung  with  the  pictures 
which  adorned  my  college  chambers,  and  are  there 
fore  linked  with  a  thousand  delightful  associations — I 
can  study  my  twelve  hours  a  day,  in  a  state  of  mind 
sufficiently  even  and  philosophical.  I  do  not  want  for 
excitement.  The  animal  spirits,  thanks  to  the  Crea 
tor,  are  enough  at  all  times,  with  employment  and 
temperate  living,  to  raise  us  above  the  common  shad 
ows  of  life  ;  and  after  a  day  of  studious  confinement, 
when  my  mind  is  unbound,  and  I  go  out  and  give  it 
up  to  reckless  association,  and  lay  myself  open  unre 
servedly  to  the  influences  of  nature — at  such  a  time, 
there  comes  mysteriously  upon  me  a  degree  of  pure 
joy,  umningled  and  unaccountable,  which  is  worth 
years  of  artificial  excitement.  The  common  air  seems 
to  have  grown  rarer;  my  step  is  strangely  elastic  ;  my 
sense  of  motion  full  of  unwonted  dignity;  my  thoughts 
elevated  ;  my  perceptions  of  beauty  acuter  and  more 

pleasurable;  and   my  better  nature  predominant  and - , 

sublime.     There  is  nothing  in  the  future  which  looks   '  I  water  it  and  let  in  the  sunshine  to  its  bosom,  detect 
difficult,  nothing  in  my  ambition  unattainable,  nothing  I   the  secret  springs  which  move  to  such  beautiful  re 


shall  be  happier  in  one  hour  spent  within  himself, 
than  in  ten  wasted  on  folly. 

"  Few  know  the  treasures  in  their  own  bosoms — 
very  few  the  elasticity  and  capacity  of  a  well-regulated 
mind  for  enjoyment.  The  whole  world  of  philoso 
phers,  and  historians,  and  poets,  seem,  to  the  seel qded 
student,  but  to  have  labored  for  his  pleasure  ;  and  as 
he  comes  to  one  new  truth  and  beautiful  though)  after 
another,  there  answers  a  chord  of  joy,  richer  than 
music,  in  his  heart — which  spoils  him  for  the  coarser 
pleasures  of  the  world.  I  have  seen  my  college  churn 
— a  man,  who,  from  a  life  of  mingled  business  and 
pleasure,  became  suddenly  a  student — lean  back  in  his 
chair,  at  the  triumph  of  an  argument,  or  the  discovery 
of  a  philosophical  truth,  and  give  himself  up  for  a  few 
moments  to  the  enjoyment  of  sensations,  which,  he 
assured  me,  surpassed  exceedingly  the  most  vivid 
pleasures  of  his  life.  The  mind  is  like  the  appetite — 
when  healthy  and  well-toned,  receiving  pleasure  from 
the  commonest  food  ;  but  becoming  a  disease,  when 
pampered  and  neglected.  Give  it  time  to  turn  in  upon 
itself,  satisfy  its  restless  thirst  for  knowledge,  and  it 
will  give  birth  to  health,  to  animal  spirits,  to  every 
thing  which  invigorates  the  body,  while  it  is  advan 
cing  by  every  step  the  capacities  of  the  soul.  Oh  !  if 
the  runners  after  pleasure  would  stoop  down  by  the 
wayside,  they  might  drink  waters  better  even  than 
those  which  they  see  only  in  their  dreams.  They  will 
not  be  told  that  they  have  in  their  possession  the  gold- 
j  en  key  which  they  covet ;  they  will  not  know  that  the 
music  they  look  to  enchant  them,  is  sleeping  in  their 
'  own  untouched  instruments ;  that  the  lamp  which 
I  they  vainly  ask  from  the  enchanter,  is  burning  in 
their  own  bosoms  ! 

"  When  I  first  came  here,  my  host's  eldest  daughter 
I  was  about  twelve  years  of  age.     She  was,  without  be 
ing  beautiful,  an  engaging  child,  rather  disposed  to  be 
!  contemplative,  and,  like  all  children,  at  that  age,  very 
j  inquisitive  and  curious.     She  was  shy  at  first,  but  soon 
I  became   acquainted  with   me  ;  and  would  come   into 
!  my  room  in   her  idle  hours,  and  look  at  my  pictures 
and  read.     She  never  disturbed  me,  because  her  nat 
ural  politeness  forbade  it ;  and  I  pursued  my  thoughts 
or  my  studies  just  as  if  she  were  not  there,  till,  by-and- 
by,  I  grew  fond  of  her  quiet  company,  and  was  hap 
pier  when  she  was  moving  stealthily  around,  and  look 
ing  into  a  book  here  and  there  in  her  quiet  way. 

"She  had  been  my  companion  thus  for  some  time, 
when  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  be  of  use  to  her 
in  leading  her  to  cultivate  a  love  for  study.  I  seized 
the  idea  enthusiastically.  Now,  thought  I,  I  will  see 
the  process  of  a  human  mind.  I  have  studied  its  phi 
losophy  from  books,  and  now  I  will  take  a  single 
original,  and  compare  them,  step  by  step.  I  have 
seen  the  bud,  and  the  flower  full  blown,  and  I  am  told 
that  the  change  was  gradual,  and  effected  thus — leaf 
after  leaf.  Now  I  will  watch  the  expansion,  and  while 


in  the  past  which  can  not  be  reconciled  with  good  :  I 
am  a  purer  and  a  better  man;  and  though  I  am  ele 
vated  in  my  own  thoughts,  it  will  not  lead  to  vanity, 
for  my  ideas  of  God,  and  of  my  fellow-men,  have  been 
enlarged  also.  This  excitement  ceases  soon  ;  but  it 
ceases  like  the  bubbling  of  a  fountain,  which  leaves 
the  waters  purer  for  the  influence  which  has  passed 
through  them — not  like  the  mirth  of  the  world,  which 
ebbs  like  an  unnatural  tide,  and  leaves  loathsomeness 
and  disgust. 

"  Let  no  one  say  that  such  a  mode  of  life  is  adapted 
to  peculiar  constitutions,  and  can  be  relished  by  those 
only.  Give  me  the  veriest  worldling — the  most  de 
voted,  and  the  happiest  of  fashionable  ephemera,  and 
if  ho  has  material  for  a  thought,  and  can  take  pride 
in  the  improvement  of  his  nature,  I  will  so  order  his 
daily  round,  that,  with  temperance  and  exercise,  he 


sults.     The  idea  delighted  me. 

"I  was  aware  that  there  was  great  drudgery  in  the 
first  step's,  and  I  determined  to  avoid  it,  and  connect 
i  the  idea  of  my  own  instruction  with  all  that  was  de 
lightful  and  interesting  to  her  mind.  For  this  pur 
pose  I  persuaded  her  father  to  send  her  to  a  better 
school  than  she  had  been  accustomed  to  attend,  and, 
by  a  little  conversation,  stimulated  her  to  enter  upon 
her  studies  with  alacrity. 

"  She  was  now  grown  to  a  girl,  and  had  begun  to 
assume  the  naive,  womanly  airs  which  girls  do  at  her 
age.  Her  figure  had  rounded  into  a  flowing  sym 
metry,  and  her  face,  whether  from  associating  princi 
pally  with  an  older  person,  or  for  what  other  reason  I 
know  not,  had  assumed  a  thoughtful  cast,  and  she 
was  really  a  girl  of  most  interesting  and  striking  per 
sonal  appearance. 


106 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


"  I  did  not  expect  much  from  the  first  year  of  my 
Experiment.  I  calculated  justly  on  its  being  irksome 
and  common-place.  Still  I  wasarnuspd  and  interested. 
I  c^ould  hear  her  light  step  on  the  stair,  always  at  the 
saitie  early  hour  of  the  evening,  and  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  toe  to  say  'Come  in,'  to  her  timid  rap,  and  set  her 
a  cmjir  by  my  own,  that  I  might  look  over  her  book, 
or  taik  in  a  low  tone  to  her.  1  then  asked  her  about 
her  lessons,  and  found  out  what  had  most  attracted  her 
notice,  and  I  could  always  find  some  interesting  fact 
connected  with  it,  or  strike  off  into  some  pleasant  as 
sociation,  till  she  acquired  a  habit  of  selection  in  her 
reading,  and  looked  at  me  earnestly  to  know  whai  I 
would  say  upon  it.  You  would  have  smiled  to  see 
her  leaning  forward,  with  her  soft  blue  eye  fixed  on 
me,  and  her  lips  half  parted  with  attention,  waiting  for 
my  ideas  upon  some  bare  fact  in  geography  or  his 
tory;  and  it  would  have  convinced  you  that  the  nat 
ural,  unstimulated  mind,  takes  pleasure  in  the  simplest 
addition  to  its  knowledge. 

"  All  this  time  I  kept  out  of  her  way  everything 
that  would  have  a  tendency  to  destroy  a  taste  for  mere 
knowledge,  and  had  the  pleasure  to  see  that  she 
passed  with  keen  relish  from  her  text  books  to  my  ob 
servations,  which  were  as  dry  as  they,  though  recom 
mended  by  kindness  of  tone  and  an  interested  manner. 
She  acquired  gradually,  by  this  process,  a  habit  of 
reasoning  upon  everything  which  admitted  it,  which 
was  afterward  of  great  use  in  fixing  and  retaining  the 
leading  features  of  her  attainments. 

"  I  proceeded  in  this  way  till  she  was  fifteen.  Her 
mind  had  now  become  inured  to  regular  habits  of  in 
quiry,  and  she  began  to  ask  difficult  questions  and 
wonder  at  common  things.  Her  thoughts  assumed  a 
graver  complexion,  and  she  asked  for  books  upon  sub 
jects  of  which  she  felt  the  want  of  information.  She 
was  ready  to  receive  and  appreciate  truth  and  instruc-  j 
tion,  and  here  was  to  begin  my  pleasure. 

"  She  came  up  one  evening  with  an  air  of  embar-  ] 
rassment  approaching  to  distress.  She  took  her  usual 
seat,  and  told  me  that  she  had  been  thinking  all  day 
that  it  was  useless  to  study  any  more.  There  were  so 
many  mysterious  things — so  much,  even  that  she  could 
see,  which  she  could  not  account  for,  and,  with  all  her 
efforts,  she  got  on  so  slowly,  that  she  was  discouraged. 
It  was  better,  she  said,  to  be  happy  in  ignorance,  than 
to  be  constantly  tormented  with  the  sight  of  knowledge 
to  which  she  could  not  attain,  and  which  she  only  knew 
enough  to  value.  Poor  child  !  she  did  not  know  that 
she  was  making  the  same  complaint  with  Newton,  and 
Locke,  and  Bacon,  and  that  the  wisest  of  men  were 
only  'gatherers  of  pebbles  on  the  shore  of  an  illimita 
ble  sea  !'  I  began  to  talk  to  her  of  the  mind.  I  spoke 
of  its  grandeur,  and  its  capacities,  and  its  destiny.  I 
told  her  instances  of  high  attainment  and  wonderful 
discovery — sketched  the  sublime  philosophies  of  the 
soul — the  possibility  that  this  life  was  but  a  link  in  a 
chain  of  existences,  and  the  glorious  power,  if  it  were 
true,  of  entering  upon  another  world,  with  a  loftier  ca 
pacity  than  your  fellow-beings  for  the  comprehension 
of  its  mysteries.  I  then  touched  upon  the  duty  of  self- 
cultivation — the  pride  of  a  high  consciousness  of  im 
proved  time,  and  the  delicious  feelings  of  self-respect 
and  true  appreciation. 

"She  listened  to  me  in  silence,  and  wept.     It  was 
one  of  those  periods  which  occur  to  all  delicate  minds,  j 
of  distrust  and   fear;  and  when  it  passed  by,  and  her  ! 
ambition  stirred  again,  she  gave  vent  to  her  feelings  ^. 
with  a  woman's  beautiful  privilege.     I  had  no  more  j 
trouble  to  urge  her  on.    She  began  the  next  day  with 
the  philosophy  of  the  mind,  and  I  was  never  happier  i 
than  while  following  her  from  step  to  step  in  this  de-  | 
lightful  study. 

"  I  have  always  thought  that  the  most  triumphant 
intellectual  feeling  we  ever  experience,  is  felt  upon  the 
first  opening  of  philosophy.  It  is  like  the  interpreta 


tion  of  a  dream  of  a  lifetime.  Every  topic  seems  to 
you  like  a  phantom  of  your  own  mind,  from  which  a 
mist  has  suddenly  melted.  Every  feature  has  a  kind 
of  half-familiarity,  and  you  remember  musing  upon  it 
for  hours,  till  you  gave  it  up  with  an  impatient  dissat 
isfaction.  Without  a  definite  shape,  this  or  that  very 
idea  has  floated  in  your  mind  continually.  It  was  a  phe 
nomenon  without  a  name — a  something  which  you 
could  not  describe  to  your  friend,  and  which,  by-and- 
by,  you  came  to  believe  was  peculiar  to  yourself,  and 
would  never  be  brought  out  or  unravelled.  You  read 
on,  and  the  blood  rushes  to  your  face  in  a  tumultu 
ous  consciousness — you  have  had  feelings  in  pecu 
liar  situations  which  you  could  not  define,  and  here 
are  tbeir  very  features — and  you  know,  now,  that  it  was 
jealousy,  or  ambition,  or  love.  There  have  been  mo 
ments  when  your  faculties  seemed  blinded  or  reversed. 
You  could  not  express  yourself  at  all  when  you  felt 
you  should  be  eloquent.  You  could  not  fix  your 
mind  upon  the  subject,  of  which,  before,  you  had  been 
passionately  fond.  You  felt  an  aversion  for  your  very 
partialities,  or  a  strange  warming  in  your  heart  toward 
people  or  pursuits  that  you  had  disliked;  and  when 
the  beauty  of  the  natural  world  has  burst  upon  you, 
as  it  sometimes  will,  with  an  exceeding  glory,  you 
have  turned  away  from  it  with  a  deadly  sickness  of 
heart,  and  a  wish  that  you  might  die. 

"  These  are  mysteries  which  are  not  all  soluble  even 
by  philosophy.  But  you  can  see  enough  of  the  ma 
chinery  of  thought  to  know  its  tendencies,  and  like 
the  listener  to  mysterious  music,  it  is  enough  to  have 
seen  the  instrument,  without  knowing  the  cunning 
craft  of  the  player. 

"I  remembered  my  school-day  feelings,  and  lived 
them  over  again  with  my  beautiful  pupil.  I  entered 
with  as  much  enthusiasm  as  she,  into  the  strength  and 
sublimity  which  I  had  wondered  at  before  ;  and  I  be 
lieve  that,  even  as  she  sat  reading  by  herself,  my  blood 
thrilled,  and  my  pulses  quickened,  as  vividly  as  her 
own,  when  I  saw,  by  the  deepening  color  of  her  cheek, 
or  the  marked  passages  of  my  book,  that  she  had  found 
a  noble  thought  or  a  daring  hypothesis. 

"  She  proceeded  with  her  course  of  philosophy  rap 
idly  and  eagerly.  Her  mind  was  well  prepared  for  its 
relish.  She  said  she  felt  as  if  a  new  sense  had  been 
given  her — an  inner  eye  which  she  could  turn  in  upon 
herself,  and  by  which  she  could,  as  it  were,  stand  aside 
while  the  process  of  thought  went  on.  She  began  to 
respect  and  to  rely  upon  her  own  mind,  and  the  eleva 
tion  of  countenance  and  manner,  which  so  certainly 
and  so  beautifully  accompanies  inward  refinement, 
stole  over  her  daily.  I  began  to  feel  respectful  in  her 
presence,  and  when,  witli  the  peculiar  elegance  of  a 
woman's  mind,  she  discovered  a  delicate  shade  of 
meaning  which  I  had  not  seen,  or  traced  an  associa 
tion  which  could  spring  only  from  an  unsullied  heart, 
I  experienced  a  sensation  like  the  consciousness  of  an 
unseen  presence — elevating,  without  alarming  me. 

"It  was  probably  well  that  with  all  this  change  in 
her  mind  and  manner,  her  person  still  retained  its 
childish  grace  and  flexibility.  She  had  not  grown 
tall,  and  she  wore  her  hair  yet  as  she  used  to  do — fall 
ing  with  a  luxuriant  fulness  upon  her  shoulders. 
Hence  she  was  still  a  child,  when,  had  she  been  taller 
or  more  womanly,  the  demands  upon  her  attention, 
and  the  attractiveness  of  mature  society,  might  have 
divided  that  engrossing  interest  which  is  necessary  to 
successful  study. 

"  I  hav^  often  wished  I  was  a  painter;  but  never  so 
much  as  when  looking  on  this  beautiful  being  as  she 
sat  absorbed  in  her  studies,  or  turned  to  gaze  up  a 
moment  to  my  face,  with  that  delicious  expression  of 
inquiry  and  affection.  Every  one  knows  the  elevation 
given  to  the  countenance  of  a  man  by  contemplative 
habits.  Perhaps  the  natural  delicacy  of  feminine  fea 
tures  has  combined  with  its  rarity,  to  make  this  ex- 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


107 


pression  less  observable  in  woman;  but,  to  one  famil 
iar  with  the  study  of  the  human  face,  there  is,  in  the 
look  of  a  truly  intellectual  woman,  a  keen  subtlety  of 
refinement,  a  separation  from  everything  gross  and 
material,  which  comes  up  to  our  highest  dream  of  the 
angelic.  For  myself,  I  care  not  to  analyze  it.  I  leave 
it  to  philosophy  to  find  out  its  secret.  It  is  enough 
for  me  that  I  can  see  and  feel  it  in  every  pulse  of  my 
being.  It  is  not  a  peculiar  susceptibility.  Everyman 
who  approaches  such  a  woman  feels  it.  He  may  not 
define  it;  he  may  be  totally  unconscious  what  it  is 
that  awes  him ;  but  he  feels  as  if  a  mysterious  and  in 
visible  veil  were  about  her,  and  every  dark  thought  is 
quenched  suddenly  in  his  heart,  as  if  he  had  come 
into  the  atmosphere  of  a  spirit.  I  would  have  every 
woman  know  this.  I  would  tell  every  mother  who 
prays  nightly  for  the  peculiar  watchfulness  of  good 
spirits  over  the  purity  of  her  child,  that  she  may  weave 
round  her  a  defence  stronger  than  steel — that  she  may 
place  in  her  heart  a  living  amulet  whose  virtue  is  like 
a  circle  of  fire  to  pollution.  I  am  not '  stringing  pearls.' 
I  have  seen,  and  I  know,  that  an  empty  mind  is  not  a 
strong  citadel;  and  in  the  melancholy  chronicle  of 
female  ruin,  the  instances  are  rare  of  victims  distin 
guished  for  mental  cultivation.  I  would  my  pen  were 
the  'point  of  a  diamond,'  and  I  were  writing  on  living 
hearts!  for  when  I  think  how  the  daughters  of  a  house 
are  its  grace  and  honor — and  when  I  think  how  the 
father  and  mother  that  loved  her,  and  the  brother  that 
made  her  his  pride,  and  the  sister  in  whose  bosom  she 
slept,  are  all  crushed,  utterly,  by  a  daughter's  degra 
dation,  I  feel,  that  if  every  word  were  a  burning  coal, 
my  language  could  not  be  extravagant! 

"My  pupil,  had,  as  yet,  read  no  poetry.  I  was  un 
certain  how  to  enter  upon  it.  Her  taste  for  the  beau 
tiful  in  prose  had  become  so  decided,  that  I  feared  for 
the  first  impression  of  my  poetical  world.  I  wished  it 
to  burst  upon  her  brilliantly — like  the  entrance  to  an 
inner-  and  more  magnificent  temple  of  knowledge.  I 
hoped  to  dazzle  her  with  a  high  and  unimagined 
beauty,  which  should  exceed  far  the  massive  but.  plain 
splendors  of  philosophy.  We  had  often  conversed  on 
the  probability  of  a  previous  existence,  and,  one  eve 
ning,  I  opened  Wordsworth,  and  read  his  sublime 
•Ode  upon  Intimations  of  Immortality.'  She  did  not 
interrupt  me,  but  I  looked  up  at  the  conclusion,  and 
she  was  in  tears.  I  made  no  remark,  but  took  Byron, 
and  read  some  of  the  finest  passages  in  Childe  Harold, 
and  Manfred,  and  Cain — and,  from  that  time,  poetry- 
has  been  her  world ! 

"It  would  not  have  been  so  earlier.  It  needs  the  j  in  of  color,  and  the  vanishing  of  the  cold  shadows  of 
simple  and  strong  nutriment  of  truth  to  fit  us  to  relish  ||  gray — the  heavenly  quiet  that  seems  infused,  like  a 
and  feel  poetry.  The  mind  must  have  strength  and  j  visible  spirit,  into  the  pearly  depths  of  the  east,  as  the 
cultivated  taste,  and  then  it  is  like  a  language  from  i  light  violet  tints  become  deeper  in  the  upper  sky,  and 
Heaven.  We  are  astonished  at  its  power  and  mag-  j  the  morning  mist  rises  up  like  a  veil  of  silvery  film, 


found  time  to  study  nature.  She  knew  little  of  the 
character  of  the  material  creation,  and  I  now  com 
menced  walking  constantly  abroad  with  her  at  sunset, 
and  at  all  the  delicious  seasons  of  moonlight  and  star 
light  and  dawn.  It  came  in  well  with  her  poetry.  I 
can  not  describe  the  effect.  She  became,  like  all  who 
are,  for  the  first  time,  made  sensible  of  the  glories 
around  them,  a  worshipper  of  the  external  world. 

"  There  is  a  time  when  nature  first  loses  its  famil 
iarity,  and  seems  suddenly  to  have  become  beautiful. 
This  is  true  even  of  those  who  have  been  taught  early 
habits  of  observation.  The  mind  of  a  child  is  too 
feeble  to  comprehend,  and  does  not  soon  learn,  the 
scale  of  sublimity  and  beauty.  He  would  not  be  sur 
prised  if  the  sun  were  brighter,  or  if  the  siars  were 
sown  thicker  in  the  sky.  He  sees  that  the  flower  is 
beautiful,  and  he  feels  admiration  at  the  rainbow  ;  but 
he  would  not  wonder  if  the  dyes  of  the  flower  were 
deeper,  or  if  the  sky  were  laced  to  the  four  coi  ners 
with  the  colors  of  a  prism.  He  grows  up  with  tr"«se 
splendid  phenomena  at  work  about  him,  till  they  have 
become  common,  and,  in  their  most  wonderful  forms, 
cease  to  attract  his  attention.  Then  his  senses  are 
suddenly,  as  by  an  invisible  influence,  unsealed,  and, 
like  the  proselyte  of  the  Egyptian  pyramids,  he  finds 
himself  in  a  magnificent  temple,  and  hears  exquisite 
music,  and  is  dazzled  by  surpassing  glory.  He  never 
recovers  his  indifference.  The  perpetual  changes  of 
nature  keep  alive  his  enthusiasm,  and  if  his  taste  is  not 
dulled  by  subsequent  debasement,  the  pleasure  he  re 
ceives  from  it  flows  on  like  a  stream — wearing  deeper 
and  calmer. 

Caroline  became  now  my  constant  companion. 
The  changes  of  the  natural  world  have  always  been 
my  chief  source  of  happiness,  and  I  was  curious  to 
know  whether  my  different  sensations,  under  different 
circumstances,  were  peculiar  to  myself.  I  left  her, 
therefore,  to  lead  the  conversation,  without  any  ex 
pression  of  my  feelings,  and,  to  my  surprise  and  de 
light,  she  invariably  struck  their  tone,  and  pursued  the 
same  vein  of  reflection.  It  convinced  me  of  what  I 
had  long  thought  might  be  true — that  there  was,  in 
the  varieties  of  natural  beauty,  a  hidden  meaning,  and 
a  delightful  purpose  of  good  ;  and,  if  I  am  not  de 
ceived,  it  is  a  new  and  beautiful  evidence  of  the  pro 
portion  and  extent  of  God's  benevolent  wisdom. 
Thus,  you  may  remember  the  peculiar  effect  ol  the 
early  dawn — the  deep,  unruffled  serenity,  and  the  per 
fect  collectedness  of  your  senses.  You  may  remem- 
j  ber  the  remarkable  purity  that  pervades  the  stealing 


nificence.     We  have  been  familiar  with  knowledge  t 
with  a  person  of  plain  garment  and  a  homely  presence 
-and  lie  comes  to  us  in   poetry,  with  the  state  of  a 


and   softens  away  its  intensity;  and  then  you  will  re 
member  how  the  very  beatings  of  your  heart  grew 


(|iiiet,  and   you    felt 


sistible   impulse   to   pray! 


king,  glorious  in  purple  and  gold.  We  have  known  There  was  no  irregular  delight,  no  indefinite  sensa- 
hiin  as  an  unassuming  friend  who  talked  with  us  by  J  tion,  no  ecstacy.  It  was  deep,  unbroken  repose,  and 
the  wayside,  and  kept  us  company  on  our  familiar  l]  your  pulses  were  free  from  the  fever  of  life,  and  your 
paths— and  we  see  him  coming  with  a  stately  step,  and  !;  reason  was  lying  awake  in  its  chamber, 
a  glittering  diadem  on  his  brow;  and  we  wonder  that  !j  "  There  is  a  hush  also  at  noon;  but  it  is  not  like 
we"  did  not  see  that  his  plain  garment  honored  him  the  morning.  You  have  been  mingling  in  the  business 


not,  and  his  bearing  were  fitter  for  a  king! 

"Poetry  entered  to  the  very  soul  of  Caroline  Grey. 
It  was  touching   an   unreached  string,  and  she  felt  as 


of  the  world,  and  you  turn  aside,  weary  and  distracted, 
for  rest.  There  is  a  far  depth,  in  the  intense  blue  of 
the  sky  which  takes  in  the  spirit,  and  you  are  content 


if  the  whole  compass  of  her  heart  were  given  out.     I  II  to  lie  "down  and  sleep  in  the  cool   shadow,  and  forget 
used  to  read  to  her  for  hours,  and  it  was  beautiful  to  |   even     our  existence.     How   different  from    the   cool 


see  her  eye   kindle,  and  her  cheek  burn  with  excite 
ment.     The  sublimed  mysticism   and  spirituality  of  j 
Wordsworth  were  her  delight,  and   she  feasted  upon 
the  deep   philosophy   and   half-hidden  tenderness  of 
Coleridge. 

"  I  had  observed,  with  some  satisfaction,  that,  in  the 
rapid  development  of  her  mental  powers,  she  had  not , 


y 

wakefulness  of  the  morning,  and  yet  how  fitted  for  the 
necessity  of  the  hour! 

"The  day  wears  on  and  comes  to  the  sunsetting. 
The  strong  light  passes  oft"  from  the  hills,  and  the 
leaves  are  mingled  in  golden  masses,  and  the  tips  of  the 
long  grass,  and  the  blades  of  maize,  and  the  luxuriant 
grain,"  are  all  sleeping  in  a  rich  glow,  as  if  the  daylight 


108 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


had  melted  into  gold  and  descended  upon  every  living 
thing  like  dew.  The  sun  goes  down,  and  there  is  a 
tissue  of  indescribable  glory  floating  upon  the  clouds, 
and  the  almost  imperceptible  blending  of  the  sunset 
color  with  the  blue  sky,  is  far  up  toward  the  zenith. 
Presently  the  pomp  of  the  early  sunset  passes  away  ; 
and  the  clouds  are  all  clad  in  purple,  with  edges  of 
metallic  lustre;  and  very  far  in  the  west,  as  if  they 
were  sailing  away  into  another  world,  are  seen  spots 
of  intense  brightness,  and  the  tall  trees  on  the  hilly 
edge  of  the  horizon  seem  piercing  the  sky,  on  fire  with 
its  consuming  heat.  There  is  a  tumultuous  joy  in 
the  contemplation  of  this  hour  which  is  peculiar  to 
itself.  You  feel  as  if  you  should  have  had  wings;  for 
there  is  a  strange  stirring  in  your  heart  to  follow  on — 
and  your  imagination  bursts  away  into  that  beautiful 
world,  and  revels  among  the  unsubstantial  clouds  till 
they  become  cold.  It  is  a  triumphant  and  extravagant 
hour.  Its  joyousness  is  an  intoxication,  and  its  pleas 
ure  dies  with  the  day. 

"  The  night,  starry  and  beautiful,  comes  on.  The 
sky  has  a  blue,  intense  almost  to  blackness,  and  the 
stars  are  set  in  it  like  gems.  They  are  of  different 
glory,  and  there  are  some  that  burn,  and  some  that  I 
have  a  twinkling  lustre,  and  some  are  just  visible  and 
faint.  You  know  their  nature,  and  their  motion  ;  and 
there  is  something  awful  in  so  many  worlds  moving  on 
through  the  firmament  so  silently  and  in  order.  You  I 
feel  an  indescribable  awe  stealing  upon  you,  and  your 
imagination  trembles  as  it  goes  up  among  them.  You 
gaze  on,  and  on,  and  the  superstitions  of  olden  time, 
and  the  wild  visions  of  astrology,  steal  over  your  mem 
ory,  till,  by-and-by,  you  hear  the  music  which  they 
'  give  out  as  they  go,'  and  drink  in  the  mysteries  of 
their  hidden  meaning,  and  believe  that  your  destiny  is 
woven  by  their  burning  spheres.  There  comes  on 
you  a  delirious  joy,  and  a  kind  of  terrible  fellowship 
with  their  sublime  nature,  and  you  feel  as  if  you  could 
go  up  to  a  starry  place  and  course  the  heavens  in  com 
pany.  There  is  a  spirituality  in  this  hour,  a  separa 
tion  from  material  things,  which  is  of  a  fine  order  of 
happiness.  The  purity  of  the  morning,  and  the  noon 
tide  quietness,  and  the  rapture  of  the  glorious  sunset, 
are  all  human  and  comprehensible  feelings  ;  but  this 
has  the  mystery  and  the  lofty  energy  of  a  higher  world,  j 


might  object  to  her  want  of  fashionable  tournure,  and 
find  fault  with  her  unfashionable  impulses.  I  do  not. 
She  is  a  high-minded,  noble,  impassioned  being,  with 
an  enthusiasm  that  is  not  without  reason,  and  a  com 
mon  sense  that  is  not  a  regard  to  self-interest.  •  Her 
motion  was  not  learned  at  schools,  but  it  is  unembar 
rassed  and  free  ;  and  her  tone  has  not  been  educated 
to  a  refined  whisper,  but  it  expresses  the  meaning  of 
her  heart,  as  if  its  very  pulse  had  become  articulate. 
The  many  might  not  admire  her — I  know  she  would 
be  idolized  by  the  few. 

"  Our  intercourse  is  as  intimate  still ;  and  it  could 
not  change  without  being  less  so — for  we  are  constant 
ly  together.  There  is — to  be  sure — lately — a  slight 
degree  of  embarrassment — and — somehow — we  read 
more  poetry  than  we  used  to  do — but  it  is  nothing  at 
all— nothing." 

My  friend  was  married  to  his  pupil  a  few  months 
after  writing  the  foregoing.  He  has  written  to  me 
since,  and  1  will  show  you  the  letter  if  you  will  call, 
any  time.  It  will  not  do  to  print  it,  because  there  are 
some  domestic  details  not  proper  for  the  general  eye  ; 
but,  to  me,  who  am  a  bachelor,  bent  upon  matrimony, 
it  is  interesting  to  the  last  degree.  He  lives  the  same 
quiet,  retired  life,  that  he  did  before  he  was  married. 
His  room  is  arranged  with  the  same  taste,  and  with 
reference  to  the  same  habits  as  before.  The  light 
comes  in  as  timidly  through  the  half-closed  window, 
and  his  pictures  look  as  shadowy  and  dim,  and  the 
rustle  of  the  turned  leaf  adds  as  mysteriously  to  the 
silence.  He  is  the  fondest  of  husbands,  but  his  affec 
tion  does  not  encroach  on  the  habits  of  his  mind.  Now 
and  then  he  looks  up  from  his  book,  and,  resting  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  lets  his  eye  wander  over  the  pale 
cheek  and  drooping  lid  of  the  beautiful  being  who  sits 
reading  beside  him  ;  but  he  soon  returns  to  his  half- 
forgotten  page,  and  the  smile  of  affection  which  had 
stolen  over  his  features  fades  gradually  away  into  the 
habitual  soberness  of  thought.  There  sits  his  wife, 
hour  after  hour,  in  the  same  chair  which  she  occupied 
when  she  first  came,  a  curious  loiterer  to  his  room ; 
and  though  she  does  not  study  so  much,  because  other 
cares  have  a  claim  upon  her  now,  she  still  keeps  pace 

thhim  in  the  pleasanter  branches  of  knowledge,  and 


and  you  return  to  your  human  nature  with  a  refreshed  j|  they  talk  as  often  and  as  earnestly  as  before  on  the 

' 


spirit  and  an  elevated  purpose  :  see  now  the  wisdom 
of  God  I — the  collected  intellect  for  the  morning  pray 
er  and  our  daily  duty — the  delicious  repose  for  our 
noontide  weariness— and  the  rapt  fervor  to  purify  us 
by  night  from  our  worldliness,  and  keep  wakeful  the 
eye  of  immortality  !  They  are  all  suited  to  our  need  ; 
and  it  is  pleasant  to  think,  when  we  go  out  at  this  or 
that  season,  that  its  peculiar  beauty  is  fitted  to  our  pe 
culiar  wants,  and  that  it  is  not  a  chance  harmony  of  our 
hearts  with  nature. 

"The  world  had  become  to  Caroline  a  new  place. 
No  change  in  the  season  was  indifferent  to  her — noth 
ing  was  common  or  familiar.  She  found  beauty  in 
things  you  would  pass  by,  and  a  lesson  for  her  mind  or 
her  heart  in  the  minutest  workmanship  of  nature.  Her 
character  assumed  a  cheerful  dignity,  and  an  elevation 


above  ordinary  amusements  or  annoyances.     She  WE 
equable  and  calm,  because  her  feelings  were  never 


thousand  topics  of  a  scholar's  contemplation.  Her 
cares  may  and  will  multiply  ;  but  she  understands  the 
economy  of  time,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that,  with  every 
attention  to  her  daily  duties,  she  will  find  ample  time 
for  her  mind,  and  be  always  as  well  fitted  as  now  for 
the  companionship  of  an  intellectual  being. 

I  have,  like  all  bachelors,  speculated  a  great  deal 
upon  matrimony.  I  have  seen  young  and  beautiful 
women,  the  pride  of  gay  circles,  married — as  the  world 
said — well  !  Some  have  moved  into  costly  houses,  and 
their  friends  have  all  come  and  looked  at  their  fine 
furniture  and  their  splendid  arrangements  for  happi 
ness,  and  they  have  gone  away  and  committed  them  to 
their  sunny  hopes,  cheerfully,  and  without  fear.  It  is 
natural  to  be  sanguine  for  the  young,  and,  at  such 
times,  I  am  carried  away  by  similar  feelings.  I  love  to 


get  unobserved  into  a  corner,  and  watch  the  bride  in 
her  white  attire,  and  with  her  smiling  face  and  her  soft 

reached  by  ordinary  irritations  ;  and,  if  there  were  no  !|  eyes  moving  before  me  in  their  pride  of  life,  weave  a 
other  benefit  in  cultivation,  this  were  almost  argument  !  waking  dream  of  her  future  happiness,  and  persuade 


enough  to  induce  it. 

"  It  is  now  five  years  since  I  commenced  my  tutor 
ship.  I  have  given  you  the  history  of  two  of  them.  In 
the  remaining  three  there  has  been  much  that  has  in 
terested  my  mind — probably  little  that  would  interest 
yours.  We  have  read  together,  and,  as  far  as  possible, 
studied  together.  She  has  walked  with  me,  and  shared 
all  my  leisure,  and  known  every  thought.  She  is  now  a 
woman  of  eighteen.  Her  childish  graces  are  matured, 
and  her  blue  eye  would  send  a  thrill  through  you.  You 


myself  that  it  will  be  true.  I  think  how  they  will  sit 
upon  that  luxurious  sofa  as  the  twilight  falls,  and  build 
gay  hopes,  and  murmur  in  low  tones  the  now  unfor- 
bidden  tenderness,  and  how  thrillingly  the  allowed  kiss 
and  the  beautiful  endearments  of  wedded  life,  will 
make  even  their  parting  joyous,  and  how  gladly  they 
will  come  back  from  the  crowd  and  the  empty  mirth 
of  the  gay,  to  each  other's  quiet  company.  I  picture 
to  myself  that  young  creature,  who  blushes,  even  now, 
at  his  hesitating  caress,  listening  eagerly  for  his  foot- 


INKLINGS  OF  ADVENTURE. 


109 


steps  as  the  night  steals  on,  and  wishing  that  he  would 
come  ;  and  when  he  enters  at  last,  and,  with  an  affec 
tion  as  undying  as  his  pulse,  folds  her  to  his  bosom,  I 
can  feel  the  very  tide  that  goes  flowing  through  his 
heart,  and  gaze  with  him  on  her  graceful  form  as 
she  moves  about  him  for  the  kind  offices  of  affec 
tion,  soothing  all  his  unquiet  cares,  and  making  him 
lorget  even  himself,  in  her  young  and  unshadowed 
beauty. 

I  go  forward  for  years,  and  see  her  luxuriant  hair 
put  soberly  away  from  her  brow,  and  her  girlish  graces 
ripened  into  dignity,  and  her  bright  loveliness  chast 
ened  with  the  gentle  meekness  of  maternal  affection. 
Her  husband  looks  on  her  with  a  proud  eye,   and 
shows  the  same   fervent  love  and  delicate  attention  < 
which  first  won  her,   and  fair  children   are   growing  ! 
-up  about  them,  and  they  go   on,  full  of  honor  and  ; 
untroubled  years,  and   are   remembered  when    they 
die  ! 

I  say  I  love  to  dream  thus  when  I  go  to  give  the 
young  bride  joy.     It  is  the  natural  tendency  of  feel 
ings  touched  by  loveliness  that  fears  nothing  for  itself, 
and,  if  I  ever  yield  to  darker  feelings,  it  is  because  the  > 
light  of  the   picture  is  changed.     I  am  not  fond  of  f 
dwelling  on  such  changes,  and  I  will  not,  minutely,  j 
now.     1  allude  to  it  only  because  I  trust  that  my  sim-  j 
pie  page  will  be  read  by  some  of  the  young  and  beau 
tiful  beings  who  move  daily  across  my  path,  and  I  j 
would  whisper  to  them  as  they  glide  by,  joyously  and 
confidingly,  the  secret  of  an  unclouded  future. 

The  picture  I  have  drawn  above  is  not  peculiar.     It  j 
is  colored  like  the  fancies  of  the  bride  ;  and  many — oh  j 
many  an  hour  will  she  sit,  with  her  rich  jewels  lying 
loose  in  her  fingers,  and  dream  such  dreams  as  these. 
She  believes  them,  too — and  she  goes  on,  for  a  while, 
undeceived.     The  evening  is  not  too  long  while  they 
talk  of  their  plans  for  happiness,  and  the  quiet  meal  is 
still  pleasant  with  the  delightful  novelty  of  mutual  re 
liance  and  attention.     There  comes  soon,  however,  a 
time  when  personal  topics  become  bare  and  wearisome,  j 


and  slight  attentions  will  not  alone  keep  up  the  social 
excitement.  There  are  long  intervals  of  silence,  and 
detected  symptoms  of  weariness,  and  the  husband,  first 
in  his  impatient  manhood,  breaks  in  upon  the  hours 
they  were  to  spend  together.  I  can  not  follow  it  cir 
cumstantially.  There  come  long  hours  of  unhappy 
listlessness,  and  terrible  misgivings  of  each  other's  worth 
and  affection,  till,  by-and-by,  they  can  conceal  their 
uneasiness  no  longer,  and  go  out  separately  to  seek 
relief,  and  lean  upon  a  hollow  world  for  the  support 
which  one  who  was  their  "lover  and  friend"  could  not 
give  them  ! 

Heed  this,  ye  who  are  winning,  by  your  innocent 
beauty,  the  affections  of  highminded  and  thinking 
beings  !  Remember  that  he  will  give  up  the  brother 
of  his  heart  with  whom  he  has  had,  ever,  a  fellowship 
of  mind — the  society  of  his  contemporary  runners  in 
the  race  of  fame,  who  have  held  with  him  a  stern 
companionship — and  frequently,  in  his  passionate  love, 
he  will  break  away  from  the  arena  of  his  burning  am 
bition,  to  come  and  listen  to  the  "voice  of  the  charm 
er."  It  will  bewilder  him  at  first,  but  it  will  not  long  ; 
and  then,  think  you  that  an  idle  blandishment  will 
chain  the  mind  that  has  been  used,  for  years,  to  an 
equal  communion  ?  Think  you  he  will  give  up,  for  a 
weak  dalliance,  the  animating  themes  of  men,  and  the 
search  into  the  fine  mysteries  of  knowledge  ? — Oh  no, 
lady  ! — believe  me — no  !  Trust  not  your  influence  to 
such  light  fetters  !  Credit  not  the  old-fashioned  ab 
surdity  that  woman's  is  a  secondary  lot — ministering 
to  the  necessities  of  her  lord  and  master  !  It  is  a 
higher  destiny  I  would  award  you.  If  your  immor 
tality  is  as  complete,  and  your  gift  of  mind  as  capable 
as  ours  of  increase  and  elevation,  I  would  put  no  wis 
dom  of  mine  against  God's  evident  allotment.  I 
would  charge  you  to  water  the  undying  bud,  and  give 
it  healthy  culture,  and  open  its  beauty  to  the  sun — 
and  then  you  may  hope,  that  when  your  life  is  bound 
up  with  another,  you  will  go  on  equally,  and  in  a 
fellowship  that  shall  pervade  every  earthly  interest ' 


END    OF    INKLINGS    OF    ADVENTURE. 


DASHES     AT     LIFE 


WITH  A  FREE  PENCIL. 


P  A  E  T    III; 


LOITERINGS    OF    TRAVEL. 


LOITERINGS    OF    TRAVEL. 


LADY  RAVELGOLD, 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  What  wouid  it  pleasure  me  to  have  my  throat  cut 
With  diamonds  ?  or  to  be  smothered  quick 
With  cassia,  or  be  shot  to  death  with  pearls  1" 

DUTCHESS  or  MALFY. 

"  I've  been  i'  the  Indies  twice,  and  seen  strange  things— 
But  two  honest  women  '.—One,  I  read  of  once  !" 

RULE  A  WIFE. 

IT  was  what  is  called  by  people  on  the  continent  a 
"  London  day."  A  thin,  gray  mist  drizzled  down 
through  the  smoke  which  darkened  the  long  cavern 
of  Fleet  street ;  the  sidewalks  were  slippery  and  clam 
my  ;  the  drays  slid  from  side  to  side  on  the  greasy 
pavement,  creating  a  perpetual  clamor  among  the 
lighter  carriages  with  which  they  came  in  contact ; 
the  porters  wondered  that  "gemmen"  would  carry 
their  umbrellas  up  when  there  was  no  rain,  and  the 
gentlemen  wondered  that,  porters  should  be  permitted 
on  the  sidewalks ;  there  were  passengers  in  box-coats, 
though  it  was  the  first  of  May,  and  beggars  with  bare 
breasts,  though  it  was  chilly  as  November ;  the  boys 
were  looking  wistfully  into  the  hosier's  windows  who 
were  generally  at  the  pastry-cook's  ;  and  there  were 
persons  who  wished  to  know  the  time,  trying  in  vain 
to  see  the  dial  of  St.  Paul's  through  the  gamboge  at 
mosphere. 

It  was  twelve  o'clock,  find  a  plain  chariot  with  a 
simple  crest  on  the  panels,  slowly  picked  its  way 
through  the  choked  and  disputed  thoroughfare  east 
of  Temple  Bar.  The  smart  glazed  hat  of  the  coach 
man,  the  well-fitted  drab  greatcoat  and  gaiters  of  the 
footman,  and  the  sort  of  half-submissive,  half-con 
temptuous  look  on  both  their  faces  (implying  that  they 
were  bound  to  drive  to  the  devil  if  it  were  miladi's  or 
ders,  but  that  the  rabble  of  Fleet  street  was  a  leetle  too 
vulgar  for  their  contact),  expressed  very  plainly  that 
the  lady  within  was  a  denizen  of  a  more  privileged 
quarter,  but  had  chosen  a  rainy  day  for  some  compul 
sory  visit  to  "  the  city." 

At  the  rate  of  perhaps  a  mile  an  hour,  the  well- 
groomed  night-horses  (a  pair  of  smart,  hardy,  twelve- 
mile  cabs,  all  bottom,  but  little  style,  kept  for  night- 
work  and  forced  journeys)  had  threaded  the  tortuous 
entrails  of  London,  and  had  arrived  at  the  arch  of  a 
dark  court  in  Throgmorton  street.  The  coachman 
put  his  wheels  snug  against  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk, 
to  avoid  being  crushed  by  the  passing  drays,  and  set 
tled  his  many-caped  benjamin  about  him ;  while  the 
footman  spread  his  umbrella,  and  making  a  balustrade 
of  his  arm  for  his  mistress's  assistance,  a  closely-veiled 
lady  descended  and  disappeared  up  the  wet  and  ill- 
paved  avenue. 


The  green-baize  door  of  Firkins  and  Co.  opened  on 
its  silent  hinges  and  admitted  the  mysterious  visiter, 
who,  inquiring  of  the  nearest  clerk  if  the  junior  part 
ner  were  in,  was  shown  to  a  small  inner  room  contain 
ing  a  desk,  two  chairs,  a  coal  fire,  and  a  young  gentle 
man.  The  last  article  of  furniture  rose  on  the  lady's 
entrance,  and  as  she  threw  off  her  veil  he  made  a  low 
bow,  with  the  air  of  a  gentleman,  who  is  neither  sur 
prised  nor  embarrassed,  and  pushing  aside  the  door- 
check,  they  were  left  alone. 

There  was  that  forced  complaisance  in  the  lady's 
manner  on  her  first  entrance,  which  produced  the 
slightest  possible  elevation  in  a  very  scornful  lip  owned 
by  the  junior  partner,  but  the  lady  was  only  forty-five, 
highborn,  and  very  handsome,  and  as  she  looked  at 
the  fine  specimen  of  nature's  nobility,  who  met  her 
with  a  look  as  proud  and  yet  as  gentle  as  her  own,  the 
smoke  of  Fleet  street  passed  away  from  her  memory, 
and  she  became  natural  and  even  gracious.  The 
effect  upon  the  junior  partner  was  simply  that  of  re 
moving  from  his  breast  the  shade  of  her  first  impres 
sion. 

"  I  have  brought  you,"  said  his  visiter,  drawing  a 
card  from  her  reticule,  "  an  invitation  to  the  dutchess 
of  Hautaigle's  ball.  She  sent  me  half  a  dozen  to  fill 
up  for  what  she  calls  '  ornamentals' — and  I  am  sure  I 
shall  scarce  find  another  who  comes  so  decidedly  under 
her  grace's  category." 

The  fair  speaker  had  delivered  this  pretty  speech 
in  the  sweetest  and  best-bred  tone  of  St.  James's, 
looking  the  while  at  the  toe  of  the  small  brodequin 
which  she  held  up  to  the  fire— perhaps  thinking  only 
of  drying  it.  As  she  concluded  her  sentence,  she 
turned  to  her  companion  for  an  answer,  and  was  sur 
prised  at  the  impassive  politeness  of  his  bow  of  ac 
knowledgment. 

«'  I  reg'ret  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  avail  myself  of 
your  ladyship's  kindness,"  said  the  junior  partner,  in 
the  same  well-enunciated  tone  of  courtesy. 

"  Then,"  replied  the  lady  with  a  smile,  "Lord  Au 
gustus  Fitz-Moi,  who  looks  at  himself  all  dinner-time 
in  a  spoon,  will  be  the  Apollo  of  the  hour.  What  a 
pity  such  a  handsome  creature  should  be  so  vain  ! — 
By-the-way,  Mr.  Firkins,  you  live  without  a  looking- 
glass,  I  see." 

"  Your  ladyship  reminds  me  that  this  is  merely  a 
place  of  business.  May  I  ask  at  once  what  errand 
has  procured  me  the  honor  of  a  visit  on  so  unpleasant 
a  day  ?" 

A  slight  flush  brightened  the  cheek  and  forehead 
of  the  beautiful  woman,  as  she  compressed  her  lips, 
and  forced  herself  to  say  with  affected  ease,  «•  The 
want  of  five  hundred  pounds." 

The  junior  partner  paused  an  instant,  while  the  lady 
tapped  with  her  boot  upon  the  fender  in  ill-dissembled 
anxiety,  and  then,  turning  to  his  desk,  he  filled  up  the 


LADY  RAVELGOLD. 


Ill 


check  without  remark,  presented  it,  and  took  his  hat 
to  wait  on  her  to  her  carriage.  A  gleam  of  relief  and 
pleasure  shot  over  her  countenance  as  she  closed  her 
small  jewelled  hand  over  it,  followed  immediately  by  a 
look  of  embarrassed  inquiry  into  the  face  of  the  un 
questioning  banker. 

"  I  am  in  your  debt  already." 

"  Thirty  thousand  pounds,  madam  !" 

"  And  for  this  you  think  the  securities  on  the  estate 
of  Rockland — " 

"Are  worth  nothing,  madam  !  But  it  rains.  I  re 
gret  that  your  ladyship's  carriage  can  not  come  to  the 
door.  In  the  old-fashioned  days  of  sedan-chairs,  now, 
the  dark  courts  of  Lothbury  must  have  been  more  at 
tractive.  By-the-way,  talking  of  Lothbury,  there  is 
Lady  Roseberry's  fete  champetre  next  week.  If  you 
should  chance  to  have  a  spare  card " 

"  Twenty,  if  you  like — I  am  too  happy — really,  Mr. 
Firkins " 

"  It's  on  the  fifteenth  ;  I  shall  have  the  honor  of 
seeing  your  ladyship  there  !  Good-morning  !  Home, 
coachman  !" 

44  Does  this  man  love  me  ?"  was  Lady  Ravelgold's 
first  thought,  as  she  sank  back  in  her  returning  char 
iot.  "  Yet  no  !  he  was  even  rude  in  his  haste  to  be 
rid  of  me.  And  I  would  willingly  have  stayed  too,  for 
there  is  something  about  him  of  a  mark  that  I  like. 
Ay,  and  he  must  have  seen  it — a  lighter  encourage 
ment  has  been  interpreted  more  readily.  Five  hun 
dred  pounds  ! — really  five  hundred  pounds  !  And  thir 
ty  thousand  at  the  back  of  it !  What  does  he  mean  ? 
Heavens  !  if  he  should  be  deeper  than  I  thought !  If 
he  should  wish  to  involve  me  first !" 

And  spite  of  the  horror  with  which  the  thought  was 
met  in  the  mind  of  Lavy  Ravelgold,  the  blush  over 
her  forehead  died  away  into  a  half  smile  and  a  bright 
er  tint  in  her  lips  ;  and  as  the  carriage  wound  slow 
on  through  the  confused  press  of  Fleet  street  andt 
Strand,  the  image  of  the  handsome  and  haughty  young 
banker  shut  her  eyes  from  all  sounds  without,  and  she 
was  at  her  own  door  in  Grosvenor  square  before  she 
had  changed  position  or  wandered  half  a  moment  from 
the  subject  of  those  busy  dreams. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  morning  of  the  fifteenth  of  May  seemed  to 
have  been  appointed  by  all  the  flowers  as  a  jubilee  of 
perfume  and  bloom.  The  birds  had  been  invited,  and 
sang  in  the  summer  with  a  welcome  as  full-throated 
as  a  prima  donna  singin£  down  the  tenor  in  a  duet ; 
the  most  laggard  buds  turned  out  their  hearts  to  the 
sunshine,  and  promised  leaves  on  the  morrow ;  and 
that  portion  of  London  that  had  been  invited  to  Lady 
Roseberry's  fete,  thought  it  a  very  fine  day" !  That 
portion  which  was  not,  wondered  how  people  would 
go  sweltering  about  in  such  a  glare  for  a  cold  dinner  ! 

At  about  half  past  two,  a  very  elegant  dark-green 
cab  without  a  crest,  and  with  a  servant  in  whose  slight 
figure  and  plain  blue  livery  there  was  not  a  fault, 
whirled  out  at  the  gate  of  the  Regent's  Park,  and  took 
its  way  up  the  well-watered  road  leading  to  Hamp- 
stead.  The  gentlemen  whom  it  passed  or  met  turned 
to  admire  the  performance  of  the  dark-gray  horse,  and 
the  ladies  looked  after  the  cab  as  if  they  could  see  the 
handsome  occupant  once  more  through  its  leather 
back.  Whether  by  conspiracy  among  the  coach- 
makers,  or  by  an  aristocracy  of  taste,  the  degree  of 
elegance  in  a  turn-out  attained  by  the  cab  just  de 
scribed,  is  usually  confined  to  the  acquaintances  of 

Lady ;  that  list  being  understood  to  enumerate 

all  "  the  nice  young  men"  of  the  West  End,  beside 
the  guardsmen.  (The  ton  of  the  latter,  in  all  matters 
that  affect  the  style  of  the  regiment,  is  looked  after  by 


ras 
rer 

I 


the  club  and  the  colonel.)  The  junior  Firkins  seemed 
an  exception  to  this  exclusive  rule.  No  "  nice  man" 
could  come  from  Lothbury,  and  he  did  not  visit  Lady 

;  but  his  horse  was  faultless,  and  when  he  turned 

into  the  gate  of  Rose-Eden,  the  policeman  at  the 
porter's  lodge,  though  he  did  not  know  him,  thought 
it  unnecessary  to  ask  for  his  name.  Away  he  spat 
tered  up  the  hilly  avenue,  and  giving  the  reins  to  his 
groom  at  the  end  of  a  green  arbor  leading  to  the  re 
ception-lawn,  he  walked  in  and  made  his  bow  to  Lady 
Roseberry,  who  remarked,  "  How  very  handsome  ! 
Who  can  he  be  ?" — and  the  junior  partner  walked  on 
and  disappeared  down  an  avenue  of  laburnums. 

Ah  !  but  Rose-Eden  looked  a  paradise  that  day  ! 
Hundreds  had  passed  across  the  close-shaven  lawn, 
with  a  bow  to  the  lady-mistress  of  this  fair  abode.  Yet 
the  grounds  were  still  private  enough  for  Milton's  pair, 
so  lost  were  they  in  the  green  labyrinths  of  hill  and 
dale.  Some  had  descended  through  heavily-shaded 
paths  to  a  fancy  dairy,  built  over  a  fountain  in  the  bot 
tom  of  a  cool  dell ;  and  here,  amid  her  milk-pans  of 
old  and  costly  china,  the  prettiest  majd  in  the  country 
round  pattered  about  upon  a  floor  of  Dutch  tiles,  and 
served  her  visitors  with  cream's  and  ices — already,  as  it 
were,  adapted  to  fashionable  comprehension.  Some 
had  strayed  to  the  ornamental  cottages  in  the  skirts 
of  the  flower-garden — poetical  abodes,  built  from  a 
picturesque  drawing,  with  imitation  roughness  ;  thatch, 
lattice-window,  and  low  panng^Ul  complete;  and  in 
habited  by  superannuated  dependants  of  Lord  Rose- 
berry,  whose  only  duties  were  to  look  like  patriarchs, 
and  give  tea  and  new  cream-cheese  to  visiters  on  fete- 
days.  Some  had  gone  to  see  the  silver  and  gold  pheas 
ants  in  their  wire-houses,  stately  aristocrats  of  the  game 
tribe,  who  carry  their  finely-pencilled  feathers  like 

Marmalet  Madarus,"  strutting  in  hoop  and  farthin 
gale.  Some  had  gone  to  the  kennels,  to  see  setters 
and  pointers,  hounds  and  terriers,  lodged  like  gentle 
men,  each  breed  in  its  own  apartment — the  puppies,  33 
elsewhere,  treated  with  most  attention.  Some  were 
in  the  flower-garden,  some  in  the  greenhouses,  some 
in  the  graperies,  aviaries,  and  grottoes  ;  and  at  the  side 
of  a  bright  sparkling  fountain,  in  the  recesses  of  a  fir- 
grove,  with  her  foot  upon  its  marble  lip,  and  <fne  hand 
on  the  shoulder  of  a  small  Cupid  who  archly  made  a 
drinking-cup  of  his  wing,  and  caught  the  bright  water 
as  it  fell,  stood  Lady  Imogen  Ravelgold.  the  loveliest 
girl  of  nineteen  that  prayed  night  and  morning  within 
j  the  parish  of  Mny  Fair,  listening  to  very  passionate 
language  from  the  young  banker  of  Lothbury.  fe 

A  bugle  on  the  lawn  rang  a  recall.  From  every 
alley,  and  by  every  path,  poured  in  the  gay  multitude, 
and  the  smooth  sward  looked  like  a  plateau  of  ani 
mated  flowers,  waked  by  magic  from  a  broidery  on 
green  velvet.  Ah  !  the  beautiful  dcmi-toilcltcs  ! — so 
difficult  to  attain,  yet,  when  attained,  the  dress  most 
modest,  most  captivating,  most  worthy  the  divine  grace 
of  woman.  Those  airy  hats,  sheltering  from  the  sun, 
yet  not  enviously  concealing  a  feature  or  a  ringlet  that 
a  painter  would  draw  for  his  exhibition-picture ! 
Those  summery  and  shapeless  robes,  covering  the 
pecson  more  to  show  its  outline  better,  and  provoke 
more  the  worship,  which,  like  all  worship,  is  made 
more  adoring  by  mystery  !  Those  complexions  which 
but  betray  their  transparency  in  the  sun  ;  lips  in  which 
the  blood  is  translucent  when  between  you  and  the 
light ;  cheeks  finer-grained  than  alabaster,  yet  as  cool 
in* their  virgin  purity  as  a  tint  in  the  dark  corner  of  a 
Ruysdael  :  the  human  race  was  at  less  perfection  in 
Athens  in  the  days  of  Lais — in  Egypt  in  the  days  of 
Cleopatra — than  that  day  on  the  lawn  of  Rose-Eden. 

Cart-loads  of  ribands,  of  every  gay  color,  had  been 
laced  through  the  trees  in  all  directions;  and  amid 
every  variety  of  foliage,  and  every  shade  of  green,  the 
tulip-tints  shone  vivid  and  brilliant,  like  an  American 
forest  after  the  first  frost.  From  the  left  edge  of  the 


112 


LADY  RAVELGOLD. 


lawn,  the  ground  suddenly  sunk  into  a  dell,  shaped 
like  an  amphitheatre,  with  a  level  platform  at  its  bot 
tom,  and  all  around,  above  and  below,  thickened  a 
shady  wood.  The  music  of  a  delicious  band  stole  up 
from  the  recesses  of  a  grove,  draped  as  an  orchestra 
and  green-room  on  the  lower  side,  and  while  the 
audience  disposed  themselves  in  the  shade  of  the  up 
per  grove,  a  company  of  players  and  dancing-girls 
commenced  their  theatricals. — Imogen  Ravelgold, 
who  was  separated,  by  a  pine  tree  only,  from  the  junior 
partner,  could  scarce  tell  you,  when  it  was  finished, 
what  was  the  plot  of  the  play. 

The  recall-bugle  sounded  again,  and  the  band 
wound  away  from  the  lawn,  playing  a  gay  march. 
Followed  Lady  Roseberry  and  her  suite  of  gentlemen, 
followed  dames  and  their  daughters,  followed  all  who 
wished  to  see  the  flight  of  my  lord's  falcons.  By  a 
narrow  path  and  a  wicket-gate,  the  long  music-guided 
train  stole  out  upon  an  open  hill-side,  looking  down 
on  a  verdant  and  spreading  meadow.  The  band  play 
ed  at  a  short  distance  behind  the  gay  groups  of  spec 
tators,  and  it  was  a^pretty  picture  to  look  down  upon 
the  splendidly-dressed  falconer  and  his  men,  holding 
their  fierce  birds  upon  their  wrists,  in  their  hoods  and 
jesses,  a  foreground  of  old  chivalry  and  romance  ; 
while  far  beyond  extended,  like  a  sea  over  the  horizon, 
the  smoke-clad  pinnacles  of  busy  and  every-day  Lon 
don.  There  are  suc^^jjjL^sts  of  the  eyes  of  the 
rich  ! 

The  scarlet  hood  was  taken  from  the  trustiest 
falcon,  and  a  dove,  confined,  at  first,  with  a  string, 
was  thrown  up,  and  brought  back,  to  excite  his  altera 
tion.  As  he  fixed  his  eye  upon  him,  the  frightened 
victim  was  let  loose,  and  the  falcon  flung  off;  away 
skimmed  the  dove  in  a  low  flight  over  the  meadow, 
and  up  to  the  very  zenith,  in  circles  of  amazing  swift 
ness  and  power,  sped  the  exulting  falcon,  apparently 
forgetful  of  his  prey,  and  bound  for  the  eye  of  the  sun 
with  his  strong  wings  and  his  liberty.  The  falconer's 
whistle  and  cry  were  heard  ;  the  dove  circled  round 
the  edge  of  the  meadow  in  his  wavy  flight ;  and  down, 
with  the  speed  of  lightning,  shot  the  falcon,  striking 
his  prey  dead  to  the  earth  before  the  eye  could  settle 
on  his  foYm.  As  the  proud  bird  stood  upon  his 
victim,  looking  around  with  a  lifted  crest  and  fierce  eye, 
Lady  Imogen  Ravengold  heard,  in  a  voice  of  which 
her  heart  knew  the  music,  "  They  who  soar  highest 
strike  surest  •  the  dove  lies  in  the  falcon's  bosom." 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  afternoon  had,  meantime,  been  wearing  on, 
and  at  six  the  "breakfast"  was  announced.  The 
tents  beneath  which  the  tables  were  spread  were  in 
different  parts  of  the  grounds,  and  the  guests  had 
made  up  their  own  parties.  Each  sped  to  his  ren 
dezvous,  and  as  the  last  loiterers  disappeared  from 
the  lawn,  a  gentleman  in  a  claret  coat  and  a  brown 
study,  found  himself  stopping  to  let  a  lady  pass  who 
had  obeying  the  summons  as  tardily  as  himselt  In 
a  white  chip  hat,  Hairbault's  last,  a  few  lilies  of  the 
valley  laid  among  her  raven  curls  beneath,  a  simple 
white  robe,  the  chef-d'auvre  of  Victotine  in  style  and 
tournure,  Lady  Ravelgold  would  have  been  the  belle 
of  the  fete,  but  for  her  daughter. 

"Well  emerged  from  Lothbury  !"  she  said,  court- 
esying,  with  a  slight  flush  over  her  features,  but  im 
mediately  taking  his  arm  ;  "  I  have  lost  my  party,  and 
meeting  you  is  opportune.  Where  shall  we  breakfast?" 

There  was  a  small  tent  standing  invitingly  open  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  lawn,  and  by  the  fainter  rattle 
of  soup-spoons  from  that  quarter,  it  promised  to  be 
less  crowded  than  the  others.  The  junior  partner 
would  willingly  have  declined  the  proffered  honor,  but 


he  saw  at  a  glance  that  there  was  no  escape,  and  sub 
mitted  with  a  grace. 

"  You  know  very  few  people  here,"  said  his  fair 
creditor,  taking  the  bread  from  her  napkin. 

"Your  ladyship  and  one  other." 

"Ah,  we  shall  have  dancing  by-and-by,  and  I  must 
introduce  you  to  my  daughter.  By  the  way,  have 
you  no  nam^from  your  mother's  side  ?  '  Firkins' 
sounds  so  very  odd.  Give  me  some  prettier  word  to 
drink  in  this  champagne." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Tremlet?" 

"  Too  effeminate  for  your  severe  style  of  beauty — 
but  it  will  do.  Mr.  Tremlet,  your  health  !  Will  you 
give  me  a  little  of  the  pate  before  you?  Pray,  if  it 
is  not  indiscreet,  how  comes  that  classic  profile,  and 
more  surprising  still,  that  distinguished  look  of  yours, 
to  have  found  no  gayer  destiny  than  the  signing  of 
'  Firkins  and  Co.'  to  notes  of  hand  ?  Though  I  thought 
you  became  your  den  in  Lothbury,  upon  my  honor  you 
look  more  at  home  here." 

And  Lady  Ravengold  fixed  her  superb  eyes  upon 
the  beautiful  features  of  her  companion,  wondering 
partly  why  he  did  not  speak,  and  partly  why  she  had 
not  observed  before  that  he  was  incomparably  the 
handsomest  creature  she  had  ever  seen. 

"  I  can  regret  no  vocation,"  he  answered  after  a 
moment,  "  which  procures  me  an  acquaintance  with 
your  ladyship's  family." 

"  There  is  an  arriere  pensee  in  that  formal  speech, 
Mr.  Tremlet.  You  are  insincere.  I  am  the  only 
one  in  my  family  whom  you  know,  and  what  pleas 
ure  have  you  taken  in  my  acquaintance  ?  And,  now 
I  think  of  it,  there  is  a  mystery  about  you,  which,  but 
for  the  noble  truth  written  so  legibly  on  your  features, 
I  should  be  afraid  to  fathom.  Why  have  you  suffered 
to  over-draw  my  credit  so  enormously,  and  without 
adow  of  a  protest  ?" 

n  Lady  Ravelgold  had  disburdened  her  heart 
of  this  direct  question,  she  turned  half  round  and 
looked  her  companion  in  the  face  with  an  intense 
interest,  which  produced  upon  her  own  features  an 
expression  of  earnestness  very  uncommon  upon  their 
pale  and  impassive  lines.  She  was  one  of  those  per 
sons  of  little  thought,  who  care  nothing  for  causes  or 
consequences,  so  that  the  present  difficulty  is  removed, 
or  the  present  hour  provided  with  its  wings  ;  but  the 
repeated  relief  she  had  received  from  the  young  banker, 
when  total  ruin  would  have  been  the  consequence  of 
his  refusal,  and  his  marked  coldness  in  his  manner  to 
her,  had  stimulated  the  utmost  curiosity  of  which  she 
was  capable.  Her  vanity,  founded  upon  her  high  rank 
and  great  renown  as  a  beauty,  would  have  agreed  that 
he  might  be  willing  to  get  her  into  his  power  at  that 
price,  had  he  been  less  agreeable  in  his  own  person, 
or  more  eager  in  his  manner.  But  she  had  wanted 
money  sufficiently  to  know,  that  thirty  thousand  pounds 
are  not  a  bagatelle,  and  her  brain  was  busy  till  she  dis 
covered  the  equivalent  he  sought  for  it.  Meantime 
her  fear  that  he  would  turn  out  to  be  a  lover,  grew 
rapidly  into  a  fear  that  he  would  not. 

Lady  Ravelgold  had  been  the  wife  of  a  dissolute 
earl,  who  had  died,  leaving  his  estate  inextricably  in 
volved.  With  no  male  heir  to  the  title  or  property, 
and  no  very  near  relation,  the  beautiful  widow  shut 
her  eyes  to  the  difficulties  by  which  she  was  sur 
rounded,  and  at  the  first  decent  moment  after  the 
death  of  her  lord,  she  had  re-entered  the  gay  society 
of  which  she  had  been  the  bright  and  particular  star, 
and  never  dreamed  either  of  diminishing  her  establish 
ment,  or  of  calculating  her  possible  income.  The 
first  heavy  draft  she  had  made  upon  the  house  of 
Firkins  and  Co.,  her  husband's  bankers,  had  been  re 
turned  with  a  statement  of  the  Raveleold  debt  and 
credit  on  their  books,  by  which  it  appeared  that  Lord 
Ravelgold  had  overdrawn  four  or  five  thousand  pounds 
before  his  death,  and  that  from  some  legal  difficulties, 


LADY  RAVELGOLD. 


113 


nothing  could  be  realized  from  the  securities  given 
on  his  estates.  This  bad  news  arrived  on  the  morning 
of  a  fete  to  be  given  by  the  Russian  ambassador,  at 
which  her  only  child.  Lady  Imogen,  was  to  make  her 
debut  in  society.  AVith  the  facility  of  disposition 
which  was  peculiar  to  her,  Lady  Ravelgold  thrust  the 
papers  into  her  drawer,  and  determining  to  visit  her 
banker  on  the  following  morning,  threw  the  matter 
entirely  from  her  mind  and  made  preparations  for  the 
ball.  With  the  Russian  government  the  house  of 
Firkins  and  Co.  had  long  carried  on  very  extensive 
fiscal  transactions,  and  in  obedience  to  instructions 
from  the  emperor,  regular  invitations  for  the  embassy 
fetes  were  sent  to  the  bankers,  accepted  occasionally 
by  the  junior  partner  only,  who  was  generally  sup 
posed  to  be  a  natural  son  of  old  Firkins.  Out  of  the 
banking-house  he  was  known  as  Mr.  Tremlet,  and  it 
was  by  this  name,  which  was  presumed  to  be  his 
mother's,  that  he  was  casually  introduced  to  Lady 
Imogen  on  the  night  of  the  fete,  while  she  was  separa 
ted  from  her  mother  in  the  dancing-room.  The  con 
sequence  was  a  sudden,  deep,  ineffaceable  passion  in 
the  bosom  of  the  young  banker,  checked  and  silenced, 
but  never  lessened  or  chilled  by  tho  recollection  of 
the  obstacle  of  his  birth.  The  impression  of  his  sub 
dued  manner,  his  worshipping,  yet  most  respectful 
tones,  and  the  bright  soul  that  breathed  through  his 
handsome  features  with  his  unusual  excitement,  was, 
to  say  the  least,  favorable  upon  Lady  Imogen,  and  they 
parled  on  the  night  of  the  fete,  mutually  aware  of  each 
other's  preference. 

On  the  following  morning  Lady  Ravelgold  made 
her  proposed  visit  to  the  city  ;    and  inquiring  for  Mr. 
Firkins,  was  shown  in  as  usual  to  the  junior  partner, 
to  whom  the  colloquial  business  of  the  concern  had  j 
long  been  intrusted.     To  her  surprise  she  found  no  | 
difficulty  in  obtaining  the  sum  of  money  which  had 
been  refused  her  on  the  preceding  day — a  result  which 
she  attributed  to  her  powers  of  persuasion,  or  to  some 
new  turn  in  the  affairs  of  the  estate  ;  and  for  two  years 
these  visits  had  been  repeated  at  intervals  of  three  or  j 
four  months,  with  the  same  success,  though  not  with  j 
the  same  delusion  as  to  the  cause.     She  had  discover-  j 
ed  that  the  estate  was  worse  than  nothing,  and  the  j 
junior  partner  cared  little  to  prolong  his  tt-tcs-a-teles  \ 
with  her,  and,   up  to  the  visit  with  which  this  tale  \ 
opened,  she  had  looked  to  every  succeeding  one  with  | 
increased  fear  and  doubt. 

During  these  two  years,  Tremlet  had  seen  Lady 
Imogen  occasionally  at  balls  and   public  places,  and 
every   look  they  exchanged  wove  more  strongly  be 
tween  them  the  subtle  threads  of  love.     Once  or  twice 
she  had  endeavored  to  interest  her  mother  in  conver-  j 
sation  on  the  subject,  with  the  intention  of  making 
a  confidence  of  her  feelings  ;  but  Lady  Ravengold, 
when  not  anxious,  was  giddy  with  her  own  success, 
and  the  unfamiliar  name  never  rested  a  moment  on  her  j 
ear.     With  this  explanation  to  render  ttie   tale  in-  | 
telligible,  "  let  us,"  as  the  French  say,  "  return  to  our 
muttons." 

Of  the  conversation  between  Tremlet  and  her  moth 
er,  Lady  Imogen  was  an  unobserved  and  astonished 
witness.  The  tent  which  they  had  entered  was  large,  > 
with  a  buffet  in  the  centre,  and  a  circular  table  waited 
on  by  servants  within  the  ring  ;  and,  just  concealed 
by  the  drapery  around  the  pole,  sat  Lady  Imogen 
with  a  party  of  her  friends,  discussing  very  seriously 
the  threatened  fashion  of  tight  sleeves.  She  had  half 
risen,  when  her  mother  entered,  to  offer  her  a  seat  by 
her  side,  but  the  sight  of  Tremlet,  who  immediately 
followed,  had  checked  the  words  upon  her  lip,  and  to 
her  surprise  they  seated  themselves  on  the  side  that 
was  wholly  unoccupied,  and  conversed  in  a  tone  in 
audible  to  all  but  themselves.  Not  aware  that  her 
lover  knew  Lady  Ravelgold,  she  supposed  that  they 
might  have  beeu  casually  introduced,  till  the  earnest 


ness  of  her  mother's  manner,  and  a  certain  ease  be 
tween  them  in  the  little  courtesies  of  the  table,  assured 
her  that  this  could  not  be  their  first  interview.  Trern- 
let's  face  was  turned  from  her,  and  she  could  not 
judge  whether  he  was  equally  interested  ;  but  she 
had  been  so  accustomed  to  consider  her  mother  as 
irresistible  when  she  chose  to  please,  that  she  supposed 
it  of  course  ;  and  very  soon  the  heightened  color  of 
Lady  Ravelgold,  and  the  unwavering  look  of  mingled 
admiration  and  curiosity  which  she  bent  upon  the 
handsome  face  of  her  companion,  left  no  doubt  in  her 
mind  that  her  reserved  and  exclusive  lover  was  in  the 
dangerous  toils  of  a  rival  whose  power  she  knew. 
From  the  mortal  pangs  of  a  first  jealousy,  Heaven  send 
thee  deliverance,  fair  Lady  Imogen  ! 

"  We  shall  find  our  account  in  the  advances  on 
your  ladyship's  credit ;"  said  Tremlet,  in  reply  to  the 
direct  question  that  was  put  to  him.  "  Meantime 
permit  me  to  admire  the  courage  with  which  you  look 
so  disagreeable  a  subject  in  the  face." 

"  For  '  disagreeable  subject,'  read  '  Mr.  Tremlet.' 
I  show  my  temerity  more  in  that.  Apropos  of  faces, 
yours  would  become  the  new  fashion  of  cravat.  The 
men  at  Crockford's  slip  the  ends  through  a  ring  of 
their  lady-love's,  if  they  chance  to  have  one— thus !" 
and  untying  the  loose  knot  of  his  black  satin  cravat, 
Lady  Ravelgold  slipped  over  the  ends  a  diamond  of 
small  value,  conspicuously  set  in  pearls. 

"  The  men  at  Crockford's,"  said  Tremlet,  hesita- 
I  ting  to  commit  the  rudeness  of  removing  the  ring, 
"  are  not  of  my  school  of  manners.     If  I  had  been  so 
'  fortunate  as  to  inspire  a  lady  with  a  preference  for  me, 
j  I  should  not  advertise  it  on  my  cravat." 

"  But  suppose  the  lady  were  proud  of  her  preference 
as  dames  were  of  the  devotion  of  their  knights  in  the 
days  of  chivalry — would  you  not  wear  her  favor  as 
conspicuously  as  they  ?" 

A  flush  of  mingled  embarrassment  and  surprise 
shot  over  the  forehead  of  Tremlet,  and  he  was  turning 
the  ring  with  his  fingers,  when  Lady  Imogen,  at 
tempting  to  pass  out  of  the  tent,  was  stopped  by  her 
mother. 

"Imogen,  my  daughter!  this  is  Mr.  Tremlet.  La 
dy  Imogen  Ravelgold,  Mr.  Tremlet!" 

The  cold  and  scarce  perceptible  bow  which  the 
wounded  girl  gave  to  her  lover,  betrayed  no  previous 
acquaintance  to  the  careless  Lndy  Ravelgold.  With 
out  giving  a  second  thought  to  her  daughter,  she  held 
her  glass  for  some  champagne  to  a  passing  servant, 
and  as  Lady  Imogen  and  her  friends  crossed  the  lawn 
to  the  dancing-tent,  she  resumed  the  conversation 
which  they  had  interruptsd;  while  Tremlet,  with  his 
heart  brooding  on  the  altered  look  he  had  received, 
listened  and  replied  almost  unconsciously ;  yet  from 
;  this  very  circumstance,  in  a  manner  which  was  in 
terpreted  by  his  companion  as  the  embarrassment  of  a 
timid  and  long-repressed  passion  for  herself. 

While  Lady  Ravelgold  and  the  junior  partner  were 
i  thus  playing  at  cross  purposes  over  their  champagne 
and  bons-bons,  Grisi  and  Lablanche  were  singing  a 
duet  from  I  Puritani,  to  a  full  audience  in  the  saloon ; 
the  drinking  young  men  sat  over  their  wine  at  the 
nearly-deserted  tables;  Lady  Imogen  and  her  friends 
waltzed  to  Collinefs  band,  and  the  artisans  were  busy 
below  the  lawn,  erecting  the  machinery  for  the  fire 
works.  Meantime  every  alley  and  avenue,  grot  and 
labyrinth,  had  been  dimly  illuminated  with  colored 
lamps,  showing  like  vari-colomi  glow-worms  amid 
the  foliage  and  shells;  and  if  the  bright  scenery  of 
Rose-Eden  had  been  lovely  by  day,  it  was  fay-land 
and  witchery  by  night.  Fatal  impulse  of  our  nature, 
that  these  approaches  to  paradise  in  the  "delight  of 
,  the  eye,"  stir  only  in  our  bosoms  the  passions  upon 
''  which  law  and  holy  writ  have  put  ban  and  bridle ! 

"  Shall  we  stroll  down  this  alley  of  crimson  lamps?" 
1  said  Lady  Ravelgold,  crossing  the  lawn  from  the  tent 


114 


LADY  RAVELGOLD. 


where  their  coffee  had  been  brought  to  them,  and  put 
ting  her  slender  arm  far  into  that  of  her  now  pale  and 
silent  companion. 

A  lady  in  a  white  dress  stood  at  the  entrance  of  that 
crimson  avenue,  as  Tremlet  and  his  passionate  ad 
mirer  disappeared  beneath  the  closing  lines  of  the 
long  perspective,  and,  remaining  a  moment  gazing 
through  the  unbroken  twinkle  of  the  confusing  lamps, 
she  pressed  her  hand  hard  upon  her  forehead,  drew 
up  her  form  as  if  struggling  with  some  irrepressible 
feeling,  and  in  another  moment  was  whirling  in  the 
waltz  with  Lord  Ernest  Fitzantelope,  whose  mother 
wrote  a  complimentary  paragraph  about  their  per 
formance  for  the  next  Saturday's  Court  Journal. 

The  bugle  sounded,  and  the  band  played  a  march 
upon  the  lawn.  From  the  breakfast  tents,  from  the 
coffee-rooms,  from  the  dance,  from  the  card-tables, 
poured  all  who  wished  to  witness  the  marvels  that  lie 
in  saltpetre.  Gentlemen  who  stood  in  a  tender  attitude 
in  the  darkness,  held  themselves  ready  to  lean  the 
other  way  when  the  rockets  blazed  up,  and  mammas 
who  were  encouraging  flirtations  with  eligibles,  whis 
pered  a  caution  on  the  same  subject  to  their  less  ex 
perienced  daughters. 

Up  sped  the  missiles,  round  spun  the  wheels,  fair 
burned  the  pagodas,  swift  flew  the  fire-doves  off  and 
back  again  on  their  wires,  and  softly  floated  down 
through  the  dewy  atmosphere  of  that  May  night  the 
lambent  and  many-colored  stars,  flung  burning  from 
the  exploded  rockets.  Device  followed  device,  and 
Lady  Imogen  almost  forgot,  in  her  child's  delight  at 
the  spectacle,  that  she  had  taken  into  her  bosom  a 
green  serpent,  whose  folds  were  closing  like  suffoca 
tion  about  her  heart. 

The  finale  was  to  consist  of  a  new  light,  invented 
by  the  pyrotechnist,  promised  to  Lady  Roseberry  to 
be  several  degrees  brighter  than  the  sun — compara 
tively  with  the  quantity  of  matter.  Before  this  last 
flourish  came  a  pause ;  and  while  all  the  world  were 
murmuring  love  and  applause  around  her,  Lady 
Imogen,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  an  indefinite  point  in 
the  darkness,  took  advantage  of  the  cessation  of  light 
to  feed  her  serpent  with  thoughts  of  passionate  and 
uncontrollable  pain.  A  French  attache,  Phillipiste  to 
the  very  tips  of  his  mustache,  addressed  to  her  ear, 
meantime,  the  compliments  he  had  found  most  effect 
ive  in  the  Chaussee  d'Antin. 

The  light  burst  suddenly  from  a  hundred  blazing 
points,  clear,  dazzling,  intense — illuminating,  as  by 
the  instantaneous  burst  of  day,  the  farthest  corner  of 
Rose-Eden.  And  Monsieur  Mangepoire,  with  a 
French  contempt  for  English  fireworks,  took  advan 
tage  of  the  first  ray  to  look  into  Lady  Imogen's  eyes. 

1(1  Mais,  Miladi!"  was  his  immediate  exclamation, 
after  following  their  direction  with  a  glance,  "ce  n'est 
qu'un  tableau  vivant,  cela!  Help,  gentlemen!  Elle 
s'evanouit.  Some  salts!  Misericorde!  Mon  Dicul 
Mon  Dieu  /"  And  Lady  Imogen  Ravelgold  was  car 
ried  fainting  to  Lady  Roseberry's  chamber. 

In  a  small  opening  at  the  end  of  a  long  avenue  of 
lilacs,  extended  from  the  lawn  in  the  direction  of 
Lady  Imogen's  fixed  and  unconscious  gaze,  was  pre 
sented,  by  the  unexpected  illumination,  the  tableau 
vivant,  seen  by  her  ladyship  and  Monsieur  Mange- 

Eoire   at  the  same  instant — a  gentleman  drawn  up  to 
is  fullest  height,  with   his  arms  folded,  and  a  lady 
kneeling   on   the  ground   at  his  feet  with  her  arms 
stretched  up  to  his  bosom. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  LITTLE  after  two  o'clock  on  the  following 
"Wednesday,  Tremlet's  cabriolet  stopped  near  the 
perron  of  Willis's  rooms  in  King  street,  and  while  he 


sent  up  his  card  to  the  lady  patronesses  for  his  ticket 
to  that  night's  Almack's,  he  busied  himself  in  looking 
into  the  crowd  of  carriages  about  him,  and  reading  on 
the  faces  of  their  fair  occupants  the  hope  and  anxiety 
to  which  they  were  a  prey  till  John  the  footman 
brought  them  tickets  or  despair.  Drawn  up  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street,  stood  a  family-carriage  of 
the  old  style,  covered  with  half  the  arms  of  the  herald's 
office,  and  containing  a  fat  dowager  and  three  very  over 
dressed  daughters.  Watching  them,  to  see  the  effect 
of  their  application,  stood  upon  the  sidewalk  three  or 
four  young  men  from  the  neighboring  club-house,  and 
at  the  moment  Tremlet  was  observing  these  circum 
stances,  a  foreign  britscka,  containing  a  beautiful  wo 
man  of  a  reputation  better  understood  than  expressed 
in  the  conclave  above  stairs,  flew  round  the  corner  of 
St.  James's  street,  and  very  nearly  drove  into  the  open 
mouth  of  the  junior  partner's  cabriolet. 

"I  will  bet  you  a  Ukraine  colt  against  this  fine  bay 
of  yours,"  said  the  Russian  secretary  of  legation,  ad 
vancing  from  the  group  of  dandies  to  Tremlet,  "that 
miladi,  yonder,  with  all  the  best  blood  of  England  in 
her  own  and  her  daughters'  red  faces,  gets  no  tickets 
I  his  morning." 

"I'll  take  a  bet  upon  the  lady  who  has  nearly 
extinguished  me,  if  you  like,"  answered  Tremlet, 
gazing  with  admiration  at  the  calm,  delicate,  child 
like  looking  creature,  who  sat  before  him  in  the 
britscka. 

"No!"  said  the  secretary,  "for  Almack's  is  a  re 
public  of  beauty,  and  she'll  be  voted  in  without  either 
blood  or  virtue.  Par  e.remple,  Lady  Ravelgold 's 
voucher  is  good  here,  though  she  does  study  tableaux 
in  Lothbury — eh,  Tremlet?" 

Totally  unaware  of  the  unlucky  discovery  by  the 
fireworks  at  Lady  Roseberry's  fete,  Tremlet  colored 
and  was  inclined  to  take  the  insinuation  as  an  affront; 
but  a  laugh  from  the  dandies  drew  off  his  companion's 
attention,  and  he  observed  the  dowager's  footman 
standing  at  her  coach  window  with  his  empty  hands 
held  up  in  most  expressive  negation,  while  the  three 
young  ladies  within  sat  aghast,  in  all  the  agonies  of 
disappointed  hopes.  The  lumbering  carriage  got  into 
motion — its  ineffective  blazonry  paled  by  the  mortified 
blush  of  its  occupants — and,  as  the  junior  partner 
drove  away,  philosophizing  on  the  arbitrary  opinions 
and  unprovoked  insults  of  polite  society,  the  britsgka 
shot  by,  showing  him,  as  he  leaned  forward,  a  lovely 
woman  who  bent  on  him  the  most  dangerous  eyes  in 
London,  and  an  Almack's  ticket  lying  on  the  unoccu 
pied  cushion  beside  her. 

The  white  relievo  upon  the  pale  blue  wall  of  Al 
mack's  showed  every  crack  in  its  stucco  flowers,  and 
the  faded  chaperons 'who  had  defects  of  a  similar  de 
scription  to  conceal,  took  warning  of  the  walls,  and 
retreated  to  the  friendlier  dimness  of  the  tea-room. 
Collinet  was  beginning  the  second  set  of  quadrilles, 
and  among  the  fairest  of  the  surpassingly  beautiful 
women  who  were  moving  to  his  heavenly  music,  was 
Lady  Imogen  Ravelgold,  the  lovelier  to-night  for  the 
first  heavy  sadness  that  had  ever  dimmed  the  roses 
in  her  cheek.  Her  lady-mother  divided  her  thoughts 
between  what  this  could  mean,  and  whether  Mr. 
Tremlet  would  come  to  the  ball;  and  when,  presently 
after,  in  the  dos-a-dos,  she  forgot  to  look  at  her  daugh 
ter,  on  seeing  that  gentleman  enter,  she  lost  a  very 
good  opportunity  for  a  guess  at  the  cause  of  Lady 
Imogen's  paleness. 

To  the  pure  and  true  eye  that  appreciates  the 
divinity  of  the  form  after  which  woman  is  made,  it 
would  have  been  a  glorious  feast  to  have  seen  the  per 
fection  of  shape,  color,  motion,  and  countenance,  shown 
that  night  on  the  bright  floor  of  Almack's.  For  the 
young  and  beautiful  girls  whose  envied  destiny  is  to 
commence  their  woman's  history  in  this  exclusive 


LADY  RAVELGOLD. 


115 


hall,  there  exists  aids  to  beauty  known  to  no  other 
class  or  nation.  Perpetual  vigilance  over  every  limb 
from  the  cradle  up;  physical  education  of  a  perfec 
tion,  discipline,  and  judgment,  pursued  only  at  great 
expense  and  under  great  responsibility;  moral  educa 
tion  of  the  highest  kind,  habitual  consciousness  of 
rank,  exclusive  contact  with  elegance  and  luxury,  and 
a  freedom  of  intellectual  culture  which  breathes  a  soul 
through  the  face  before  passion  has  touched  it  with  a 
line  or  a  shade  —  these  are  some  of  the  circumstances 
which  make  Almack's  the  cynosure  of  the  world  for 
adorable  and  radiant  beauty. 

There  were  three  ladies  who  had  come  to  Almack's 
with  a  definite  object  that  night,  each  of  whom  was 
destined  to  be  surprised  and  foiled  :  Lady  Ravelgold, 
who  feared  she  had  been  abrupt  with  the  inexperienced 
banker,  but  trusted  to  find  him  softened  by  a  day  or 
two's  reflection;  Mrs.  St.  Leger,  the  lady  of  the 
britsgka,  who  had  ordered  supper  for  two  on  her  ar 
rival  at  home  from  her  morning's  drive,  and  intended 
to  have  the  company  of  the  handsome  creature  she 
had  nearly  run  over  in  King  street  ;  and  Lady  Imogen 
Ravelgold  as  will  appear  in  the  sequel. 

Tremlet  stood  in  the  entrance  from  the  tea-room  a 
moment,  gathering  courage  to  walk  alone  into  such  a 
dazzling  scene,  and  then,  having  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  glossy  lines  of  Lady  Imogen's  head  at  the  farthest 
end  of  the  room,  he  was  advancing  toward  her,  when  he 
was  addressed  by  a  lady  who  leaned  against  one  of  the 
slender  columns-  of  the  orchestra.  After  a  sweetly- 
phrased  apology  for  having  nearly  knocked  out  his 
brains  that  morning  with  her  horses'  fore  feet,  Mrs.  St. 
Leger  took  his  arm,  and  walking  deliberately  two  or 
three  times  up  and  down  the  room,  took  possession,  at 
last,  of  a  banquette  on  the  highest  range,  so  far  from  any 
other  person,  that  it  would  have  been  a  marked  rude 
ness  to  have  left  her  alone.  Tremlet  took  his  seat  by 
her  with  this  instinctive  feeling,  trusting  that  some  of 
her  acquaintances  would  soon^  approach,  and  give  him 
a  fair  excuse  to  leave  her  ;  but  he  soon  became 
amused  with  her  piquant  style  of  conversation,  and, 
not  aware  of  being  observed,  fell  into  the  attitude  of  a 
pleased  and  earnest  listener. 

Lady  Ravelgold's  feelings  during  this  petit  entre- 
tien,  were  of  a  very  positive  description.  She  had 
an  instinctive  knowledge,  and  consequently  a  jealous 
dislike  of  Mrs.  St.  Leger's  character;  and,  still  under 
the  delusion  that  the  young  banker's  liberality  was 
prompted  by  a  secret  passion  for  herself,  she  saw  her 
credit  in  the  city  and  her  hold  upon  the  affections  of 
Tremlet  (for  whom  she  had  really  conceived  a  violent 
affection),  melting  away  in  every  smile  of  the  dangerous 
woman  who  engrossed  him.  As  she  looked  around 
for  a  friend,  to  whose  ear  she  might  communicate 
Borne  of  the  suffocating  poison  in  her  own  heart,  Lady 
Imogen  returned  to  her  from  a  galopade  ;  and,  like  a 
second  dagger  into  the  heart  of  the  pure-minded  girl, 
went  this  second  proof  of  her  lover's  corrupt  principle 
and  conduct.  Unwilling  to  believe  even  hef  own  eyes 
on  the  night  of  Lady  Roseberry's  fete,  she  had  sum 
moned  resolution  on  the  road  home  to  ask  an  explana 
tion  of  her  mother.  Embarrassed  by  the  abrupt  ques 
tion,  Lady  Ravelgold  felt  obliged  to  make  a  partial 
confidence  of  the  state  of  her  pecuniary  affairs;  and 
to  clear  herself,  she  represented  Tremlet  as  having 
taken  advantage  of  her  obligations  to  him,  to  push  a 
dishonorable  suit.  The  scene  disclosed  by  the  sud 
den  blaze  of  the  fireworks  being  thus  simply  explain 
ed,  Lady  Imogen  determined  at  once  to  give  up 
Tremlet's  acquaintance  altogether;  a  resolution  which 
his  open  flirtation  with  a  woman  of  Mrs.  St.  Leger's 
character  served  to  confirm.  She  had,  however,  one 
errand  with  him,  prompted  by  her  filial  feelings  and 
favored  by  an  accidental  circumstance  which  will  ap 


pear 


. 

Do  you  believe   in   animal  magnetism?"  asked 


Mrs.  St.  Leger,  "for  by  the  fixedness  of  Lady  Ravel- 
gold's  eyes  in  this  quarter,  something  is  going  to  happen 
to  one  of  us." 

The  next  moment  the  Russian  secretary  approach 
ed  and  took  his  seat  by  Mrs.  St.  Leger,  and  with 
diplomatic  address  contrived  to  convey  to  Tremlet's 
ear  that  Lady  Ravelgold  wished  to  speak  with  him. 
The  banker  rose,  but  the  quick  wit  of  his  companion 
comprehended  the  manoeuvre. 

"  Ah  !  I  see  how  it  is,"  she  said,  "  but  stay — you'll 
sup  with  me  to-night  ?  Promise  me — parole  d'hon- 
neur  /" 

"  Parole  /"  answered  Tremlet,  making  his  way 
out  between  the  seats,  half  pleased  and  half  embar 
rassed. 

"  As  for  you,  Monsieur  le  Secretaire,"  said  Mrs. 
St.  Leger,  "  you  have  forfeited  my  favor,  and  may 
sup  elsewhere.  How  dare  you  conspire  against  me  ?" 

While  the  Russian  was  making  his  peace,  Trem 
let  crossed  over  to  Lady  Ravelgold  ;  but,  astonished 
at  the  change  in  Lady  Imogen,  he  soon  broke  in 
abruptly  upon  her  mother's  conversation,  to  ask  her 
to  dance.  She  accepted  his  hand  for  a  quadrille; 
but  as  they  walked  down  the  room  in  search  of  a  vis 
a-vis,  she  complained  of  heat,  and  asked  timidly  if  he 
would  take  her  to  the  tea-room. 

"  Mr.  Tremlet,"  she  said,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  the 
cup  of  tea  which  he  had  given  her,  and  which  she 
found  some  difficulty  in  holding,  "  I  have  come  here 
to-night  to  communicate  to  you  some  important  in 
formation,  to  ask  a  favor,  and  to  break  off  an  acquaint 
ance  which  has  lasted  too  long." 

Lady  Imogen  stopped,  for  the  blood  had  fled  from 
her  lips,  and  she  was  compelled  to  ask  his  arm  for  a 
support.  She  drew  herself  up  to  her  fullest  height 
the  next  moment,  looked  at  Tremlet,  who  stood  in 
speechless  astonishment,  and  with  a  strong  effort,  com 
menced  again  in  a  low,  firm  tone — 

"  I  have  been  acquainted  with  you  some  time,  sir, 
and  have  never  inquired,  nor  knew  more  than  your 
name,  up  to  this  day.  I  suffered  myself  to  be  pleased 
too  blindly — " 

"  Dear  Lady  Imogen  !" 

"Stay  a  moment,  sir!  I  will  proceed  directly  to 
my  business.  I  received  this  morning  a  letter  from 
the  senior  partner  of  a  mercantile  house  in  the  city, 
with  which  you  are  connected.  It  is  written  on  the 
supposition  that  I  have  some  interest  in  you,  and  in 
forms  me  that  you  are  not,  as  you  yourself  suppose, 
the  son  of  the  gentleman  who  writes  the  letter." 

"  Madam!" 

"  That  gentleman,  sir,  as  you  know,  never  was 
married.  He  informs  me  that  in  the  course  of  many 
financial  visits  to  St.  Petersburg!!,  he  formed  a  friend 
ship  with  Count  Manteuffel,  then  minister  of  finance 
to  the  emperor,  whose  tragical  end,  in  consequence 
of  his  extensive  defalcations,  is  well  known.  In 
brief,  sir,  you  were  his  child,  and  were  taken  by  this 
English  banker,  and  carefully  educated  as  his  own,  in 
happy  ignorance,  as  he  imagined,  of  your  father's  mis 
fortunes  and  mournful  death." 

Tremlet  leaned  against  the  wall,  unable  to  reply 
to  this  astounding  intelligence,  and  Lady  Imogen 
went  on. 

'"Your  title  and  estates  have  been  restored  to  you 
|  at  the  request  of  your  kind  benefactor,  and  you  are 
now  the  heir  to  a  princely  fortune,  and  a  count  of 
the  Russian  empire.  Here  is  the  letter,  sir,  which 
is  of  no  value  to  me  now.  Mr.  Tremlet !  one  word 
more,  sir." 

Lady  Imogen  grasped  for  breath. 

"  In  return,  sir,  for  much  interest  given  you  here 
tofore — in  return,  sir,  for  this  information — " 

"  Speak,  dear  Lady  Imogen  !" 

"  Spare  my  mother !" 

"  Mrs.  St.  Leger's  carriage  stops  the  way  !"  shout- 


116 


LADY  RAVELGOLD. 


ed  a  servant  at  that  moment,  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  ; 
and  as  if  there  were  a  spell  in  the  sound  to  nerve  her 
resolution  anew,  Lady  Imogen  Ravelgold  shook  the 
tears  from  her  eyes,  bowed  coldly  to  Tremlet,  and 
passed  out  into  the  dressing-room. 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  said  a  servant,  approaching  the 
amazed  banker,  "  Mrs.  St.  Leger  waits  for  you  in  her 
carriage." 

"  Will  you  come  home  and  sup  with  us  ?"  said 
Lady  Ravelgold  at  the  same  instant,  joining  him  in 
the  tea-room. 

"  I  shall  be  only  too  happy,  Lady  Ravelgold." 

The  bold  coachman  of  Mrs.  St.  Leger  continued 
to  "  stop  the  way,"  spite  of  policemen  and  infuriated 
footmen,  for  some  fifteen  minutes.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  Mr.  Tremlet  appeared,  handing  down 
Lady  Ravelgold  and  her  daughter,  who  walked  to 
their  chariot,  which  was  a  few  steps  behind;  and 
very  much  to  Mrs.  St.  Leger's  astonishment,  the 
handsome  banker  sprang  past  her  horses'  heads  a 
minute  after,  jumped  into  his  cabriolet,  which  stood 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  and  drove  after 
the  vanishing  chariot  as  if  his  life  depended  on  over 
taking  it.  Still  Mrs.  St.  Leger's  carriage  "  stopped 
the  way."  But,  in  a  few  minutes  after,  the  same 
footman  who  had  summoned  Tremlet  in  vain,  re 
turned  with  the  Russian  secretary,  doomed  in  blessed 
unconsciousness  to  play  the  pis  utter  at  her  tete-d-lete 
supper  in  Spring  Gardens. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IF  Lady  Ravelgold  showed  beautiful  by  the  un 
compromising  light  and  in  the  ornamented  hall  of 
Almack's,  she  was  radiant  as  she  came  through  the 
mirror  door  of  her  own  loved-contrived  and  beauty- 
breathing  boudoir.  Tremlet  had  been  showed  into 
this  recess  of  luxury  and  elegance  on  his  arrival,  and 
Lady  Ravelgold  and  her  daughter,  who  preceded  her 
by  a  minute  or  two,  had  gone  to  their  chambers,  the 
first  to  make  some  slight  changes  in  her  toilet,  and 
the  latter  (entirely  ignorant  of  her  lover's  presence  in 
the  house),  to  be  alone  with  a  heart  never  before  in 
such  painful  need  of  self-abandonment  and  solitude. 

Tremlet  looked  about  him  in  the  enchanted  room 
in  which   he  found  himself  alone,  and,  spite  of  the  I 
prepossessed  agitation  of  his  feelings,  the  voluptuous  j 
beauty  of  every  object  had  the  effect  to  divert  and 
tranquillize  him.     The  light  was  profuse,  but  it  came  ) 
softened  through  the  thinnest  alabaster ;  and  while  I 
every  object  in  the  room  was  distinctly  and  minutely  j 
visible,  the  effect  of  moonlight  was  not  more  soft  and 
dreamy.     The  general  form  of  the  boudoir  was  an 
oval,  but  within  the  pilasters  of  folded  silk  with  their 
cornices  of  gold,  lay  crypts  containing  copies  exquisite 
ly  done  in  marble  of  the  most  graceful  statues  of  an 
tiquity,  one  of  which  seemed,  by  the  curtain  drawn 
quite  aside  and  a  small  antique  lamp  burning  near  it, 
to  be  the  divinity  of  the  place — the  Greek  Antinous, 
with  his  drooped  head  and  full,  smooth  limbs,  the 
most  passionate  and  life-like  representation  of  voluptu 
ous  beauty  that   intoxicates  the  slumberous  air  of 
Italy.     Opposite  this,  another  niche  contained  a  few 
books,  whose  retreating  shelves  swung  on  a   secret 
door,  and  as  it  stood  half  open,  the  nodding  head  of  a  | 
snowy  magnolia  leaned  through,  as  if  pouring  from 
the  lips  of  its  broad  chalice  the  mingled  odors  of  the 
unseen  conservatory  it  betrayed.     The  first  sketch  in 
crayons  of  a  portrait  of  Lady  Ravelgold  by  young 
Lawrence,  stood  against  the  wall,  with  the  frame  half 
buried  in  a  satin  ottoman  ;  and,  as  Tremlet  stood  be 
fore  it,  admiring  the  clear,  classic  outline  of  the  head 
and  bust,  and  wondering  in  what  chamber  of  his  brain 
the  gifted  artist  had  found  the  beautiful  drapery  in 


which  he  had  drawn  her,  the  dim  light  glanced  faintly 
on  the  left,  and  the  broad  mirror  by  which  he  had 
entered  swung  again  on  its  silver  hinges,  and  admitted 
the  very  presentment  of  what  he  gazed  on.  Lady 
Ravelgold  had  removed  the  jewels  from  her  hair,  and 
the  robe  of  wrought  lace,  which  she  had  worn  that 
night  over  a  boddice  of  white  satin  laced  loosely  below 
the  bosom.  In  the  place  of  this  she  had  thrown  upon 
her  shoulders  a  flowing  wrapper  of  purple  velvet, 
made  open  after  the  Persian  fashion,  with  a  short  and 
large  sleeve,  and  embroidered  richly  with  gold  upon, 
the  skirts.  Her  admirable  figure,  gracefully  defined 
by  the  satin  petticoat  and  boddice,  showed  against  the 
gorgeous  purple  as  it  flowed  back  in  her  advancing 
motion,  with  a  relief  which  would  have  waked  the  very 
soul  of  Titian ;  her  complexion  was  dazzling  and 
faultless  in  the  flattering  light  of  her  own  rooms  ;  and 
there  are  those  who  will  read  this  who  know  how  the 
circumstances  which  surround  a  woman — luxury, 
elegance,  taste,  or  the  opposite  of  these — enhance  or 
dim,  beyond  help  or  calculation,  even  the  highest  order 
of  woman's  beauty. 

Lady  Ravelgold  held  a  bracelet  in  her  hand  as  she 
came  in. 

"  In  my  own  house,"  she  said,  holding  the  glitter 
ing  jewel  to  Tremlet,  "  1  have  a  fancy  for  the  style 
antique.  Tasseline,  my  maid,  has  gone  to  bed,  and 
you  must  do  the  devoir  of  a  knight,  or  an  abigail,  and 
loop  up  this  Tyrian  sleeve.  Stay — look  first  at  the 
model — that  small  statue  of  Cytheris,  yonder !  Not 
the  shoulder — for  you  are  to  swear  mine  is  prettier — 
but  the  clasp.  Fasten  it  like  that.  So!  Now  take 
me  for  a  Grecian  nymph  the  rest  of  the  evening." 

"  Lady  Ravelgold!" 

"  Hermione  or  Aglae,  if  you  please  !  But  let  us 
ring  for  supper !" 

As  the  bell  sounded,  a  superb  South  American 
trulian  darted  in  from  the  conservatory,  and,  spread 
ing  his  gorgeous  black  and  gold  wings  a  moment 
over  the  alabaster  shoulder  of  Lady  Ravelgold,  as  if 
he  took  a  pleasure  in  prolonging  the  first  touch  as 
he  alighted,  turned  his  large  liquid  eye  fiercely  on. 
Tremlet. 

"  Thus  it  is,"  said  Lady  Ravelgold,  "  we  forget  our 
old  favorites  in  our  new.  See  how  jealous  he  is  !" 

"  Supper  is  served,  miladi !"  said  a  servant  entering. 

"  A  hand  to  each,  then,  for  the  present,"  she  said, 
putting  one  into  Tremlet's,  and  holding  up  the  trulian 
with  the  other.  _  "  He  who  behaves  best  shall  drink 
first  with  me." 

"  I  beg  your  ladyship's  pardon,"  said  Tremlet, 
drawing  back,  and  looked  at  the  servant,  who  im 
mediately  left  the  room.  "  Let  us  understand  each 
other!  Does  Lady  Imogen  sup  with  us  to-night  ?" 

"  Lady  Imogen  has  retired,"  said  her  mother,  in 
some  surprise. 

"  Then,  madam,  will  you  be  seated  one  moment  and 
listen  to  me  ?" 

Lady  Ravelgold  sat  down  on  the  nearest  ottoman, 
with  the  air  of  a  person  too  high  bred  to  be  taken  by 
surprise,  but  the  color  deepened  to  crimson  in  the 
centre  of  her  cheek,  and  the  bird  on  her  hand  be 
trayed  by  one  of  his  gurgling  notes  that  he  was  held 
more  tightly  than  pleased  him.  With  a  calm  and  de 
cisive  tone,  Tremlet  went  through  the  explanation 
given  in  the  previous  parts  of  this  narration.  He  de 
clared  his  love  for  Lady  Imogen,  his  hopes  (while  he 
had  doubts  of  his  birth)  that  Lady  Ravelgold's  increas 
ing  obligations  and  embarrassments  and  his  own  wealth 
might,  weigh  against  his  disadvantages ;  and  now,  his 
honorable  descent  being  established,  and  his  rank  en 
titling  him  to  propose  for  her  hand,  he  called  upon 
Lady  Ravelgold  to  redeem  her  obligations  to  him  by 
an  immediate  explanation  to  her  daughter  of  his  con 
duct  toward  herself,  and  by  lending  her  whole  influ 
ence  to  the  success  of  his  suit. 


LADY  RAVELGOLD. 


117 


Five  minutes  are  brief  time  to  change  a  lover  into  a 
son-in-law  ;  and  Lady  Ravelgold,  as  we  have  seen  in 
the  course  of  this  story,  was  no  philosopher.  She 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  sat  silent  for  a  while 
after  Tremlet  had  concluded  :  but  the  case  was  a  very 
clear  one.  Ruin  and  mortification  were  in  one  scale, 
mortification  and  prosperity  in  the  other.  She  rose, 
pale  but  decided,  and  requesting  Monsieur  le  conte 
Manteuffel  to  await  her  a  few  minutes,  ascended  to 
her  daughter's  chamber. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  said  a  servant,  entering  in  about 
half  an  hour,  "  miladi  and  Lady  Imogen  beg  that  you 
will  join  them  in  the  supper-room." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  spirit  of  beauty,  if  it  haunt  in  such  artificial  at 
mospheres  as  Belgrave  square,  might  have  been  pleased 
to  sit  invisibly  on  the  vacant  side  of  Lady  Ravelgold's 
table.  Tremlet  had  been  shown  in  by  the  servant  to  a 
small  apartment,  built  like  a  belvidere  over  the  garden, 
half  boudoir  in  its  character,  yet  intended  as  a  supper- 
room,  and  at  the  long  window  (opening  forth  upon 
descending  terraces  laden  with  flowers,  and  just  now 
flooded  with  the  light  of  a  glorious  moon)  stood  Lady 
Imogen,  with  her  glossy  head  laid  against  the  case 
ment,  and  the  palm  of  her  left  hand  pressed  close  upon 
her  heart.  If  those  two  lights — the  moon  faintly  shed 
off  from  the  divine  curve  of  her  temple,  and  the  stained 
rose-lamp  pouring  its  mellow  tint  full  on  the  heavenly 


sured  him  that  she  had  obtained  a  victory  over  herself. 
Shrinking  immediately,  however,  from  anything  like 
sentiment  (with  the  nervous  dread  of  pathos  so  pecu 
liar  to  the  English),  she  threw  off  her  trulian,  that 
made  a  circle  and  alighted  on  the  emerald  bracelet  of 
Lady  Imogen,  and  rang  the  bell  for  coffee. 

"I  (latter  myself,  Mr.  Tremlet,"  she  said,  "that  I 
have  made  a  new  application  of  the  homoeopathic  phi 
losophy.  Hahnemann,  they  say,  cures  fevers  by  ag 
gravating  the  disease  ;  and  when  I  can  not  sleep,  I 
drink  coffee.  J'en  suis  passablement  fitre  !  You  did 
not  know  I  was  a  philosopher  ?" 

"  No,  indeed  !" 

"  Well,  take  some  of  this  spiced  mocha.  I  got  it  of 
the  Turkish  ambassador,  to  whom  I  made  beaux  yeux 
on  purpose.  Stop  !  you  shall  have  it  in  the  little  tin 
sel  cups  he  sent  me.  George,  bring  those  filagree 
things  !  Now,  Mr.  Tremlet,  imagine  yourself  in  the 
serail  du  Bosphore — Imogen  and  I  two  lovely  Circas- 
|  sians,  par  exemple!  Is  it  not  delicious  ?  Talking  of 
|  the  Bosphorus,  nobody  was  classical  enough  to  under- 
:  stand  the  device  in  my  coiffure  to-night." 

"What  was  it?"  asked  Tremlet,  absently,  gazing 
I  while  he  spoke,  with  eyes  of  envy  at  the  trulian,  who 
!  was  whetting  his  bill  backward  and  forward  on  the 
!  clear  bright  lips  of  Lady  Imogen. 

"  Do  you  think  my  profile  Grecian  ?"  asked  Lady 
Ravelgold. 

"  Perfectly !" 

"And  my  hair  is  coiffed  a  la  Grec ?" 

"  Most  becomingly." 

"  But  still  you  won't  see  my  golden  grasshopper  ! 


shape  and  whiteness  of  her  shoulder  and  neck — if  those  ||  Do  you  happen  to  know,  sir,  that  to  wear  the  golden 
two  lights,  I  say,  could  have  been  skilfully  managed,   !  grasshopper  was  the  birthright  of  an  Athenian  ?   I  saw 
re  you  might  have  made     it  in  a  book.    Well  !   I  had  to  explain  it  to  everybody. 


Mr.  Lawrence  !  what  a  picture  you  might  hav 
of  Lady  Imogen  Ravelgold  ! 

"  Imogen,  my  daughter  !  Mr.  Tremlet !"  said  her 
mother  as  he  entered. 

Without  changing  her  position,  she  gave  him  the 
hand  she  had  been  pressing  on  her  heart. 

"  Mr.  Tremlet  !"  said  Lady  Ravelgold,  evidently 
entering  into  her  daughter's  embarrassment,  "  trouble 
yourself  to  come  to  the  table  and  give  me  a  bit  of  this 
pheasant.  Imogen,  George  waits  to  give  you  some 
champagne." 

"  Can  you  forgive  me  ?"  said  the  beautiful  girl,  be 
fore  turning  to  betray  her  blushing  cheek  and  suffused 
eyes  to  her  mother. 

Tremlet  stopped  as  if  to  pluck  a  leaf  from  the  ver 
bena  at  her  feet,  and  passed  his  lips  over  the  slight  fin 
gers  he  held. 

"  Pretty  trulian  !"  murmured  Lady  Ravelgold  to  her 
bird,  as  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  her  champagne-glass, 
and  curving  his  superb  neck  nearly  double,  contrived 
to  drink  from  the  sparkling  brim — "  pretty  trulian  ! 


By-the-way,  what  did  that  gambler,  George  Heriot 
mean,  by  telling  me  that  its  legs  should  be  black  ?— 
'All  Greeks  have  black  legs,'  said  he,  yawning  in  his 
stupid  way.  What  did  he  mean,  Mr.  Tremlet  ?" 

"  '  Greeks'  and  blacklegs  are  convertible  terms.  He 
thought  you  were  more  au  fait  of  the  slang  dictionary. 
Will  you  permit  me  to  coax  my  beautiful  rival  from 
your  hand,  Lady  Imogen  ?" 

She  smiled,  and  put  forward  her  wrist,  with  a  bend 
of  its  slender  and  alabaster  lines  which  would  have 
i  drawn  a  sigh  from  Praxiteles.  The  trulian  glanced 
his  fiery  eyes  from  his  mistress's  face  to  Tremlet's, 
and  as  the  strange  hand  was  put  out  to  take  him  from 
his  emerald  perch,  he  flew  with  the  quickness  of  light 
ning  into  the  face  of  her  lover,  and  buried  the  sharp 
beak  in  his  lip.  The  blood  followed  copiously,  and 
Lady  Imogen,  startled  from  her  timidity,  sprang  from 
her  chair  and  pressed  her  hands  one  after  the  other 
upon  the  wound,  in  passionate  and  girlish  abandon 
ment.  Lady  Ravelgold  hurried  to  her  dressing-room 


»u  will  be,merry  after  this  !    What  ancient  Sybarite,   j  for  something   to  stanch  the  wound,  and,  left  alone 
ink   you,  Mr.   Tremlet,  inhabits  the  body  of  this  !   with  the  divine  creature  who  hung  over  him,  Tremlet 


you 

think 

bright  bird  ?    Look  up,  mignon,  and  tell  usif^'ou  were 

Hylas  or  Alcibiades  !  Is  the  pheasant  good,  Mr.  Trem 

let  ?" 

"  Too  good  to  come  from  Hades,  miladi.  Is  it  true 
that  you  have  your  table  supplied  from  Crockford's  ?" 

"  Tout  bonnement!  I  make  it  a  principle  to  avoid  all 
great  anxieties,  and  I  can  trust  nobody  but  Ude.  He 
sends  my  dinners  quite  hot,  and  if  there  is  a  particular 
dish  of  game,  he  drives  round  at  the  hour  and  gives  it  ! 


drew  her  to  his  bosom  and  pressed  his  cheek  long  nnd 
!  closely  to  hers,  while  to  his  lips,  as  if  to  keep  in  life, 

i  clung  her  own  crimsoned  and  trembling  fingers. 
"  Imogen  !"  said  Lady  Ravelgold,  entering,  "  take 
him  to  the  fountain  in  the  garden  and  wash  the  wound  ; 
|  then  put  on  this  bit  of  gold-beater's  skin.    I  will  come 
to  you  when  I  have  locked  up  the  trulian.     Is  it  pain- 
•  ful,  Mr.  Tremlet  ?" 

Tremlet  could  not  trust  his  voice  to  answer,  but 


, 

the  last  turn  in  my  own  kitchen.     I  should  die,  to  be  jj  with  his  arm  still  around  Lady  Imogen,  he  descended 
responsible  for  my  dinners.     I  don't  know  how  people  I    by  the  terrace  of  flowers^  to  the  fountain 


get  on  that  have  no  grand  artiste-  Pray,  Mr.  Trem 
let  (I  beg  pardon — Monsieur  le  conte,  perhaps  I  should 
say  ?") 

"  No,  no,  I  implore  you  !  '  Tremlet'  has  been  spoken 
too  musically  to  be  so  soon  forgotten.  Tremlet  or 
Charles,  which  you  will !" 

Lady  Ravelgold  put  her  hand  in  his,  and  looked 
from  his  face  to  her  daughter's  with,  a  smile,  which  as- 


They  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the  marble  basin,  and 
the  moonlight  striking  through  the  jet  of  the  fountain, 
descended  upon  them  like  a  rain  of  silver.    Lndy  Imo- 
I  gen  had  recovered  from  her  fright,  and  buried  her  face 
1  in  her  hands,  remembering  into  what  her  feelings  had 
'  betrayed  her ;  and  Tremlet,  sometimes  listening  to  the 
clear  bell-like  music  of  the  descending  water,  some 
times  uttering  the  broken  sentences  which  are  most 


118 


PALETTO'S  BRIDE, 


eloquent  in  love,  sat  out  the  hours  till  the  stars  began 
to  pale,  undisturbed  by  Lady  Ravelgold,  who,  on  the 
upper  stair  of  the  terrace,  read  by  a  small  lamp,  which, 
in  the  calm  of  that  heavenly  summer  night,  burned 
unflickeringly  in  the  open  air. 


It  was  broad  daylight  when  Tremlet,  on  foot,  saun 
tered  slowly  past  Hyde  Park  corner  on  his  way  to  the 
Albany.  The  lamps  were  still  struggling  with  the 
brightening  approach  to  sunrise,  the  cabmen  and  their 
horses  slept  on  the  stand  by  the  Green  Park,  and  with 
cheerful  faces  the  laborers  went  to  their  work,  and  with 
haggard  faces  the  night-birds  of  dissipation  crept  wea 
rily  home.  The  well-ground  dust  lay  in  confused  heel- 
marks  on  the  sidewalk,  a  little  dampened  by  the  night- 
dew  ;  the  atmosphere  in  the  street  was  clear,  as  it  never 
is  after  the  stir  of  day  commences  ;  a  dandy,  stealing 
out  from  Crockford's,  crossed  Piccadilly,  lifting  up  his 
head  to  draw  in  long  breaths  of  the  cool  air,  after  the 
closeness  of  over-lighted  rooms  and  excitement ;  and 
Tremlet,  marking  none  of  these  things,  was  making 
his  way  through  a  line  of  carnages  slowly  drawing  up 
to  take  off  their  wearied  masters  from  a  prolonged  fete 
at  Devonshire  house,  when  a  rude  hand  clapped  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

"  Monsieur  Tremlet !" 

" jl/i,  Baron!  bien  bonjouT.1" 

"  Bien  rencontre,  Monsieur  !  You  have  insulted  a 
lady  to-night,  who  has  confided  her  cause  to  my  hands. 
Madam  St.  Leger,  sir,  is  without  a  natural  protector, 
and  you  have  taken  advantage  of  her  position  to  insult 
her — grossly,  Mr.  Tremlet,  grossly !" 

Tremlet  looked  at  the  Russian  during  this  extraor 
dinary  address,  and  saw  that  he  was  evidently  highly 
excited  with  wine.  He  drew  him  aside  into  Berkeley 
street,  and  in  the  calmest  manner  attempted  to  explain 
what  was  not  very  clear  to  himself.  He  had  totally 
forgotten  Mrs.  St.  Leger.  The  diplomate,  though 
quite  beyond  himself  with  his  excitement,  had  suffi 
cient  perception  left  to  see  the  weak  point  of  his  state 
ment  ;  and  infuriated  with  the  placid  manner  in  which 
he  attempted  to  excuse  himself,  suddenly  struck  his 
glove  into  his  face,  and  turned  upon  his  heel.  They 
had  been  observed  by  a  policeman,  and  at  the  moment 
that  Tremlet,  recovering  from  his  astonishment,  sprang 
forward  to  resent  the  blow,  the  gray-coated  guardian 
of  the  place  laid  his  hand  upon  his  collar  and  detained 
him  till  the  baron  had  disappeared. 

More  than  once  on  his  way  to  the  Albany,  Tremlet 
surprised  himself  forgetting  both  the  baron  and  the  in 
sult,  and  feeding  his  heart  in  delicious  abandonment 
with  the  dreams  of  his  new  happiness.  He  reached 
his  rooms  and  threw  himself  on  the  bed,  forcing  from 
his  rnind,  with  a  strong  effort,  the  presence  of  Lady 
Imogen,  and  trying  to  look  calmly  on  the  unpleasant 
circumstance  before  him.  A  quarrel  which,  the  day 
before,  he  would  have  looked  upon  merely  as  an  in 
convenience,  or  which,  under  the  insult  of  a  blow,  he 
would  have  eagerly  sought,  became  now  an  almost  in 
supportable  evil.  When  he  reflected  on  the  subject 
of  the  dispute — a  contention  about  a  woman  of  doubt 
ful  reputation  taking  place  in  the  same  hour  with  a 
first  avowal  from  the  delicate  and  pure  Lady  Imogen — 
when  he  remembered  the  change  in  his  fortunes, 
which  he  had  as  yet  scarcely  found  time  to  realize — 
on  the  consequences  to  her  who  was  so  newly  dear  to 
him,  and  on  all  he  might  lose,  now  that  life  had  be 
come  invaluable — his  thoughts  were  almost  too  painful 
to  bear.  How  seldom  do  men  play  with  an  equal  stake 
in  the  game  of  taking;  life,  and  how  strange  it  is  that 
equality  of  weapons  is  the  only  comparison  made  ne 
cessary  by  the  laws  of  honor  ! 

Tremlet  was  not  a  man  to  be  long  undecided.  He 
rose,  after  an  hour's  reflection,  and  wrote  as  fol 
lows  : — 


"  BARON  :  Before  taking  the  usual  notice  of  the  oc 
currence  of  this  morning,  I  wish  to  rectify  one  or  two 
points  in  which  our  position  is  false.  I  find  myself, 
since  last  night,  the  accepted  lover  of  Lady  Imogen 
Ravelgold,  and  the  master  of  estates  and  title  as  a 
count  of  the  Russian  empire.  Under  the  etourdisse- 
ment  of  such  sudden  changes  in  feelings  and  fortune, 
perhaps  my  forgetfulness  of  the  lady,  in  whose  cause 
you  are  so  interested,  admits  of  indulgence.  At  any 
rate,  I  am  so  newly  in  love  with  life,  that  I  am  willing 
to  suppose  for  an  hour  that  had  you  known  these  cir 
cumstances,  you  would  have  taken  a  different  view  of 
the  offence  in  question.  I  shall  remain  at  home  till 
two,  and  it  is  in  your  power  till  then  to  make  me  the 
reparation  necessary  to  my  honor.  Yours,  etc., 

"  TREMLET." 

There  was  a  bridal  on  the  following  Monday  at  St. 
George's  church,  and  the  Russian  secretary  stood  be 
hind  the  bridegroom.  Lady  Ravelgold  had  never  been 
seen  so  pale,  but  her  face  was  clear  of  all  painful  feel 
ing  ;  and  it  was  observed  by  one  who  knew  her  well, 
that  her  beauty  had  acquired,  during  the  brief  engage 
ment  of  her  daughter,  a  singular  and  undefinable  ele 
vation.  As  the  carriages  with  their  white  favors  turned 
into  Bond  street,  on  their  way  back  to  Belgrave  square, 
the  cortege  was  checked  by  the  press  of  vehicles,  and 
the  Russian,  who  accompanied  Lady  Ravelgold  in  her 
chariot,  found  himself  opposite  the  open  britscka  of  a 
lady  who  fixed  her  glass  full  upon  him  without  recog 
nising  a  feature  of  his  face. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  affronted  Mrs.  St.  Leger, 
baron  !"  said  Lady  Ravelgold. 

"  Or  I  should  not  have  been  here  !"  said  the  Rus 
sian  ;  and  as  they  drove  up  Piccadilly,  he  had  just  time 
between  Bond  street  and  Milton  Crescent  to  tell  her 
ladyship  the  foregone  chapter  of  this  story. 

The  trulian,  on  that  day,  was  fed  with  wedding-cake, 
and  the  wound  on  Mr.  Tremlet's  lip  was  not  cured  by 
Jetting  alone. 


PALETTO'S  BRIDE, 

CHAPTER  I. 

"  As  a  fish  will  sometimes  gather  force,  and,  with  a  longing,  per 
haps,  for  the  brightness  of  upper  air,  leap  from  its  prescribed  ele 
ment,  and  glitter  a  moment  among  the  birds,  so  will  there  be  found 
men  whose  souls  revolt  against  destiny,  and  make  a  fiery  pluck  at 
things  above  them.  But,  like  the  fish,  who  drops,  panting,  with 
dry  scales,  backward,  the  aspiring  man  oftenest  regrets  the  native 
element  he  has  left ;  and,  with  the  failure  of  his  unnatural  effort, 
drops  back,  content,  to  obscurity."— JEREMY  TAYLOR. 

"  MY  daughter!"  said  the  count  Spinola. 

The  lady  so  addressed  threw  off  a  slight  mantle  and 
turned  her  fair  features  inquiringly  to  her  father.  Heed 
less  of  the  attention  he  had  arrested,  the  abstracted 
count  paced  up  and  down  the  marble  pavement  of  his 
hall,  and  when,  a  moment  after,  Francesca  came  to 
him  for  his  good-night  kiss,  he  imprinted  it  silently 
on  her  forehead,  and  stepped  out  on  the  balcony  to 
pursue,  under  the  aiding  light  of  the  stars,  thoughts 
that  were  more  imperative  than  sleep. 

There  had  been  a  fete  of  great  splendor  in  the  ducal 
gardens  of  the  Boboli,  and  Francesca  Spinola  had 
|  shown  there,  as  usual,  the  most  radiant  and  worship 
ped  daughter  of  the  nobilita  of  Florence.  The  mel- 
'  ancholy'duke  himself  (this  was  in  the  days  of  his  first 
marriage)  had  seemed  even  gay  in  presenting  her  with 
flowers" which  he  had  gathered  at  her  side,  with  the 
dew  on  them  (in  an  alley  glittering  with  the  diamonds  on 
noble  bosoms,  and  dewdrops  on  roses  that  would  slum 
ber,  though  it  was  the  birth-night  of  a  princess),  and 


PALETTO'S  BRIDE. 


119 


marked  as  was  the  royal  attention  to  the  envied  beauty, 
it  was  more  easily  forgiven  her  than  her  usual  tri 
umphs — for  it  cost  no  one  a  lover.  True  to  his  con 
jugal  vows,  the  sad- featured  monarch  paid  to  beauty 
only  the  homage  exacted  alike  by  every  most  admira 
ble  work  of  nature. 

The  grand-duke  Leopold  had  not  been  the  only  ad 
mirer  whose  attentions  to  Francesca  Spinola  had  been 
remarked.  A  stranger,  dressed  with  a  magnificence 
that  seemed  more  fitted  for  a  masquerade  than  a  court- 
ball,  and  yet  of  a  mien  that  promised  danger  to  the 
too  inquisitive,  had  entered  alone,  and,  marking  out  the 
daughter  of  the  haughty  count  from  the  first,  had 
procured  an  introduction,  no  one  knew  how,  and 
sought  every  opportunity  which  the  intervals  of  the 
dance  afforded,  to  place  himself  at  her  side.  Occu 
pied  with  the  courtly  devoirs  of  his  rank,  the  count 
was,  for  a  while,  unaware  of  what  struck  almost  every 
one  else,  and  it  was  only  when  the  stranger's  name 
was  inquired  of  him  by  the  duke,  that  his  dark  and 
jealous  eye  fell  upon  a  face  whose  language  of  kindling 
and  undisguised  admiration  a  child  would  have  inter 
preted  aright.  It  was  one  of  those  faces  that  are  of 
no  degree — that  may  belong  to  a  barbaric  king,  or  to 
a  Greek  slave — that  no  refinement  would  improve,  and 
no  servile  habits  degrade;  faces  which  lake  their 
changes  from  an  indomitable  and  powerful  soul,  and 
are  beyond  the  trifling  impression  of  the  common  usages 
of  life.  Spinola  was  offended  with  the  daring  and 
passionate  freedom  of  the  stranger's  gaze  upon  his 
daughter;  but  he  hesitated  to  interrupt  their  conver 
sation  too  rudely.  He  stayed  to  exchange  a  compli 
ment  with  some  fair  obstruction  in  his  way  across  the 
crowded  saloon,  and,  in  the  next  moment,  Francesca 
stood  alone. 

"Who  left  you  this  moment,  my  Francesca?"  asked 
the  count,  with  affected  unconcern. 

"I  think,  a  Venetian,"  she  answered. 

"And  his  name?" 

"  I  know  not,  my  father !" 

The  count's  face  flashed. 

•'Who  presented  him  to  my  darling?"  he  asked, 
again  forcing  himself  to  composure. 

Francesca  colored ;  and,  with  downcast  eyes,  an 
swered  : — 

"No  one,  my  father!  He  seemed  to  know  me,  and 
I  thought  I  might  have  forgotten  him." 

Spinola  turned  on  his  heel,  and,  after  a  few  vain  in 
quiries,  and  as  vain  a  search  for  the  stranger,  ordered 
his  attendants,  and  drove  silently  home. 

It  was  close  upon  the  gray  of  the  morning,  and  the 
count  still  leaned  over  the  stone-railing  of  his  balcony. 
Francesca  had  been  gone  an  hour  to  her  chamber. 
A  guitar-string  sounded  from  the  street  below,  and,  a  { 
moment  after,  a  manly  and  mellow  voice  broke  into  a  | 
Venetian  barcarole,  and  sang  with  a  skill  and  tender-  | 
ness  which  a  vestal  could  scarce  have  listened»to  un 
moved.  Spinola  stepped  back  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
his  sword  ;  but,  changing  his  thought,  he  took  a  lamp 
from  the  wall  within,  and  crept  noiselessly  to  his 
daughter's  chamber.  She  lay  within  her  silken  cur 
tains,  with  her  hands  crossed  on  her  bosom,  and  from 
her  parted  lips  came  the  low  breath  of  innocent  and 
untroubled  sleep.  Reassured,  the  count  closed  her 
window  and  extinguished  his  lamp;  and,  when  the 
guitar  was  no  longer  heard  echoing  from  the  old 
palace  walls,  and  the  rich  voice  of  the  serenader  had 
died  away  with  his  footsteps,  the  lord  of  the  Palazzo 
Spinola  betook  himself  to  sleep  with  a  heart  somewhat 
relieved  of  its  burden. 

On  the  following  day,  the  count  pleaded  the  early- 
coming  heats  of  summer;  and,  with  slight  prepara 
tion,  left  Florence  for  his  summer-palace  in  the  Ap 
ennines.     When  Francesca  joined  him  cheerfully,  and  , 
even  gayly,  in   his  sudden  plan,   he  threw  aside  the  I 
jealous  fears  that  had  haunted  his  breast,  and  forgot  | 


the  stranger  and  his  barcarole.  The  old  trees  of  his 
maison  de  plaisance  were  heavy  with  the  leaves  of  the 
Italian  May;  the  statues  stood  cool  in  the  shade;  the 
mountain  rivulets  forgot  their  birth  in  the  rocky 
brooks,  and  ran  over  channels  of  marble,  and  played 
up  through  cactus-leaves  and  sea-shells,  and  nereids' 
horns,  all  carved  by  the  contemporaries  of  Donatello. 
"  And  here,"  thought  the  proud  noble,  "I  am  a  Vecart 
of  the  designs  of  adventurers,  and  the  temptations  and 
dangers  of  gayety,  and  the  child  of  my  hopes  will  re 
fresh  her  beauty  and  her  innocence,  under  the  watchful 
eye,  ever  present,  of  my  love. 

Francesca  Spinola  was  one  of  those  Italian  natures 
of  which  it  is  difficult  for  the  inhabitants  of  other 
climes  to  conceive.  She  had  no  feelings.  She  had 
passions.  She  could  love — but  it  sprang  in  an  instant 
to  its  fullest  power — and  maidenly  reserve  and  hesita 
tion  were  incompatible  with  its  existence.  She  had 
listened,  unmoved,  to  all  the  adulation  of  the  duke's 
court,  and  had  been  amused  with  the  devotion  of  all 
around  her — but  never  touched.  The  voice  of  the 
stranger  at  the  fete  of  the  Boboli — the  daring  words 
he  had  addressed  to  her — had  arrested  her  attention  ; 
and  it  needed  scarce  the  hour — which  flew  like  a  mo 
ment  at  his  side — to  send  a  new  sensation,  like  a  tem 
pest,  through  her  heart.  She  reasoned  upon  nothing 
— asked  nothing  ;  but,  while  she  gave  up  her  soul 
wholly  to  a  passion  hitherto  unfelt,  the  deep  dissimula 
tion  which  seems  a  natural  part  of  the  love  of  that 
burning  clime,  prompted  her,  by  an  unquestioned  im 
pulse,  to  conceal  it  entirely  from  her  father.  She  had 
counterfeited  sleep  when  nearly  surprised  in  listening 
to  the  barcarole,  and  she  had  little  need  to  counterfeit 
joy  at  her  departure  for  the  mountains. 

The  long  valley  of  the  Arno  lay  marked  out  upon 
the  landscape  by  a  wreath  of  vapor,  stealing  up  as  if 
enamored  of  the  fading  color  of  the  clouds;  and  far 
away,  like  a  silver  bar  on  the  rim  of  the  horizon,  shone 
the  long  line  of  the  Mediterranean.  The  mountain 
sides  lay  bathed  in  azure;  and,  echoing  from  the 
nearest,  came  the  vesper-bells  of  Vallombrosa.  Peace 
and  purity  were  stamped  upon  the  hour. 

"  My  child,"  said  the  softened  count,  drawing  Fran 
cesca  to  his  bosom,  as  they  stood  looking  off  upon 
this  scene  from  the  flowery  terrace  beneath  the  por 
tico;  "does  my  child  love  me?" 

Francesca  placed  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders  and 
kissed  him  for  reply. 

"I  feel  impelled,"  he  continued,  "to  talk  to  you 
while  this  beautiful  hour  is  around  us,  of  an  affection 
that  resembles  it." 

"  Resembles  the  sunset,  my  father  ?" 

"  Yes  !  Shall  I  tell  you  how  ?  By  affecting  with 
its  soft  influence  every  object  under  the  bend  of  the 
sky !  My  Francesca !  there  are  parents  who  love 
their  children,  and  love  them  well,  and  yet  find  feel 
ings  for  other  attachments,  and  devotion  for  every 
other  interest  in  life.  Not  so  mine !  My  love  for 
my  child  is  a  whole  existence  poured  into  hers. 
Look  at  me,  Francesca!  I  am  not  old.  I  am  capa 
ble,  perhaps,  of  other  love  than  a  parent's.  There  are 
among  the  young  and  beautiful  who  have  looked  on 
me  with  favoring  eyes.  My  blood  runs  warm  yet,  and 
my  step  is  as  full  of  manhood — perhaps  my  heart  as 
prompt  to  be  gay — as  ever.  I  mean  to  say  that  I  am 
not  too  old  for  a  lover.  Does  my  daughter  think  so  ?" 

"  I  have  been  long  vain  of  your  beauty,  dear  fa 
ther,"  said  Francesca,  threading  her  hand  in  his  dark 
curls. 

"There  are  other  things  that  might  share  your 
empire  in  my  heart — politics,  play,  the  arts — a  hun 
dred  passions  which  possess  themselves  of  men  whose 
fortune  or  position  gives  them  means  and  leisure. 
Now  listen,  my  daughter!  You  have  supplanted  all 
these!  You  have  filled  my  heart  with  yourself. 


120 


PALETTO'S  BRIDE. 


I  am  tempted  to  love — my  heart  is  my  daughter's. 
I  am  asked  to  play — my  thoughts  are  with  my  child. 
I  have  neither  time  for  politics,  nor  attention  for  the 
arts — my  being  breathes  through  my  child.  I  am 
incapable  of  all  else.  Do  you  hear  me,  Francesca?" 

"  I  do,  dear  father  !" 

"Then,  one  moment  more  !  I  can  not  conceal  my 
thoughts  from  you,  and  you  will  pardon  love  like  mine 
for  ungrounded  fears.  I  liked  not  the  stranger  at  the 
duke's  palace." 

Francesca  stole  a  quick  look  at  her  father,  and, 
with  the  rapidity  of  light,  her  dark  eye  resumed  its 
tranquillity. 

"  I  say  I  liked  him  not !  No  one  knew  him  !  He 
is  gone,  no  one  knows  whither!  I  trust  he  will  never 
be  seen  more  in  Florence.  But  I  will  not  disguise 
from  you  that  I  thought  you — pleased  with  him!" 

"Father!" 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  wrong  you — but,  without  pursu 
ing  the  subject,  let  your  father  implore  you,  on  his 
knees,  for  the  confidence  of  your  heart.  Will  you 
tell  me  your  thoughts,  Francesca  ?  Will  you  love 
me  with  but  the  thousandth  part  of  my  adoration,  my 
devotion,  for  my  child?" 

"  Father  !  I  will !" 

The  count  rose  from  the  knee  on  which  he  had 
fallen,  gave  his  daughter  a  long  embrace,  and  led  her 
in.  And  that  night  she  fled  over  the  Tuscan  border, 
into  neighboring  Romagna,  and,  with  the  stranger  at 
her  side,  sped  away,  under  the  cover  of  night,  toward 
the  shores  of  the  Brenta. 


Like  a  city  of  secrets,  sleeps  silent  Venice.  Her 
sea-washed  foundations  are  buried  under  the  smooth 
glass  of  the  tide.  Her  palace-entrances  are  dark  cav-  ! 
erns,  impenetrable  to  the  eye.  Her  veiled  dames  are 
unseen  in  their  floating  chambers,  as  they  go  from 
street  to  street ;  and  mysteriously  and  silently  glide  to 
and  fro  those  swift  gondolas,  black  as  night,  yet  carry 
ing  sadness  and  mirth,  innocence  and  guilt,  alike 
swiftly,  mysteriously,  and  silently.  Water,  that  be 
trays  no  footstep,  and  covers  all  with  the  same  mantle 
of  light,  fills  her  streets.  Silence,  that  is  the  seal  of 
secrecy,  reigns  day  and  night  over  her  thousand 
palaces. 

For  an  hour  the  smooth  mirror  of  the  broad  canal 
that  sweeps  under  the  Rialto,  had  not  been  divided  by 
the  steel  prow  of  a  gondola.  Francesca  Spinola  stood 
at  the  window  of  a  chamber  in  a  palace  of  gorgeous 
magnificence,  watching  that  still  water  for  the  coming 
of  her  husband.  The  silver  lines  of  the  moon  stole 
back  imperceptibly,  as  her  full  orb  sailed  up  the 
heavens,  and  the  turrets  of  the  old  architecture  of 
Venice,  drawn  clearly  on  the  unruffled  bosom  of  the 
canal,  seemed  retiring  before  a  consuming  sheet  of 
silver.  The  silence  seemed  painful.  To  the  ear  of 
the  beautiful  Florentine,  the  want  of  the  sound  of  a 
footstep,  of  the  echo  of  some  distant  wheel,  the  utter 
death  of  all  sound  common  to  even  the  stillest  hour  of 
a  paved  city,  seemed  oppressive  and  awful.  Behind 
her  burned  lamps  of  alabaster,  and  perfumes  filled  the 
chamber,  and  on  a  cushion  of  costly  velvet  lay  a  mean 
and  unornamented  guitar.  Its  presence  in  so  costly  a 
palace  was  a  secret  yet  withheld.  She  wished  to 
touch  its  strings,  if  only  to  disperse  the  horror  of  si 
lence.  But  she  raised  her  fingers,  and  again,  without 
touching  it,  leaned  out  and  watched  the  dark  arch  of 
the  Rialto. 

A  gondola,  with  a  single  oar,  sped  swiftly  from  its 
black  shadow.  It  could  not  be  Paletto.  He  had 
gone  with  his  two  faithful  servants  to  St.  Mark's. 
The  oar  ceased — the  bark  headed  in — the  water 
splashed  on  the  marble  stair — and  the  gondolier  step 
ped  on  shore.  Ah,  who  but  Paletto  had  such  a  form 
as  stood  there  in  the  moonlight  ? 


"  Are  we  to  be  married  again,"  said  Francesca,  as 
her  husband  entered  the  chamber,  "  that  you  have 
once  more  disguised  yourself  as  a  fisherman  ?" 

Paletto  turned  from  the  light,  and  took  up  the 
mysterious  guitar.  "It  is  no  night  to  be  in-doors,  my 
Francesca!  Come  with  me  to  the  lagoon,  and  I  will 
tell  you  the  story  of  this  despised  instrument.  Will 
you  come  ?"  he  pursued,  as  she  stood  looking  at  him 
in  wonder  at  his  strange  dress  and  disturbed  look. 
"  Will  you  come,  my  wife?" 

"  But  you  have  returned  without  your  gondoliers!" 
she  said,  advancing  a  step  to  take  his  hand. 

"I  have  rowed  a  gondola  ere  now,"  he  answered  ; 
and,  without  further  explanation,  he  led  her  down  the 
lofty  staircase,  and  seating  her  in  the  stern  of  the  bark 
which  he  had  brought  with  him,  stepped  upon  the 
platform,  and,  with  masterly  skill  and  power,  drove  it 
like  a  shadow  under  the  Rialto. 

He  who  has  watched  the  horn  of  a  quarter-moon 
gliding  past  the  towers,  pinnacles  and  palaces  of  the 
drifting  clouds,  and  in  his  youthful  and  restless  brain, 
fancied  such  must  be  the  smooth  delight  and  chang 
ing  vision  of  a  traveller  in  strange  lands — one  who  has 
thus  dreamed  in  his  boyhood  will  scarce  shoot  though 
Venice  for  the  first  time  in  a  gondola,  without  a 
sense  of  familiarity  with  the  scene  and  motion.  The 
architecture  of  the  clouds  is  again  drifting  past,  and 
himself  seems  borne  onward  by  the  silver  shallop  of 
the  moon. 

Francesca  sat  on  the  low  cushion  of  the  gondola, 
watching  and  wondering.  How  should  her  luxurious 
Paletto  have  acquired  the  exquisite  skill  with  which 
he  drove  the  noiseless  boat  like  a  lance-fly  over  the 
water.  Another  gondola  approached  or  was  left  be 
hind,  the  corner  of  a  palace  was  to  be  rounded,  or  the 
black  arch  of  a  bridge  to  be  shot  under,  and  the 
peculiar  warning-cry  of  the  gondoliers,  giving  notice 
of  their  unheard  approach,  fell  from  his  lips  so  me 
chanically,  that  the  hireling  oarsmen  of  the  city,  mar 
velling  at  his  speed,  but  never  doubting  that  it  was  a 
comrade  of  the  Piazza,  added  the  "fratdlo  mio"  to 
their  passing  salutation.  She  saw  by  every  broad 
beam  of  light,  which,  between  the  palaces,  came  down 
across  them,  a  brow  clouded  and  a  mind  far  from  the 
oar  he  turned  so  skilfully.  She  looked  at  the  gondola 
in  which  she  sat.  It  was  old  and  mean.  In  the  prow 
lay  a  fisher's  net,  and  the  shabby  guitar,  thrown  upon 
it,  seemed  now,  at  least,  not  out  of  place.  She  looked 
up  at  Paletto  once  more,  and,  in  his  bare  throat  and 
bosom,  his  loose  cap  and  neglected  hair,  she  could 
with  difficulty  recognise  the  haughty  stranger  of  the 
Boboli.  She  spoke  to  him.  It  was  necessary  to 
break  the  low-born  spell  that  seemed  closing  around 
her.  Paletto  started  at  her  voice,  and  suspending  his 
oar,  while  the  gondola  still  kept  way  as  if  with  its  own 
irresistible  volition,  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes, 
and  seemed  waking  from  some  painful  dream. 

The  gondola  was  now  far  out  in  the  lagoon. — 
Around  them  floated  an  almost  impalpable  vapor, 
just  making  the  moonlight  visible,  and  the  soft  click 
of  the  water  beneath  the  rising  and  dropping  prow  was 
the  only  sound  between  them  and  the  cloudless  heaven. 
In  that  silence  Paletto  strung  his  guitar  and  sang  to 
his  bride  with  a  strange  energy.  She  listened  and 
played  with  his  tangled  "locks,  but  there  seemed  a  spell 
upon  her  tongue  when  she  would  ask  the  meaning  of 
this  mystery. 

"Francesca!"  he  said  at  last,  raising  his  head  from 
her  lap. 

"What  says  my  fisherman?"  she  replied,  holding 
up  his  rough  cap  with  a  smile. 

Paletto  started,  but  recovering  his  composure,  in 
stantly  took  the  cap  from  her  jewelled  fingers  and 
threw  it  carelessly  upon  his  head. 

"  Francesca !  who  is  your  husband  ?" 

"  Paletto  ?" 


PALETTO'S  BRIDE. 


121 


"  And  who  is  Paletto  ?"  i 

"  I  would  have  asked  sometimes,  but  your  kisses 
have  interrupted  me.  Yet  I  know  enough." 

"  What  know  you?" 

"  That  he  is  a  rich  and  noble  seignior  of  Venice  !" 

"  Do  I  look  one  to-night  ?" 

"  Nay — for  a  masquerade,  I  have  never  seen  a 
better  !  Where  learned  you  to  look  so  like  a  fisher 
man  and  row  so  like  a  gondolier  ?" 

Paletto  frowned. 

"  Francesca  !"  said  he  folding  his  arms  across  his 
bosom,  "  I  am  the  son  of  a  fisherman,  and  I  was  bred 
to  row  the  gondola  beneath  you  !" 

The  sternness  of  his  tone  checked  the  smile  upon 
her  beautiful  lip,  and  when  she  spoke  it  was  with  a 
look  almost  as  stern  as  his  own. 

"You  mock  me  too  gravely,  Paletto  !  But  come! 
I  will  question  you  in  your  own  humor.  Who  educa 
ted  the  fisherman's  son?" 

"  The  fisherman." 

"  And  his  palace  and  his  wealth — whence  came 
they,  Signor  Pescatore  ?" 

The  scornful  smile  of  incredulity  with  which  this 
question  was  asked,  speedily  fled  from  her  lip  as  Pal 
etto  answered  it. 

"  Listen  !  Three  months  since  I  had  never  known 
other  condition  than  a  fisherman  of  the  lagoon,  nor 
worn  other  dress  than  this  in  which  you  see  me.  The 
first  property  I  ever  possessed  beyond  my  day's  earn 
ings,  was  this  gondola.  It  was  my  father's,  Giannotto 
the  fisherman.  When  it  became  mine  by  his  death, 
I  suddenly  wearied  of  my  tame  life,  sold  boat  and  nets, 
and  with  thoughts  which  you  can  not  understand, 
but  which  have  brought  you  here,  took  my  way  to 
the  Piazza.  A  night  of  chance,  begun  with  the  whole 
of  my  inheritance  staked  upon  a  throw,  left  me  mas 
ter  of  wealth  I  had  never  dreamed  of.  I  became  a 
gay  signore.  It  seemed  to  me  that  my  soul  had  gone 
out  of  me,  and  a  new  spirit,  demoniac  if  you  will,  had 
taken  possession.  I  no  longer  recognised  myself.  I 
passed  for  an  equal  with  the  best-born,  my  language 
altered,  my  gait,  my  humor.  One  strong  feeling  alone 
predominated — an  insane  hatred  to  the  rank  in  which 
you  were  born,  Francesca  !  It  was  strange,  too,  that 
I  tried  to  ape  its  manners.  I  bought  the  palace  you 
have  just  left,  and  filled  it  with  costly  luxuries.  And 
then  there  grew  upon  me  the  desire  to  humiliate  that 
rank — to  pluck  down  to  myself  some  one  of  its  proud  ' 
and  cherished  daughters — such  as  you  !" 

Francesca  muttered  something  between  her  teeth, 
and  folded  her  small  arms  over  her  bosom.  Paletto 
went  on. 

"I  crossed  to  Florence  with  this  sole  intention.  I  i 
Unknown  and  uninvited,  I  entered  the  palace  at  the  \- 
fete  of  the  Boboli,  and  looked  around  for  a  victim.  !: 
You  were  the  proudest  and  most  beautiful.  I  chose  1 1 
you  and  you  are  here." 

Paletto  looked  at  her  with  a  smile,  and  never  sun-  I 
beam  was  more  unmixed  with  shadow  than  the  smile  i 
which  answered  it  on  the  lips  of  Spinola's  daughter. 

M  My  Paletto  !"  she  said,  "  you  have  the  soul  of  a  i 
noble,  and  the  look  of  one,  and  I  am  your  bride.  Let  !' 
us  return  to  the  palace !" 

"  I  have  no  palace  but  this  !"  he  said,  striking  his 
hand  like  a  bar  of  iron  upon  the  side  of  the  gondola. 
"  You  have  not  heard  out  my  tale." 

Francesca  sat  with  a  face  unmoved  as  marble. 

"This  night,  at  play,  I  lost  all.  My  servants  are 
dismissed,  my  palace  belongs  to  another,  and  with 
this  bark  which  I  had  repurchased,  I  am  once  more 
Paletto  the  fisherman!" 

A  slight  heave  of  the  bosom  of  the  fair  Florentine 
was  her  only  response  to  this  astounding  announce 
ment.  Her  eyes  turned  slowly  from  the  face  of  the 
fisherman,  and  fixing  apparently  on  some  point  far  out 
in  the  Adriatic,  she  sat  silent,  motionless,  and  cold. 


"  I  am  a  man,  Francesca!"  said  Paletto  after  a  pause 
which,  in  the  utter  stillness  of  the  lagoon  around  them, 
seemed  like  a  suspension  of  the  breathing  of  nature, 
and  "I  have  not  gone  through  this  insane  dream  with 
out  some  turning  aside  of  the  heart.  Spite  of  my 
self,  I  loved  you,  and  I  could  not  dishonor  you.  We 
are  married,  Francesca !" 

The  small  dark  brows  of  the  Florentine  lowered 
till  the  silken  lashes  they  overhung  seemed  starting 
from  beneath  her  forehead.  Her  eyes  flashed  fire 
below. 

"  Bene  .'"  said  Paletto,  rising  to  his  feet ;  "  one 
word  more  while  we  have  silence  around  us  and  are 
alone.  You  are  free  to  leave  me,  and  I  will  so  far  re 
pair  the  wrong  I  have  done  you,  as  to  point  out  the 
way.  It  will"  be  daylight  in  an  hour.  Fly  to  the 
governor's  palace,  announce  your  birth,  declare  that 
you  were  forced  from  your  father  by  brigands,  and 
claim  his  protection.  The  world  will  believe  you,  and 
the  consequences  to  myself  I  will  suffer  in  silence." 

With  a  sudden,  convulsive  motion,  Francesca  thrust 
out  her  arm,  and  pointed  a  single  finger  toward  Venice. 
Paletto  bent  to  his  oar,  and  quivering  in  every  seam 
beneath  its  blade,  the  gondola  sped  on  his  way.  The 
steel  prow  struck  fire  on  the  granite  steps  of  the 
Piazza,  the  superb  daughter  of  Spinola  stepped  over 
the  trembling  side,  and  with  a  half-wave  of  her  hand, 
strode  past  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark,  and  approached  the 
sentinel  at  the  palace-gate.  And  as  her  figure  was 
lost  among  the  arabesque  columns  shaded  from  the 
moon,  Paletto's  lonely  gondola  shot  once  more  silently 
and  slowly  from  the  shore. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  smooth,  flat  pavement  of  the  Borg'ognisanti 
had  been  covered  since  morning  with  earth,  and  the 
windows  and  balconies  on  either  side  were  flaunting 
with  draperies  of  the  most  gorgeous  colors.  The 
riderless  horse-races,  which  conclude  the  carnival  in 
Florence,  were  to  be  honored  by  the  presence  of  the 
court.  At  the  far  extremity  of  the  street,  close  by  the 
gate  of  the  Cascine,  an  open  veranda,  painted  in  fresco, 
stood  glittering  with  the  preparations  for  the  royal  party, 
and  near  it  the  costlier  hangings  of  here  and  there  a 
window  or  balustrade,  showed  the  embroidered  crests 
of  the  different  nobles  of  Tuscany.  It  was  the  people's 
place  and  hour,  and  beneath  the  damask  and  cloth  of 
gold,  the  rough  stone  windows  were  worn  smooth  by 
the  touch  of  peasant  hands,  and  the  smutched  occu 
pants,  looking  down  from  the  balconies  above,  upon 
the  usupers  of  their  week-day  habitations,  formed,  to 
the  stranger's  eye,  not  the  least  interesting  feature  of 
the  scene. 

As  evening  approached,  the  balconies  began  to 
show  their  burden  of  rank  and  beauty,  and  the  street 
below  filled  with  the  press  of  the  gay  contadini. 
The  ducal  cortege,  in  open  carriages,  drove  down 
the  length  of  the  course  to  their  veranda  at  the  gate, 
but  no  other  vehicle  was  permitted  to  enter  the  ser 
ried  crowd;  and,  on  foot  like  the  peasant-girl,  the 
noble's  daughter  followed  the  servants  of  her  house, 
who  slowly  opened  for  her  a  passage  to  the  balcony 
she  sought.  The  sun-light  began  to  grow  golden. 
The  convent-bell  across  the  Arno  rang  the  first  peal 
of  vespers,  and  the  horses  were  led  in. 

It  was  a  puzzle  to  any  but  an  Italian  how  that  race 
was  to  be  run.  The  entire  population  of  Florence 
was  crowded  into  a  single  narrow  street — men,  women, 
and  children,  struggling  only  for  a  foothold.  The  sig 
nal  was  about  to  be  given  for  the  start,  yet  no  attempt 
was  made  to  clear  a  passage.  Twenty  high-spirited 
horses  fretted  behind  the  rope,  each  with  a  dozen 
spurs  hung  to  his  surcingales,  which,  at  the  least  mo- 


122 


PALETTO'S  BRIDE. 


tion,  must  drive  him  onward  like  the  steed  of  Mazep- 
pa.  Gay  ribands  were  braided  in  their  manes,  and  the 
bets  ran  high.  All  sounded  and  looked  merry,  yet  it 
would  seem  as  if  the  loosing  of  the  start-rope  must  be 
like  the  letting  in  of  destruction  upon  the  crowd. 

In  a  projecting  gallery  of  a  house  on  the  side  next 
the  Arno,  was  a  p'arty  that  attracted  attention,  some 
what  from  their  rank  and  splendid  attire,  but  more 
from  the  remarkable  beauty  of  a  female,  who  seemed 
their  star  and  idol.  She  was  something  above  the 
middle  height  of  the  women  of  Italy,  and  of  the  style 
of  face  seen  in  the  famous  Judith  of  the  Pitti — dark, 
and  of  melancholy  so  unfathomable  as  almost  to  af 
fray  the  beholder.  She  looked  a  brooding  prophet 
ess  ;  yet  through  the  sad  expression  of  her  features 
there  was  a  gleam  of  fierceness,  thnt  to  the  more  criti 
cal  eye  betrayed  a  more  earthly  gleam  of  human  pas 
sion  and  suffering.  As  if  to  belie  the  maturity  of  years 
of  which  such  an  expression  should  be  the  work,  an 
ungloved  hand  and  arm  of  almost  childlike  softness 
and  roundness  lay  on  the  drapery  of  the  railed  gallery ; 
and  stealing  from  that  to  her  just-perfected  form,  the 
gazer  made  a  new  judgment  of  her  years,  while  he 
wondered  whal  strange  fires  had  forced  outward  the 
riper  lineaments  of  her  character. 

The  count  Fazelli,  the  husband  of  this  fair  dame, 
stood  within  reach  of  her  hand,  for  it  was  pressed  on 
his  arm  with  no  gentle  touch,  yet  his  face  was  turned 
from  her.  He  was  a  slight  youth,  little  older,  appa 
rently,  than  herself,  of  an  effeminate  and  yet  wilful  cast 
of  countenance,  and  would  have  been  pronounced  by 
women  (what  a  man  would  scarce  allow  him  to  be) 
eminently  handsome.  Effeminate  coxcomb  as  he  was, 
he  had  power  over  the  stronger  nature  beside  him,  and 
of  such  stuff,  in  courts  and  cities,  are  made  sometimes 
the  heroes  whose  success  makes  worthier  men  almost 
forswear  the  worship  due  to  women. 

There  were  two  other  persons  in  the  balconies  of 
the  Corso,  who  were  actors  in  the  drama  of  which  this 
was  a  scene.     The  first  was  the  prima  donna  of  the 
Cocomero,  to  whose  rather  mature  charms  the  capri 
cious  Fazelli  had  been  for  a  month  paying  a  too  open 
homage  ;   and  the  second  was  a  captain  in  the  duke's 
guard,  whose  personal  daring  in  the  extermination  of  I 
a  troop  of  brigands,  had  won  for  him  some  celebrity  ' 
and  his  present  commission.     What  thread  of  sympa-  j 
thy  rested  between  so  humble  an  individual  and  the 
haughty  countess  Fazelli,  will  be  shown  in  the  sequel. 
Enough  for  the    present,  that,  as  he  stood   leaning 
against  the  pillar  of  an  opposite  gallery,  looking  care 
lessly  on  the  preparations  for  the  course,  that  proud 
dame  saw  and  remembered  him. 

A  blast  from  a  bugle  drew  all  eyes  to  the  starting- 
post,  and  in  another  minute  the  rope  was  dropped,  and 
the  fiery  horses  loosed  upon  their  career.  Right  into 
the  crowd,  as  if  the  bodies  of  the  good  citizens  of 
Florence  were  made  of  air,  sprang  the  goaded  troop, 
and  the  impossible  thing  was  done,  for  the  suffocating 
throngs  divided  like  waves  before  the  prow,  and  united 
again  as  scathless  and  as  soon.  The  spurs  played 
merrily  upon  the  flanks  of  the  affrighted  animals,  and 
in  an  instant  they  had  swept  through  the  Borg'ogni- 
santi,  and  disappeared  into  the  narrow  lane  leading  to 
the  Trinita.  It  was  more  a  scramble  than  a  race,  yet 
there  must  be  a  winner,  and  all  eyes  were  now  occu 
pied  in  gazing  after  the  first  glimpse  of  his  ribands  as 
he  was  led  back  in  triumph. 

Uncompelled  by  danger,  the  suffocating  crowd  made 
way  with  more  difficulty  for  the  one  winning  horse 
than  they  had  done  for  the  score  that  had  contended  ; 
with  him.     Yet,  champing  the  bit,  and  tossing  his  | 
ribands  into  the  air,  he  came  slowly  back,  and  after  • 
passing  in  front  of  the  royal  veranda,  where  a  small  ; 
flag  was  thrown  down  to  be  set  into  the  rosette  of  his  j 
bridle,  he  returned  a  few  steps,  and  was  checked  by 
the  groom  under  the  balcony  of  the  prima  donna.     A  ! 


moment  after,  the  winning  flag  was  waving  from  the 
rails  above,  and  as  the  sign  that  she  was  the  owner  of 
the  victorious  horse  was  seen  by  the  people,  a  shout 
arose  which  thrilled  the  veins  of  the  fair  singer  more 
than  all  the  plaudits  of  the  Cocomero.  It  is  thought 
to  be  pleasant  to  succeed  in  that  for  which  we  have 
most  struggled — that  for  which  our  ambition  and  our 
efforts  are  known  to  the  world — to  be  eminent,  in 
short,  in  our  metier,  our  vocation.  I  am  inclined  to 
think  it  natural  to  most  men,  however,  and  to  all  pos 
sessors  of  genius,  to  undervalue  that  for  which  the 
world  is  most  willing  to  praise  them,  and  to  delight 
more  in  excelling  in  that  which  seems  foreign  to  their 
usual  pursuits,  even  if  it  be  a  trifle.  It  is  delightful  to 
disappoint  the  world  by  success  in  anything.  Detrac 
tion,  that  follows  genius  to  the  grave,  sometimes  ad 
mits  its  triumph,  but  never  without  the  "  back-water" 
that  it  could  do  *no  more.  The  fine  actress  had  won  a 
shout  from  assembled  Florence,  yet  off  the  scene.  She 
laid  one  hand  upon  her  heart,  and  the  other,  in  the 
rash  exultation  of  the  moment,  ventured  to  wave  a 
kiss  of  gratitude  to  the  count  Fazelli. 

As  that  favored  signer  crossed  to  offer  his  congratu 
lations,  his  place  beside  the  countess  was  filled  by  a 
young  noble,  who  gave  her  the  explanatory  informa 
tion — that  the  horse  was  Fazelli's  gift.  Calmly,  almost 
without  a  sign  of  interest  or  emotion,  she  turned  her 
eyes  upon  the  opposite  balcony.  A  less  searching  and 
nterested  glance  would  have  discovered,  that  if  the 
young  count  had  hitherto  shared  the  favor  of  the  ad 
mired  singer  with  his  rivals,  he  had  no  rival  now. 
There  was  in  the  demeanor  of  both  an  undisguised 
tenderness  that  the  young  countess  had  little  need  to 
watch  long,  and  retiring  from  the  balcony,  she  accept 
ed  the  attendance  of  her  communicative  companion, 
and  was  soon  whirling  in  her  chariot  over  the  Ponte 
3t.  Angelo,  on  her  way  to  the  princely  palace  that 
would  soon  cease  to  call  her  its  mistress. 

Like  square  ingots  of  silver,  the  moonlight  came 
through  the  battlements  of  the  royal  abode  of  the 
Medici.  It  was  an  hour  before  day.  The  heavy  heel 
of  the  sentry  was  the  only  sound  near  the  walls  of  the 
Pitti,  save,  when  he  passed  to  turn,  the  ripple  of  the 
Arno  beneath  the  arches  of  the  jeweller's  bridge  broke 
"aintly  on  the  ear.  The  captain  of  the  guard  had 
strolled  from  the  deep  shadow  of  the  palace  into  the 
open  moonlight,  and  leaned  against  a  small  stone  shrine 
of  the  Virgin  set  into  the  opposite  wall,  watching  mu 
singly  the  companionable  and  thought-stirring  em- 
leress  of  the  night. 

"  Paletto  !"  suddenly  uttered  a  voice  near  him. 

The  guardsman  started,  but  instantly  recovered  his 
position,  and  stood  looking  over  his  epaulet  at  the 
ntruder,  with  folded  arms. 

"  Paletto  !"  she  said  again,  in  a  lower  and  more  ap- 
)ealing  tone — "  will  you  listen  to  me  ?" 

"  Say  on,  Countess  Fazelli !" 

"  Countess  Fazelli  no  longer,  but  Paletto's  wife !" 

"  Ha  !  ha  !"  laughed  the  guardsman  bitterly,  "  that 
tory  is  old,  for  so  false  a  one." 

"  Scorn  me  not !  I  am  changed."  The  dark  eyes 
of  Francesca  Cappone  lifted  up,  moist  and  full,  into 
he  moonlight,  and  fixing  them  steadfastly  on  the  sol 
dier's,  she  seemed  to  demand  that  he  should  read  her 
soul  in  them.  For  an  instant,  as  he  did  so,  a  troubled 
emotion  was  visible  in  his  own  features,  but  a  new 
bought  seemed  to  succeed  the  feeling,  and  turning 
away  with  a  cold  gesture,  he  said,  "  I  knew  you  false, 
jut  till  now  I  thought  you  pure.  Tempt  me  not  to 
lespise  as  well  as  hate  you  !" 

I  have  deserved  much  atyourhand,"she  answered, 
with  a  deeper  tone,  "  but  not  this.  You  are  my  hus- 
>and,  Paletto  !" 

"  One  of  them  !"  he  replied,  with  a  sneer. 

Francesca  clasped  her  hands  in  agony.  "  I  have 
:ome  to  you,"  she  said, «'  trusting  the  generous  nature 


VIOLANTA  CESARINI. 


123 


which  I  have  proved  so  well.  I  can  not  live  unloved. 
I  deserted  you,  for  I  was  ignorant  of  myself.  I  have 
tried  splendor  and  the  love  of  my  own  rank,  but  one 
is  hollow  and  the  last  is  selfish.  Oh,  Paletto  !  what 
love  is  generous  like  yours?" 

The  guardsman's  bosom  heaved,  but  he  did  not  turn 
to  her.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm :  "  I  have 
come  to  implore  you  to  take  me  back,  Paletto.  False 
as  I  was  to  you,  you  have  been  true  to  me.  I  would 
be  your  wife  again.  I  would  share  your  poverty,  if 
you  were  once  more  a  fisherman  on  the  lagoon.  Are 
you  inexorable,  Paletto  ?" 

Her  hand  stole  up  to  his  shoulder  :  she  crept  closer 
to  him,  and  buried  her  head,  unrepelled,  in  his  bosom. 
Paletto  laid  his  hand  upon  the  mass  of  raven  hair 
whose  touch  had  once  been  to  him  so  familiar,  and 
while  the  moon  drew  their  shadows  as  one  on  the 
shrine  of  the  Virgin,  the  vows  of  early  love  were  re 
peated  with  a  fervor  unknown  hitherto  to  the  lips  of 
Cappone's  daughter,  and  Paletto  replied,  not  like  a 
courtly  noble,  but  like  that  which  was  more  eloquent 
— his  own  love-prompted  and  fiery  spirit. 

The  next  day  there  was  a  brief  but  fierce  rencontre 
between  Count  Fazelli  and  the  guardsman  Paletto,  at 
the  door  of  the  church  of  Santa  Trinita.  Francesca 
had  gone  openly  with  her  husband  to  vespers,  attend 
ed  by  a  monk.  When  attacked  by  the  young  count 
as  the  daring  abducer  of  his  wife,  he  had  placed  her 
under  that  monk's  protection  till  the  quarrel  should  be 
over,  and,  with  the  same  holy  man  to  plead  his  cause, 
he  boldly  claimed  his  wife  at  the  duke's  hands,  and 
bore  her  triumphantly  from  Florence. 

I  heard  this  story  in  Venice.  The  gondolier  Pa 
letto,  they  say,  still  rows  his  boat  on  the  lagoon  :  and 
sometimes  his  wife  is  with  him,  and  sometimes  a  daugh 
ter,  whose  exquisite  beauty,  though  she  is  still  a  child, 
is  the  wonder  of  the  Rialto  as  he  passes  under.  I 
never  chanced  to  see  him,  but  many  a  stranger  has 
hired  the  best  oar  of  the  Piazza,  to  pull  out  toward  the 
Adriatic  in  the  hope  of  finding  Paletto's  boat  and  get 
ting  a  glimpse  of  his  proud  and  still  most  beautiful 
wife — a  wife,  it  is  said,  than  whom  a  happier  or  more 
contented  one  with  her  lot  lives  not  in  the  "city  of 
the  sea." 


VIOLANTA  CESARINI, 

CHAPTER  I. 

"  When  every  feather  sticks  in  its  own  wing, 
Lord  Timon  will  be  left  a  naked  gull."  • 

IT  was  an  eve  fit  for  an  angel's  birthnight  (and  we 
know  angels  are  born  in  this  loving  world),  and  while 
the  moon,  as  if  shining  only  for  artists'  eyes,  drew  the 
outlines  of  palace  and  chapel,  stern  turret  and  sere 
naded  belvidere,  with  her  silver  pencil  on  the  street, 
two  grave  seniors,  guardians  in  their  own  veins  of  the 
blood  of  two  lofty  names  known  long  to  Roman  story, 
leaned  together  over  a  balcony  of  fretted  stone,  jutting 
out  upon  the  Corso,  and  affianced  a  fair  and  noble 
maid  of  seventeen  summers  to  a  gentleman  whose 
character  you  shall  learn,  if  we  come  safe  to  the  se 
quel. 

"  The  cardinal  has  offered  me  a  thousand  scudi  for 
my  Giorgione,  said  the  old  count  Malaspina,  at  last, 
changing  his  attitude  and  the  subject  at  the  same 
time. 

"  Anima  diporco  /"  exclaimed  the  other, "  what  stirs 
the  curtain  ?  The  wind  is  changing,  Malaspina.  Let 
us  in  !  So,  he  offers  but  a  thousand  !  I  shall  feel  my 


rheumatism  to-morrow  with  this  change.     .B«£  a  thou 
sand  ! — ha  !  ha  !     Let  us  in,  let  us  in  !" 

"  Let  us  out,  say  I !"  murmured  two  lips  that  were 
never  made  of  cherries,  though  a  bird  would  have 
pecked  at  them;  and  stealing  from  behind  the  curtain, 
whose  agitation  had  persuaded  her  father  that  the  wind 
was  rising,  Violanta  Cesarini,  countess  in  her  own  right, 
and  beautiful  by  Heaven's  rare  grace,  stepped  forth 
into  the  moonlight. 

She  drew  a  long  breath  as  she  looked  down  into  the 
Corso.  The  carriages  were  creeping  up  and  down  at 
a  foot-pace,  and  the  luxurious  dames,  thrown  back  on 
their  soft  cushions,  nodded  to  the  passers-by,  as  they 
recognised  friends  and  acquaintances  where  the  moon- 
II  light  broke  through;  crowds  of  slow  promenaders  loi 
tered  indolently  on,  now  turning  to  look  at  the  berry- 
brown  back  of  a  contadini,  with  her  stride  like  a  tra 
gedy-queen,  and  her  eyes  like  wells  of  jet,  and  now 
leaning  against  a  palace  wall,  while  a  wandering  harp- 
girl  sung  better  for  a  baiocco  than  noble  ladies  for  the 
praise  of  a  cardinal;  at  one  corner  stood  an  artist  with 
his  tablet,  catching  some  chance  effect  perhaps  in  the 
drapery  of  a  marble  saint,  perhaps  in  the  softer  dra 
pery  of  a  sinner;  the  cafes,  far  up  and  dawn,  looked 
like  festas  out  of  doors,  with  their  groups  of  gayly- 
dressed  idlers,  eating  sherbets  and  buying  flowers  ;  a 
gray  friar  passed  now  with  his  low-toned  benedicite ; 
and  again  a  black  cowl  with  a  face  that  reddened  the 
very  moonbeam  that  peeped  under;  hunchbacks  con 
tended  testily  for  the  wall,  and  tall  fellows  (by  their 
long  hair  and  fine  symmetry,  professed  models  for 
sculptors  and  painters)  yielded  to  them  with  a  gibe. 
And  this  is  Rome  when  the  moon  shines  well,  and  on 
this  care-cheating  scene  looked  down  the  countess 
Violanta,  with  her  heart  as  full  of  perplexity  as  her 
silk  boddice-lace  would  bear  without  breaking. 

I  dare  say  you  did  not  observe,  if  you  were  in  Rome 
that  night,  and  strolling,  as  you  would  have  been  in 
the  Corso  (this  was  three  years  ago  last  May,  and  if 
you  were  in  the  habit  of  reading  the  Diario  di  Roma, 
the  story  will  not  be  new  to  you) ;  you  did  not  observe, 
I  am  sure,  that  a  thread  ran  across  from  the  balcony  I 
speak  of,  in  the  Palazzo  Cesarim,  to  a  high  window 
in  an  old  palace  opposite,  inhabited,  as  are  many 
palaces  in  Rome,  by  a  decayed  family  and  several  ar 
tists.  On  the  two  sides  of  this  thread,  pressed,  while 
she  mused,  the  slight  fingers  of  Violanta  Cesarini; 
and,  as  if  it  descended  from  the  stars  at  every  pull 
which  the  light  May-breeze  gave  it  in  passing,  she 
turned  her  soft  blue  eyes  upward,  and  her  face  grew 
radiant  with  hope — not  such  as  is  fed  with  star-gazing  ! 
Like  a  white  dove  shooting  with  slant  wings  down 
ward  a  folded  slip  of  paper  flew  across  on  this  invisible 
thread,  and,  by  heaven's  unflickering  lamp,  Violanta 
read  some  characters  traced  with  a  rough  crayon,  but 
in  most  sweet  Italian.  A  look  upward,  and  a  nod,  as 
if  she  were  answering  the  stars  that  peeped  over  her, 
and  the  fair  form  had  gone  with  its  snowy  robes  from 
the  balcony,  and  across  the  high  window  from  which 
the  messenger  had  come,  dropped  the  thick  and  im 
penetrable  folds  of  the  gray  curtain  of  an  artist. 

It  was  a  large  upper  room,  such  as  is  found  in  the 
vast  houses  of  the  decayed  nobility  of  Rome,  and  of 
its  two  windows  one  was  roughly  boarded  up  to  ex 
clude  the  light,  while  a  coarse  gray  cloth  did  nearly 
the  same  service  at  the  other,  shutting  out  all  but  an 
artist's  modicum  of  day.  The  walls  of  rough  plaster 
were  covered  with  grotesque  drawings,  done  apparently 
with  bits  of  coal,  varied  here  and  there  with  scraps  of 
unframed  canvass,  nailed  carelessly  up,  and  covered 
with  the  study  of  some  head,  by  a  famous  master.  A 

|  large  table  on  one  side  of  the  room  was  burdened  with 
a  confused  heap  of  brushes,  paint-bags,  and  discolored 
cloths,  surmounted  with  a  clean  palette ;  and  not  far 

!  off  stood  an  easel,  covered  with  thumb-marks  of  all 


124 


VIOLANTA  CESARINI. 


dyes,  and  supporting  a  new  canvass,  on  which  was 
outlined  the  figure  of  a  nymph,  with  the  head  finished 
in  a  style  that  would  have  stirred  the  warm  blood  of 
Raphael  himself  with  emulous  admiration.  A  low 
flock  bed,  and  a  chair  without  a  bottom,  but  with  a 
large  cloak  hung  over  its  back,  a  pair  of  foils  and  a 
rapier,  completed  so  much  of  the  furniture  of  the 
room  as  belonged  to  a  gay  student  of  Corregio's  art, 
who  wrote  himself  Biondo  Amieri. 

By  the  light  of  the  same  antique  lamp,  hung  on  a 
rusty  nail  against  the  wall,  you  might  see  a  very  good 
effect  on  the  face  of  an  unfinished  group  in  marble, 
of  which  the  model,  in  plaster,  stood  a  little  behind, 
representing  a  youth  with  a  dagger  at  his  heart,  ar 
rested  in  the  act  of  self-murder  by  a  female  whose 
softened  resemblance  to  him  proclaimed  her  at  the  first 
glance  his  sister.  A  mallet,  chisels,  and  other  im 
plements  used  in  sculpture,  lay  on  the  rough  base  of 
the  unfinished  group,  and  half-disclosed,  half-con 
cealed,  by  a  screen  covered  with  prints  by  some  curi 
ous  female  hand,  stood  a  bed  with  white  curtains,  and 
an  oratory  of  carved  oak  at  its  head,  supporting  a 
clasped  missal.  A  chair  or  two,  whose  seats  of  worked 
satin  had  figured  one  day  in  more  luxurious  neighbor 
hood,  a  table  covered  with  a  few  books  and  several 
drawings  from  the  antique,  and  a  carefully-locked 
escritoire,  served,  with  other  appearances,  to  distin 
guish  this  side  of  the  room  as  belonging  to  a  separate 
occupant,  of  gentler  taste  or  nurture. 

While  the  adventurous  Violanta  is  preparing  her 
self  to  take  advantage  of  the  information  received  by 
her  secret  telegraph,  I  shall  have  time,  dear  reader, 
to  put  you  up  to  a  little  of  the  family  history  of  the 
Cesarini,  necessary  no  less  to  a  proper  understanding 
of  the  story,  than  to  the  heroine's  character  for  dis 
cretion.  On  the  latter  point,  I  would  suggest  to  you, 
you  may  as  well  suspend  your  opinion. 

It  is  well  known  to  all  the  gossips  in  Rome,  that, 
for  four  successive  generations,  the  marquises  of 
Cesarini  have  obtained  dispensations  of  the  pope  for 
marrying  beautiful  peasant-girls  from  the  neighbor 
hood  of  their  castle,  in  Romagna.  The  considerable 
sums  paid  for  these  dispensations,  reconciled  the  holy 
see  to  such  an  unprecedented  introduction  of  vulgar 
blood  into  the  veins  of  the  nobility,  and  the  remarkable 
female  beauty  of  the  race  (heightened  by  the  addition 
of  nature's  aristocracy  to  its  own),  contributed  to  main 
tain  good  will  at  a  court,  devoted  above  all  others  to 
the  cultivation  of  the  fine  arts,  of  which  woman  is  the 
Eidolon  and  the  soul.  The  last  marquis,  educated 
like  his  fathers,  in  their  wild  domain  among  the  moun 
tains,  selected,  like  them,  the  fairest  wild-flower  that 
sprung  at  his  feet,  and  after  the  birth  of  one  son,  ap 
plied  for  the  tardy  dispensation.  From  some  un 
known  cause  (possibly  a  diminished  bribe,  as  the  mar 
quis  was  less  lavish  in  his  disposition  than  his  prede 
cessors),  the  pope  sanctioned  the  marriage,  but  re 
fused  to  legitimatize  the  son,  unless  the  next  born 
should  be  a  daughter.  The  marchioness  soon  after 
retired  (from  mortification  it  is  supposed)  to  her  home 
in  the  mountains,  and  after  two  years  of  close  seclu 
sion,  returned  to  Rome,  bringing  with  her  an  infant 
daughter,  then  three  months  of  age,  destined  to  be  the 
heroine  of  our  story.  No  other  child  appearing,  the 
young  Cesarini  was  legitimatized,  and  with  his  infant 
sister  passed  most  of  his  youth  at  Rome.  Some  three 
or  four  years  before  the  time  when  our  tale  com 
mences,  this  youth,  who  had  betrayed  always,  a  coarse 
and  brutal  temper,  administered  his  stiletto  to  a  gen 
tleman  on  the  Corso,  and  flying  from  Rome,  became 
a  brigand  in  the  Abruzzi.  His  violence  and  atrocity 
in  this  congenial  life,  soon  put  him  beyond  hope  of 
pardon,  and  on  his  outlawry  by  the  pope,  Violanta  be 
came  the  heiress  of  the  estates  of  Cesarini. 

The  marchioness  had  died  when  Violanta  was  be 
tween  seven  and  eight  years  of  age,  leaving  her,  by  a 


death-bed  injunction,  in  the  charge  of  her  own  con 
stant  attendant,  a  faithful  servant  from  Romagno,  sup 
posed  to  be  distant  kinswoman  to  her  mistress.  With 
this  tried  dependant,  the  young  countess  was  permit 
ted  to  go  where  she  pleased,  at  all  hours  when  not  at 
tended  by  her  masters,  and  seeing  her  tractable  and 
lovely,  the  old  marquis,  whose  pride  in  the  beauty  of 
his  family  was  the  passion  next  to  love  of  money  in 
his  heart,  gave  himself  little  trouble,  and  thought  him 
self  consoled  for  the  loss  of  his  son  in  the  growing  at 
tractions  and  filial  virtues  of  his  daughter. 

On  a  bright  morning  in  early  spring,  six  years  before 
the  date  of  our  tale,  the  young  countess  and  her  at 
tendant  were  gathering  wild  flowers  near  the  fountain 
of  Egeria  (of  all  spots  of  earth,  that  on  which  the  wild 
flowers  are  most  profuse  and  sweetest),  when  a  de 
formed  youth,  who  seemed  to  be  no  stranger  to  Donna 
Bettina,  addressed  Violanta  in  a  tone  of  voice  so  mu 
sical,  and  with  a  look  so  kindly  and  winning,  that  the 
frank  child  took  his  hand,  and  led  him  off  in  search  of 
cardinals  and  blue-bells,  with  the  familiarity  of  an  es 
tablished  playfellow.  After  this  day,  the  little  countess 
never  came  home  pleased  from  a  morning  drive  and 
ramble  in  which  she  had  not  seen  her  friend  Signor 
Giulio;  and  the  romantic  baths  of  Caracalla,  and  the 
many  delicious  haunts  among  the  ruins  about  Rome, 
had  borne  witness  to  the  growth  of  a  friendship,  all 
fondness  and  impulse  on  the  part  of  Violanta,  all  ten 
derness  and  delicacy  on  that  of  the  deformed  youth. 
By  what  wonderful  instinct  they  happened  always  to 
meet,  the  delighted  child  never  found  time  or  thought 
to  inquire. 

Two  or  three  years  passed  on  thus,  and  the  old 
marquis  had  grown  to  listen  with  amused  familiarity 
to  his  daughter's  prattle  about  the  deformed  youth, 
and  no  incident  had  varied  the  pleasant  tenor  of  their 
lives  and  rambles,  except  that,  Giulio  once  falling  ill, 
Bettina  had  taken  the  young  countess  to  his  home, 
where  she  discovered  that,  young  as  he  was,  he  made 
some  progress  in  moulding  in  clay,  and  was  destined  for 
a  sculptor.  This  visit  to  the  apartment  of  an  obscure 
youth,  however,  the  marquis  had  seen  fit  to  object  to ; 
and  though,  at  his  daughter's  request,  he  sent  the 
young  sculptor  an  order  for  his  first  statue,  he  per 
emptorily  forbade  all  further  intercourse  between  him 
and  Violanta.  In  the  paroxysm  of  her  grief  at  the 
j  first  disgrace  she  had  ever  fallen  into  with  her  master, 
I  Bettina  disclosed  to  her  young  mistress,  by  way  of 
justification,  a  secret  she  had  been  bound  by  the 
most  solemn  oaths  to  conceal,  and  of  which  she  now 
was  the  sole  living  depository — that  this  deformed 
youth  was  born  in  the  castle  of  the  Cesarini,  in  Ro 
magna,  of  no  less  obscure  parentage  than  the  castle's 
lord  and  lady,  and  being  the  first  child  after  the  dis 
pensation  of  marriage,  and  a  son,  he  was  consequently 
the  rightful  heir  to  the  marquisate  and  estates  of  Cesa 
rini  ;  and  the  elder  son,  by  the  terms  of  that  dispen 
sation,  was  illegitimate. 

This  was  astounding  intelligence  to  Violanti,  who, 
nevertheless,  child  as  she  was,  felt  its  truth  in  the 
yearnings  of  her  heart  to  Giulio ;  but  it  was  with  no 
little  pains  and  difficulty  on  Bettina's  part,  that  she  was 
persuaded  to  preserve  the  secret  from  her  father.  The 
Romagnese  knew  her  master's  weakness  ;  and  as  the 
birth  of  the  child  had  occurred  during  his  long  ab 
sence  from  the  castle,  and  the  marchioness,  proud  of 
her  eldest-born,  had  determined  from  the  first  that  he 
alone  should  enjoy  the  name  and  honors  of  his  father, 
it  was  not  very  probable  that  upon  the  simple  word  of 
a  domestic,  he  would  believe  a  deformed  hunchback 
to  be  his  son  and  heir. 

The  intermediate  history  of  Giulio,  Bettina  knew 
little  about,  simply  informing  her  mistress,  that  dis 
gusted  with  his  deformity,  the  unnatural  mother  had 
sent  him  to  nurse  in  a  far-off  village  of  Romagna,  and 
that  the  interest  of  a  small  sum  which  the  marquis 


VIOLANTA  CESARINI. 


125 


supposed  had  been  expended  on  masses  for  the  souls 
of  his  ancestors,  was  still  paid  to  his  foster-parents  for 
his  use. 

From  the  time  of  this  disclosure,  Violanta's  life  had 
beeu  but  too  happy.  Feeling  justified  in  contriving 
secret  interviews  with  her  brother;  and  possessing  the 
efficient  connivance  of  Bettiaa,  who  grew,  like  her 
self,  almost  to  worship  the  pure-minded  and  the  gentle 
Giulio.  her  heart  and  her  time  were  blissfully  crowded 
with  interest.  So  far,  the  love  that  had  welled  from 
her  heart  had  been  all  joyous  and  untroubled. 

It  was  during  the  absence  of  the  marquis  and  his 
daughter  from  Rome,  and  in  an  unhealthy  season, 
that  Giulio,  always  delicnte  in  health  and  liable  to  ex 
cessive  fils  of  depression,  had  fallen  ill  in  his  solitary 
room,  and,  but  for  the  friendly  care  of  a  young  artist 
whom  he  had  long  known,  must  have  died  of  want 
and  neglect.  As  he  began  to  recover,  he  accepted  the 
offer  of  Amieri,  his  friend,  to  share  with  him  a  lodging 
in  the  more  elevated  air  of  the  Corso,  and,  the  more 
readily,  that  this  room  chanced  to  overlook  the  palace 
of  Cesarina.  Here  Violanta  found  him  on  her  return, 
and  though  displeased  that  he  was  no  longer  alone, 
she  still  continued,  when  Amieri  was  absent,  to  see 
him  sometimes  in  his  room,  and  their  old  haunts 
without  the  walls  were  frequented  as  often  as  his 
health  and  strength  would  permit.  A  chance  meeting 
of  Violanta  and  Amieri  in  his  own  studio,  however, 
made  it  necessary  that  he  should  be  admitted  to  their 
secret,  and  the  consequence  of  that  interview,  and 
others  which  Violanta  found  it  impossible  to  avoid, 
was  a  passion  in  the  heart  of  the  enthusiastic  painter, 
which  consumed,  as  it  well  might,  every  faculty  of 
his  soul. 

We  are  thus  brought  to  an  eveninsr  of  balmy  May, 
when  Giulio  fount!  himself  alone.  Biondo  had  been 
painting  all  day  on  the  face  of  his  nymph,  endeavoring 
in  vain  to  give  it  any  other  features  than  those  of  the 
lady  of  his  intense  worship,  and  having  gone  out  to 
ramble  for  fresh  air  and  relaxation  in  the  Corso. 
Giulio  thought  he  might  venture  to  throw  across  his 
ball  of  thread  and  send  a  missive  to  his  sister,  promisin<T 
her  an  uninterrupted  hour  of  his  society. 

With  these  preliminaries,  our  story  will  now  run 
smoothly  on. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  COME  in,  carissima  /"  said  the  low,  silver-toned 
voice  of  the  deformed  sculptor,  as  a  female  figure,  in 
the  hood  and  cloak  of  an  old  woman,  crossed  the 
threshold  of  his  chamber. 

"  Dear  Giulio  !"  And  she  lermed  slightly  over  the 
diminutive  form  of  her  brother,  and  first  kissing  his 
pale  forehead,  while  she  unfastened  the  'clasp  of 
Bettina's  cloak  of  black  silk,  threw  her  arms  about 
him  as  the  disguise  fell  off,  and  multiplied,  between 
her  caresses,  the  endearing  terms  in  which  the  lan 
guage  of  that  soft  clime  is  so  prodigal. 

They  sat  down  at  the  foot  of  his  group  in  marble, 
and  each  told  the  little  history  of  the  hours  they  had 
spent  apart.  They  grew  alike  as  they  conversed  ; 
for  theirs  was  that  resemblance  of  the  soul,  to  which 
the  features  answer  only  when  the  soul  is  breathing 
through.  Unless  seen  together,  and  not  only  together, 
but  gazing  on  each  other  in  complete  abandonment 
of  heart,  the  friends  that  knew  '.hem  best  would  have 
•aid  they  were  unlike.  Yet  Amieri's  nymph  on  the 
canvass  was  like  both,  for  Amieri  drew  from  the  picture 
burnt  on  his  own  heart  by  love,  and  the  soulof  Violanta 
lay  breathing  beneath  every  lineament. 

"You  have  not  touched  the  marble  to-day!"  said 
the  countess,  taking  the  lamp  from  its  nail,  and  shed 
ding  the  light  aslant  on  the  back  of  the  statue. 


"  No  !  I  have  lifted  the  hammer  twenty  times  to 
break  it  in  pieces." 

"  Ah  !  dearest  Ginlio  !  talk  not  thus  !  Think  it  is 
rny  image  you  would  destroy  !" 

"  If  it  were,  and  truly  done,  I  would  sooner  strike 
the  blessed  crucifix.  But,  Violanta !  there  ia  a  link 
wanting  in  this  deformed  frame  of  mine  !  The  sense 
of  beauty,  or  the  power  to  body  it  forth,  wants  room  in 
me.  I  feel  it — I  feel  it  !" 

Violanta  ran  to  him  and  pressed  the  long  curls  that 
fell  over  his  pallid  temples  to  her  bosom.  'There  was 
a  tone  of  conviction  in  his  voice  that  she  knew  not  how 
to  answer. 

He  continued,  as  if  he  were  musing  aloud : — 
"  I  have  tried  to  stifle  this  belief  in  my  bosom,  and 
i  have   never   spoken  of  it   till   now — but   it   is   true! 
i  Look   at  that  statue  !     Parts  of  it  are  like  nature — 
i  but   it  wants   uniformity — it   wants   grace — it    wants 
I  what  /  want — proportion!     I  never  shall  give  it  that, 
I  because  I  want  the  sense,  the  consciousness,  the  emo- 
tion,  of  complete  godlike  movement.     It  is  only  the 
well  formed  who  feel  this.     Sculptors   may   imitate 
i  gods  !   for  they  are  made  in  God's  image.     But  oh, 
;  Violanta  !  /  am  not !" 
"My  poor  brother !" 

"  Our  blessed  Savior  was  not  more  beautiful  than 
the  Apollo,"  he  passionately  continued,  "  but  could  / 
|  feel  like  the  Apollo!  Can  /stand  before  the  clay  and 
straighten  myself  to  his  attitude,  and  fancy,  by  the 
most  delirious  effort  of  imagination,  that  1  realize  in 
this  frame,  and  could  ever  have  conceived  and  moulded 
his  indignant  and  lofty  beauty  ?  No — no — no  !" 

"Dear — dear  Giulio."  He  dropped  his  head  again, 
and  she  felt  his  tears  penetrate  to  her  bosom. 

"  Leave  this  melancholy  theme,"  she  said,  in  an 
imploring  tone,  "  and  let  us  talk  of  other  things,  I  have 
something  to  tell  you,  Giulio  !" 

"  Raphael  was  beautiful,"  he  said,  raising  himself 
up,  unconscious  of  the  interruption,  "and  Giorgione, 
and  Titian,  both  nobly  formed,  and  Michael  Angelo 
had  the  port  of  an  archangel  !  Yes,  the  soul  inhabits 
the  whole  body,  and  the  sentiment  of  beauty  moves 
and  quickens  through  it  all.  My  tenement  is  cramp 
ed  ! — Violanta  !" 

"Well,  dear  brother!" 

"Tell  me  your  feelings  when  you  first  breathe  the 
air  in  a  bright  morning  in  spring.     Do  yon  feel  grace 
ful  ?     Is  there  a  sensation  of  beauty?     Do  you  lift 
yourself  and  feel  swan-like  and  lofty,  and  worthy  of 
:  the  divine  image  in  which  you  breathe.     Tell  uie 
'  truly,  Violanta." 
"  Yes,  brother!" 

"  I  knew  it !  I  have  a  faint  dream  of  such  a  feel- 
!  ing — a  sensation  that  is  confined  to  my  brain  somehow 
which  I  struggle  to  express  in  motion — but  if  I  lift 
j  my  finger,  it  is  gone.  I  watch  Amieri  sometimes, 
1  when  lie  draws.  He  pierces  rny  very  soul  by  as- 
!  suming,  always,  the  attitude  on  his  canvass.  Violanta! 
i  how  can  /  stand  like  a  statue  that  would  please  the 
|  eye?" 

"Giulio!  Giulio!" 

;'  Well,  I  will  not  burden  you  with  my  sadness. 
:  Let  us  look  at  Blonde's  nymph.  Pray  the  Virgin  he 
1  come  not  in  the  while — for  painting,  by  lamp-light, 
'  shows  less  fairly  than  marble." 

He  took  the  lamp,  and  while  Violanta  shook  the 
j  tears  from  her  eyes,  he  drew  out  the  pegs  of  the  easel, 
and  lowered  the  picture  to  the  light. 

44  Are  you  sure  Amieri  will  not  come  in,  Giulio?" 
inquired  his  sister,  looking  back  timidly  at  the  door 
i  while  she  advanced. 

"  I  think  he  will  not.     The  Corso  is  gay  to  night, 
i  and  his  handsome  face  and  frank  carriage,  win  greet 
ings,  as  the  diamond  draws  light.     Look  at  his   pic 
ture,  Violanta!     With  what  triumph  he  paints!     How 
different  from  my  hesitating  hand  !     The  thought  that 


126 


VIOLANTA  CESARINI. 


is  bora  in  his  fancy,  collects  instant  fire  in  his  veins 
and  comes  prompt  and  proportionate  to  his  hand.  It 
looks  like  a  thing  born,  not  wrought !  How  beautiful 

£>u   are,   my   Violanta  !     He  has  done  well — brave 
iondo  !" 

"  It  is  like  me,  yet  fairer." 

«'  I  wish  it  were  done !  There  is  a  look  on  the  lips 
that  is  like  a  sensation  1  feel  sometimes  on  my  own  I 
almost  feel  as  if  I  should  straighten  and  grow  fair  as  it 
advances.  Would  it  not  be  a  blessed  thing,  Violanta  ?" 

"  I  love  you  as  you  are,  dear  Giulio  !" 

"But  I  thirst  to  be  loved  like  other  men  !     I  would 
pass  in  the  street  and  not  read  pity  in  all  eyes.     I 
would  go  out  like  Biondo,  and  be  greeted  in  the  street  j 
with  '  Mio  bravo  !'   '  Mio  bello  !'     I  would  be  beloved  | 
by  some  one  that  is  not  my  sister,  Violanta!     I  would 
have  my  share — only  my  share — of  human  joy  and  re 
gard.     I  were  better  dead  than  be  a  hunchback.     I 
would  die,  but  for  you — to-night — yes,  to  night." 

With  a  convulsive  hand  he  pulled  aside  the  curtain, 
and  sent  a  long,  earnest  look  up  to  the  stars.  Violanta 
had  never  before  heard  him  give  words  to  his  melan 
choly  thoughts,  and  she  felt  appalled  and  silenced  by 
the  inexpressible  poignancy  of  his  tones,  and  the  fever 
ish,  tearless,  broken-heartedness  of  his  whole  manner. 
As  she  took  his  hand,  there  was  a  noise  in  the  street 
below,  and  presently  after,  a  hurried  step  was  heard 
on  the  stair,  and  Amieri  rushed  in,  seized  the  rapier 
which  hung  over  his  bed  and  without  observing  Vio 
lanta,  was  flying  again  from  the  apartment. 

"  Biondo  !"  cried  a  voice  which  would  have  stayed 
him  were  next  breath  to  have  been  drawn  in  heaven. 

"  Contessa  Violanta !" 

"What  is  it,  Amieri?  Where  go  you  now?" 
asked  Giulio,  gliding  between  him  and  the  door. 
Biondo's  cheek  and  brow  had  flushed  when  first  ar 
rested  by  the  voice  of  the  countess,  but  now  he  stood 
silent  and  with  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  pale  as  the  statue 
before  him. 

"  A  quarrel,  Giulio  !"  he  said  at  length. 

"  Biondo  !"  The  countess  sprang  to  his  side  with 
the  simple  utterance  of  his  name,  and  laid  her  small 
hand  on  his  arm.  "  You  shall  not  go!  You  are  dear 
to  us — dear  to  Guilio,  Signor  Amieri!  If  you  love  us 
— if  you  care  for  Giulio — nay,  I  will  say  it — if  you 
care  for  me,  dear  Biondo,  put  not  your  life  in  peril." 

"  Lady  !"  said  the  painter,  bowing  his  head  to  his 
wrist,  and  kissing  lightly  the  small  white  fingers  that 
pressed  it,  "if  I  were  to  lose  my  life  this  hour,  I  should 
bless  with  my  dying  lips  the  occasion  which  had  drawn 
from  you  the  blessed  words  I  hear.  But  the  more 
life  is  valuable  to  me  by  your  regard,  the  more  need 
you  should  not  delay  me.  I  am  waited  for.  Fare 
well!" 

Disengaging  himself  from  Violanta's  grasp,  quickly 
but  gently,  Amieri  darted  through  the  door,  and  was 
gone. 


CHAPTER  III. 

BIOXDO  had  readily  found  a  second  in  the  first 
artist  he  met  on  the  Corso,  and  after  a  rapid  walk 
they  turned  on  the  lonely  and  lofty  wall  of  the  Pala 
tine,  to  look  back  on  the  ruins  of  the  Forum. — At  a 
fountain  side,  not  far  beyond,  he  had  agreed  to  find 
his  antagonist;  but  spite  of  the  pressing  business  of 
the  hour,  the  wonderful  and  solemn  beauty  of  the  ruins 
that  lay  steeped  in  moonlight  at  his  feet,  awoke,  for 
an  instant,  all  of  the  painter  in  his  soul. 

"  Is  it  not  glorious,  Lenzoni  ?"  he  said,  pointing  with 
his  rapier  to  the  softened  and  tall  columns  that  carried 
their  capitals  among  the  stars. 

"We  have  not  come  out  to  sketch,  Amieri!"  was 
the  reply. 


"True,  caro!  but  my  fingers  work  as  if  the  pencil 
was  in  them,  and  I  forget  revenge  while  1  see  what  I 
shall  never  sketch  again!" 

Lenzoni  struck  his  hand  heavily  on  Amieri's  shoul 
der,  as  if  to  wake  him  from  a  dream,  and  looked  close 
into  his  face. 

"If  you  fight  in  this  spirit,  Biondo " 

"I  shall  fight  with  heart  and  soul,  Lenzoni ;  fear 
me  not!  But  when  I  saw,  just  now,  the  bel'ejfetto  of 
the  sharp-drawn  shadows  under  the  arch  of  Constau- 
tine,  and  felt  instinctively  for  my  pencil,  something 
told  me,  at  my  heart's  ear — you  will  never  trace  line 
|  again,  Amieri!" 

"Take  heart,  caro  amico!" 

My  heart  is  ready,   but  my  thoughts  come  fast! 

What  were  my  blood,  I  can  not  but  reflect,  added  to 

,  the  ashes  of  Rome?     We   fight  in  the  grave  of  an 

i  empire!     But  you  will  not  philosophize,  dull  Len- 

l  zoni!     Come  on  to  the  fountain!" 

The  moon  shone  soft  on  the  greensward  rim  of  the 
i  neglected   fountain  that   once   sparkled   through  the 
j  "  gold   palace"  of  Nero.     The  white  edges  of  half- 
,  buried  marble  peeped   here  and  there  from  the  grass, 
i  and  beneath  the  shadow  of  an  ivy-covered  and  totter 
ing  arch,  sang   a  nightingale,  the  triumphant  posses- 
I  sor  of  life  amid  the  forgotten  ashes  of  the  Cassars. 
Amieri  listened  to  his  song. 

"You  are  prompt,  signor!"  said  a  gay-voiced  gen 
tleman,  turning  the  corner  of  the  ruined  wall,  as 
Biondo,  still  listening  to  the  nightingale,  fed  his  heart 
with  the  last  sweet  words  of  Violanta. 

"'  Sempre  pronto?  is  a  good  device,"  answered  Len 
zoni,  springing  to  his  feet.  "Will  you  fight,  side  to 
the  moon,  signers,  or  shall  we  pull  straws  for  the 
choice  of  light?" 

Amien's  antagonist  was  a  strongly-made  man  of 
thirty,  costly  in  his  dress,  and  of  that  class  of  features 
eminently  handsome,  yet  eminently  displeasing.  The 
origin  of  the  quarrel  was  an  insulting  observation, 
coupled  with  the  name  of  the  young  countess  Cesa- 
rini,  which  Biondo,  who  was  standing  in  the  shadow 
of  a  wall,  watching  her  window  from  the  Corso,  acci 
dentally  overheard.  A  blow  on  the  mouth  was  the 
first  warning  the  stranger  received  of  a  listener's 
neighborhood,  and  after  a  momentary  struggle  they 
|  exchanged  cards,  and  separated  to  meet  in  an  hour, 
with  swords,  at  the  fountain,  on  the  Palatine. 

Amieri  was  accounted  the  best  foil  in  the  ateliers  of 
Rome,  but  his  antagonist,  the  count  Lamba  Malas- 
pina  had  just  returned  from  a  long  residence  in  France, 
and  had  the  reputation  of  an  accomplished  swordsman. 
Amieri  was  slighter  in  person,  but  well-made,  and 
agile  as  a  leopard;  but  when  Lenzoni  looked  into  the 
cool  eye  of  Malaspina,  the  spirit  and  fire  which  he 
would  have  relied  upon  to  ensure  his  friend  success  in 
an  ordinary  contest,  made  him  tremble  now. 

Count  Lamba  bowed,  and  they  crossed  swords. 
Amieri  had  read  his  antagonist's  character,  like  his 
friend,  and,  at  the  instant  their  blades  parted,  he  broke 
down  his  guard  with  the  quickness  of  lightning,  and 
wounded  him  in  the  face.  Malaspina  smiled  as  he 
crossed  his  rapier  again,  and  in  the  next  moment 
Amieri's  sword  flew  high  above  his  head,  and  the 
count's  was  at  his  breast. 

"Ask  for  your  life,  mio  lravo!"  he  said,  as  calmly 
as  if  they  had  met  by  chance  in  the  Corso. 

"  A'morte !  villain'and  slanderer!"  cried  Amieri,  and 
striking  the  sword  from  his  bosom,  he  aimed  a  blow 
at  Malaspina,  which  by  a  backward  movement,  was 
received  on  the  point  of  the  blade.  Transfixed  through 
the  wrist,  Amieri  struggled  in  vain  against  the  supe 
rior  strength  and  coolness  of  his  antagonist,  and  falling 
on  his  knee,  waited  in  silence  for  his  death-blow. 
Malaspina  drew  his  sword  gently  as  possible  from  the 
wound,  and  recommending  a  tourniquet  to  Lenzoni 
till  a  surgeon  could  be  procured,  washed  the  blood 


VIOLANTA  CESARINI. 


127 


from  his  face  in  the  fountain,  and  descended  inlo  the 
Forum,  humming  the  air  of  a  new  song. 

Faint  with  loss  of  blood,   and  with   his  left   arm  ) 
around  Lenzoni's  neck,  Biondo   arrived   at  the  sur 
geon's  door. 

"  Can  you  save  his  hand  ?"  was  the  first  eager  ques 
tion. 

Amieri  held  up  his  bleeding  wrist  with  difficulty, 
and  the  surgeon  shook  his  head  as  he  laid  the  help 
less  fingers  in  his  palm.  The  tendon  was  entirely 
parted. 

44 1  may  save  the  hand."  he  said,  41  but  he  will  never 
use  it  more  /" 

Amieri  gave  his  friend  a  look  full  of  anguish,  and 
fell  back  insensible. 

"Poor  Biondo!"  said  Lenzom,  as  he  raised  his 
pallid  head  from  the  surgeon's  pillow.  "  Death  were 
less  misfortune  than  the  loss  of  a  hand  like  thine. 
The  foreboding  was  too  true,  alas!  that  thou  never 
wouldst  use 'pencil  more!" 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  frowning  battlements  of  St.  Angelo  were 
brightened  with  the  glare  of  lamps  across  the  Tiber, 
and  the  d;irk  breast  of  the  river  was  laced  with  bars  of 
gold  like  the  coat  of  a  captain  of  dragoons.  Here  and 
there  lay  a  boat  in  mid-stream,  and  while  the  drift  of 
the  current  was  counteracted  by  an  occasional  stroke 
at  the  oar,  the  boatman  listened'to  the  heavenly  strains 


Donna  Bettina  laughed  under  her  palmer's  cowl, 
and  drawing  Giulio's  arm  within  her  own,  they  min 
gled  in  the  masquerade. 

The  old  count  Cesarini  arrived  a  few  minutes  after 
in  one  of  the  equipages  of  the  Malaspina,  accompanied 
by  a  red-cross  knight  in  a  magnificent  armor,  his 
sword-hilt  sparkling  with  diamonds,  and  the  bars  of 
his  visor  half-drawn,  yet  showing  a  beard  of  jetty  and 
curling  black,  and  a  mouth  of  the  most  regular,  yet 
unpleasant  beauty.  The  upper  part  of  his  face  was 
quite  concealed,  yet  the  sneer  on  his  lips  promised  a 
cold  and  unfeeling  eye. 

"As  a  hunchback,  did  you  say.  count?" 

44  It  was  her  whim,"  answered  Cesarini.  4l  She  has 
given  alms  to  a  poor  sculptor  with  that  deformity  till 
her  brain  is  filled  with  it.  Pray  the  saints  to  afreet 
not  your  offspring,  Lamba  !" 

Malaspina  surveyed  himself  in  the  long  mirror  at 
the  entrance  of  the  saloon,  and  smiled  back  incredu 
lously  with  his  white  teeth. 

41 1  gave  Bettina  strict  orders  not  to  leave  her  side," 
said  Cesarini.  4t  You  will  find  the  old  donna  by  her 
palmer's  dress.  The  saints  speed  your  suite,  Lamba! 
I  will  await  you  in  the  card-room  when  the  dance 
wearies  you !" 

It  was  not  for  some  time  after  the  two  old  nobles 
had  affianced  their  children,  that  Cesarini  had  found 
a  fitting  opportunity  to  break  the  subject  to  his  daugh 
ter.  When  he  did  so,  somewhat  to  his  embarrass 
ment,  Violanta  listened  to  it  without  surprise;  and 
after  hearing  all  he  had  to  say  upon  the  honorable  de 
scent,  large  fortune,  and  courtly  accomplishments  of 


,  , 

of  a  waltz,  dying  and  triumphing  in  alternate  cadences  .   the  young  count  Lamba,  she  only  permitted   her  fa- 
j  breath  of  night  and   the   pope's  band.     A  j   ther  to  entertain  any  future  hope  on  the  subject,  upon 
platform  was  built  out  over  the  river,  forming  a  con-  J  the  condition,  that,  till  she  was  of  age,  her  proposed 


tinu;ition  of  the  stnge;  the  pit  was  floored  over,  and 
all  draped  like  a  Persian  harem  ;  and  thus  began  a 
masquerade  at  the  Teatro  della  Pergola  at  Rome, 
which  stands,  if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  remem 
ber,  close  by  the  bridge  and  castle  of  St.  Angelo  upon 
the  bauk  of  the  "yellow  Tiber." 


ge,  her  proposed 

husband  should  not  even  be  presented  to  her.  For 
this  victory  over  the  most  cherished  ambition  of  the 
old  count,  Violanta  was  indebted  partly  to  the  holy 
see,  and  partly  to  some  qualities  in  her  own  character, 
of  which  her  father  knew  the  force.  He  was  aware 
l  with  what  readiness  the  cardinal  would  seize  upon  the 

The  entrance  of  the  crowd  to  the  theatre  was  like  a  j   slightest  wish  she  might  express  to   take  the  veil   and 
d  to  represent  the  things  of  which  '   bring   her   possessions   into   the  church,  and  he  was 
e  are  commanded  not  to   make  graven  images,  nor  :   sufficiently   acquainted   with  the  qualities  of  a  Cesa- 
to  bow  down  and  worship  them.     There  was  the  like-  ':  rini,  not  to  drive  one  of  their  daughters  to  extremity, 
ness  of  everything  in  heaven  above  and  on   the  earth  :        With  some  embarrassment  th°e   old  count  made  a 
BDeath,   and    in   the  waters  under  the  earth.     There     clean  breast  to  Malaspina   and  his  son,  and  was  ex- 
were  angels,  devils,  serpents,  birds,  beasts,  fishes,  and   !  hausting  language  in  regrets,  when  he  was  relieved  by 
fair  women— of  which  none  except  the  last  occasioned   I  an  assurance  from  Lamba  that  the  difficulty  increased 
much    transgression   of  the   commandment.      Oddly  j  his  zest  for  the  match,  and  that,  with  Cesarini's  per- 
fishes  waltzed— and  so  did  the  beasts  and  \\  mission,  he  would  find  opportunities  to  encounter  her 
lair  women,  the  serpents  and  birds— pairing  off  as  they   i  in  her  walks  as  a  stranger,  and  m;ike  his  way  after  the 
ne  within  sound  of  the  music,  with  a  defiance  of   ;  romantic  taste  which  he  supposed  was  alone  at  the  boN 
mtural  antipathies  which  would  have  driven  a  natural-     torn  of  her  refusal      For  success  in  this,  Count  Lamba 
ist  out  of  his  senses.  re]ied  on  his  personal  beauty  and  on  that  address  in 

A  chariot  drove  up  with  the  crest  of  the   Cesarini     the  arts  of  adventure  which  is  acquired  by  a  residence 
on  the  pannel,  and  out  of  it  stepped  rather  a  si  iff  figure   |  in  France. 

dressed  as  a  wandering  palmer,  with  serge  and  scallop-   j      Since  his  duel,  Amieri   had  been   confined  to  his 

ells,  followed    by  a  masked  hunchback  whose   cos-   !  bed  with   a  violent  fever,  danoerously  aggravated   by 

tume,  even  to  the  threadbare  spot  on  the  ridge  of  his  'j  the  peculiar  nature  of  his  calamity.     The  love  of  the 

mity,  was  approved,  by  the  loungers  at  the  door,   j  pencil   was   the    breath   of  his   soul,   and   in    all    his 

in  a  general  "bravissimo."     They  entered  the  dress-  1 1  thaiights  of  Violanta,   it   was  only  as  a  rival   of  the 

ing-room,   and   the   cloak-keeper   was   not   surprised   !  lofty  fame  of  painters  who  had  made  themselves  the 

when  the  lump  was  withdrawn  in  the  shape  of  a  pad  |l  companions  of  kings,  that  he  could  imagine  himself  a 

•f  wool,  arid  by  the   aid  of  a  hood  and   petticoat  of   j  claimant   for   her  love.     It   seemed  to  him   that  his 

black  silk,  the  deformed  was  transformed  into  a  slender  '  \  nerveless  hand  had  shut  out  heaven's  entire  light. 

domino,  undistinguished   but  for  the  grace  and  elas-   i      Giulio  had  watched  by  his  friend  with  the  faithful 

ticity   of  her   movements.     The  attendant   was  sur-  !   fondness  of  a  woman,  and  had  gathered  from  his  mo- 

pnsed,  however,  when  having  stepped  aside  to  deposite  !j  ments  of  delirium,  what  Biondo  had  from  dtlicacy  to 

the  pad  given  in  charge  to  her,  she  turned  and  saw  the  ;|  Violanta  never  revealed  to  his  second,  Lenzoni— the 

ornino  flitting    from  the    room,  but  the  hunchback  ji  cause  of  his  quarrel  with  Malaspina.     Touched  with 

with^his  threadbare  hump  still  leaning  on  the  palmer's  j  this  chivalric   tenderness  toward   his  sister,  the  kind 

arm-        .    .  I   Giulio  hung   over   him   with  renewed   affection,  and 

"baniissima  Vergine .'"  she  exclaimed,  pulling  out     when,  in  subsequent  ravings,  the  maimed  youth  be- 

her  cross  and  holding  it  between  herself  and  Giulio,  !:  trayed  the  real  sting  of  his  misfortune— the  death  of 

•'the  fiend— the  unholy  fiend!"  |(  his  hopes  of  her  love— the  unambitious  brother  re- 


128 


VIOLANTA  CESARINI. 


solved  in  his  heart  that  if  he  could  aid  him  by  service 
or  sacrifice,  by  influence  with  Violanta,  or  by  making 
the  almost  desperate  attempt  to  establish  his  own 
claims  to  the  name  and  fortunes  of  Cesarini,  he  would 
devote  himself  to  his  service  heart  and  soul. 

During  the  confinement  of  Amieri  to  his  room,  the 
young  countess  had  of  course  been  unable  to  visit  her 
brother,  and  as  he  scarce  left  the  patient's  side  for  a 
moment,  their  intercourse  for  two  or  three  weeks  had 
been  entirely  interrupted.  On  the  first  day  the  con 
valescent  youth  could  walk  out,  she  had  stolen  to  the 
studio,  and  heard  from  Giulio  the  whole  history  of 
the  duel  and  its  consequences.  When  he  had  finished 
his  narrative,  Violanta  sat,  for  a  few  minutes,  lost  in 
thought. 

"Giulio!"  she  said  at  last,  with  a  gayety  of  tone 
which  startled  him. 

"  Violanta !" 

•'  Did  you  ever  remark  that  our  voices  are  very 
much  alike?" 

"Biondo  often  says  so." 

"And  you  have  a  foot  almost  as  small  as  mine." 

"I  have  not  the  proportions  of  a  man,  Violanta!" 

"  Nay,  brother,  but  I  mean  that — that — we  might 
pass  for  each  other,  if  we  were  masked.  Our  height 
is  the  same.  Stand  up,  Giulio '" 

"  You  would  not  mock  me!"  said  the  melancholy 
youth  with  a  faint  smile,  as  he  rose  and  set  his  bent 
back  beside  the  straight  and  lithe  form  of  his  sister. 

"Listen  to  me,  amato-bene .'"  she  replied,  sitting 
down  and  drawing  him  upon  her  knee,  after  satisfying 
himself  that  there  was  no  perceptible  difference  in 
their  height.  "  Put  your  arm  about  my  neck,  and 
•  ove  rne  while  1  tell  you  of  my  little  plot." 

Giulio  impressed  a  kiss  upon  the  clear,  alabaster 
forehead  of  the  beautiful  girl,  and  looked  into  her  face 
inquiringly. 

"There  is  to  be  a  masquerade  at  La  Pergola,"  she 
snid — "a  superb  masquerade  given  to  some  prince! 
And  I  am  to  go,  Giulio  ndo  /" 

"  Well,"  answered  the  listener,  sadly. 

"But  do  you  not  seem  surprised  that  I  am  permitted 
to  go!  Shall  I  tell  you  the  reason  why  papa  gave  me 
permission  ?" 

"  If  you  will,  Violanta  !" 

"  A  little  bird  told  me  that  Malaspina  means  to  be 
there !" 

"  And  you  will  go  to  meet  him?" 

"  You  shall  go  to  meet  him,  and  I "  she  hesi 
tated  and  cast  down  the  long  dark  fringes  of  her  eyes; 
"I  will  meet  Biondo  !" 

Giulio  clasped  her  passionately  to  his  heart. 

"  I  see  ! — I  see !"  he  cried,  springing  upon  his  feet, 
as  he  anticipated  the  remaining  circumstances  of  the 
plot.  "  We  shall  be  two  hunchbacks — they  will  little 
think  that  we  are  two  Cesarini.  Dear,  noble  Violanta! 
you  will  speak  kindly  to  Biondo.  Send  Bettina  for 
the  clothes,  carina  mia!  You  will  get  twin  masks  in 
the  Corso.  And,  Violanta]" 

"  What,  Giulio  ?" 

"  Tell  Bettina  to  breathe  no  word  of  our  project  to 
Arnieri !  I  will  persuade  him  to  go  but  to  see  you 
dauce  !  Poor  Amieri1  Dear,  dear  sister  !  Farewell 
snow  !  He  will  be  returning,  and  you  must  be  gone. 
The  Holy  Virgin  guard  you,  my  Violanta!" 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE  reader  will  long  since  have  been  reminded,  by 
the  trouble  we  have  to  whip  in  and  flog  up  the  lagging 
and  straggling  members  of  our  story,  of  a  flock  of 

sheep  driven  unwillingly  to  market.     Indeed,  to  stop  j   over  the  seat,  and  took  a  place  beside  him.     if 
at  the  confessional  (as  you  will  see  many  a  shepherd  I   a  female   in   a   black    domino,   closely    masked,    and 
of  the  Campagna,  on  his  way  to  Rome),  this  tale  of  jj  through  the  pasteboard  mouth  protruded  the  bit  of 


many  tails  should  have  been  a  novel.  You  have,  in 
brief,  what  should  have  been  well  elaborated,  embar 
rassed  with  difficulties,  relieved  by  digressions,  tipped 
with  a  moral, and  bound  in  two  volumes,  with  a  portrait 
of  the  author.  We  are  sacrificed  to  the  spirit  of  the 
age.  The  eighteenth  century  will  be  known  in 
hieroglyphics  by  a  pair  of  shears.  But,  "to  return  to 
our  muttons." 

The  masquerade  went  merrily  on,  or,  if  there  were 
more  than  one  heavy  heart  among  those  light  heels, 
it  was  not  known,  as  the  newspapers  say,  "  to  our  re 
porter."  One,  there  certainly  was — heavy  as  Etna  on 
the  breast  of  Enceladus.  Biondo  Amieri  sat  in  a  cor 
ner  of  the  gallery,  with  his  swathed  hand  laid  before 
him,  pale  as  a  new  sti.tue,  and  with  a  melancholy  in 
his  soft  dark  eyes,  which  would  have  touched  the  exe 
cutioners  of  St.  Agatha.  Beside  him  sat  Lcnzoni, 
who  was  content  to  forego  the  waltz  for  a  while,  and 
keep  company  for  pity  with  a  friend  who  was  too  busy 
with  his  own  thoughts  to  give  him  word  or  look,  but 
still  keeping  sharp  watch  on  the  scene  below,  and 
betraying  by  unconscious  ejaculations  how  great  a 
penance  he  had  put  on  himself  for  love  and  charity. 

"All,  la  lella  musica,  Biondo!"  he  exclaimed 
drumming  on  the  banquette,  while  his  friend  held 
up  his  wounded  hand  to  escape  the  jar,  "listen  to  that 
waltz,  that  might  set  fire  to  the  heels  of  St.  Peter. 
Corpo  di  JBacco !  look  at  the  dragon! — a  dragon 
making  love  to  a  nun,  Amieri!  Ah!  San  Pieiro  ! 
what  a  foot !  Wait  till  I  come,  sweet  goblin  !  That 
a  goblin's  tail  should  follow  such  ankles,  Biondo  ! 
Eh!  belli  ssimo  !  the  knight !  Look  at  the  red  cross 
knight,  Amieri!  and — what? — il  gobbo,  by  St.  An 
thony!  and  the  red-cross  takes  him  for  a  woman! 
It  is  Giulio,  for  there  never  were  two  hunchbacks  so 
wondrous  like  !  Ecco,  Biondo  !" 

But  there  was  little  need  to  cry  "look"  to  Amieri, 
now.  A  hunchback,  closely  masked,  and  leaning  on 
a  palmer's  arm,  made  his  way  slowly  through  the 
crowd,  and  a  red-cross  knight,  a  figure  gallant  enough 
to  have  made  a  monarch  jealous,  whispered  with  courte 
ous  and  courtly  deference  in  his  ear. 

"  Cielo !  it  is  she!"  said  Biondo,  with  mournful 
earnestness,  not  heeding  his  companion,  and  laying 
his  hand  upon  his  wounded  wrist,  as  if  the  sight  he 
looked  on  gave  it  a  fresher  pang. 

"She  ?"  answered  Lenzoni,  with  a  laugh.  "  If  it 
is  not  he — not  gobbo  Giulio — I'll  eat  that  cross-hilled 
rapier !  What  '•she'  should  it  be,  caro  Biondo  !" 

"  I  tell  thee,"  said  Amieri,  "Giulio  is  asleep  at  the 
foot  of  his  marred  statue  !  I  left  him  but  now,  he  is 
too  ill  with  his  late  vigils  to  be  here — but  his  clothes, 
I  may  tell  thee,  are  borrowed  by  one  who  wears  them 
as  you  see.  Look  at  the  foot,  Lenzoni!" 

**  A  woman,  true  enough,  if  the  shoe  were  all ! 
But  I'll  have  a  close  look!  Stay  for  me,  dear  Amieri! 
I  will  return  ere  you  have  looked  twice  at  them  '" 

And  happy,  with  all  his  kind  sympathy,  to  find  a 
fair  apology  to  be  free,  Lenzoni  leaped  over  the 
benches  and  mingled  in  the  crowd  below. 

Left  alone,  Biondo  devoured  with  his  eyes,  every 
movement  of  the  group  in  which  he  was  so  deeply 
interested,  and  the  wound  in  his  hand  seemed  burn- 
|  ing  with  a  throb  of  fire,  while  he  tried  in  vain  to  de- 
!  tect,  in  the  manner  of  the  hunchback,  that  coyness 
!  which  might  show,  even  through  a  mask,  dislike  or 
!  indifference.  There  was  even,  he  thought  (and  he 
i  delivered  his  soul  over  to  Apollyon  in  the  usual  phrase 
I  for  thinking  such  ill  of  such  an  angel) ;  there  was 
|  even  in  her  manner  a  levity  and  freedom  of  gesture 
for  which  the  mask  she  wore  should  be  no  apology. 
He  wns  about  to  curse  Malaspina  for  having  spared 
his  life  at  the  fountain,  when  someone  jumped  lighily 


VIOLANTA  CESARINI. 


129 


ivory,  commonly  held  in  the  teeth  by  maskers,  to  dis 
guise  the  voice. 

"  Good  evening  to  you.  fair  signer  !" 

"Good  even  to  you,  lady  !" 

"  I  am  come  to  share  your  melancholy,  signer !" 

"I  have  none  to  give  away  unless  you  will  take  all; 
and  just  now,  my  fair  one.  it  is  rather  anger  than  sad 
ness,  if  it  please  you.  leave  me  p' 

"  What  if  i  am  more  pleased  to  stay  "' 

"Briefly,  I  would  be  alone  .  I  am  not  of  the  festa. 
I  but  look  on,  here !"  And  Biondo  turned  his  shoulder 
to  the  mask,  and  fixed  his  eyes  again  on  the  hunch 
back,  who  having  taken  the  knight's  arm,  was  talking 
and  promenading  most  gayly  between  him  and  the 
palmer. 

"  You  have  a  wounded  hand,  signer  !"  resumed  his 
importunate  neighbor. 

"A  useless  one,  lady.     Would  it  were  well !" 

"Signor  Melancholy,  repine  not  against  providence. 
I  that  am  no  witch,  tell  thee  that  thou  wilt  yet  bless 
Heaven  that  this  hand  is  disabled." 

Biondo  turned  and  looked  at  the  bold  prophetess, 
but  her  disguise  was  impenetrable. 

"  You  are  a  masker,  lady,  and  talk  at  random  !" 

"  No !  I  will  tell  you  the  thought  uppermost  in  your 
bosom !" 

"What  is  it?" 

"  A  longing  for  a  pluck  at  the  red-cross,  yonder!" 

"  True,  by  St.  Mary  !"  said  Biondo,  starting  ener 
getically  :  "  but  you  read  it  in  my  eyes  !" 

"1  have  told  you  your  first  thought,  signor,  and  I  will 
give  you  a  hint  of  the  second  Is  there  a  likeness 
between  a  nymph  on  canvass,  and  a  gobbo  in  a  mask  !"  j 

"  Giulio !"   exclaimed    Amieri,    turning    suddenly 
round;  but  the  straight  back  of  the  domino  met  his  ! 
eye,  and  totally  bewildered,  he  resumed  his  seat,  and  | 
slowly  perused  the  stranger  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Talk  to  me  as  if  my  mask  were  the  mirror  of  your 
soul,  Amieri,"  said  the  soft  but  disguised  voice. 
"You  need  sympathy  in  this  mood,  and  I  am  your 
good  angel.  Is  your  wrist  painful  to-night  ?" 

"  I  can  not  talk  to  you,"  he  said,  turning  to  resume 
bis  observation  on  the  scene  below.  "  If  you  know 
the  face  beneath  the  gobbo's  mask,  you  know  the 
heaven  from  which  I  am  shut  out.  But  I  must  gaze 
on  it  still." 

"  Is  it  a  woman  ?" 

t*  No  !  an  angel." 

"  And  encourages  the  devil  in  the  shape  of  Ma- 
laspina  ?  You  miscall  her,  Amieri  !" 

The  answer  was  interrupted  by  Lenzoni,  who  ran 
into  the  gallery,  but  seeing  his  friend  beset  by  a  mask, 
he  gave  him  joy  of  his  good  luck,  and  refusing  to  in 
terrupt  the  lete-d-lete,  disappeared  with  a  laugh. 

"  Brave,  kind  Lenzoni !"  said  the  stranger. 

"Are  you  his  good   angel,  too?"   asked    Amieri, 
surprised  again  at  the  knowledge  so  mysteriously  dis-   j 
played. 

"  No  !    Little  as  you  know  of  me  you  would  not  be 
willing  to  share  me  with  another!     Say,  Amieri!  love  j 
you  the  gobbo  on  the  knight's  arm  ?" 

"  You  have  read  me  riddles  less  clear,  my  fair  in 
cognita  !  I  would  die  at  morn  but  to  say  farewell  to 
her  at  midnight!" 

"  Do  you  despair  of  her  love  ?" 

"  Do  i  despair  of  excelling  Raphael  with  these 
unstrung  fingers  ?  I  never  hoped — but  in  my  dreams, 
lady!" 

"Then  hope,  waking !  For  as  there  is  truth  in 
heaven,  Violanta  Cesarini  loves  you,  Biondo  !" 

Laying  his  left  hand  sternly  on  the  arm  of  the 
stranger,  Bio-ndo  raised  his  helpless  wrist  and  pointed 
toward  the  hunchback,  who,  seated  by  the  red-cross 
knight,  played  with  the  diamond  cross  of  his  sword- 
hilt,  while  "the  palmer  turned  his  back,  as  if  to  give 
two  lovers  an  opportunity. 


With  a  heart  overwhelmed  with  bitterness,  he  then 
turned  to  the  mocking  incognito.  Violanta  sat  be 
side  him  ! 

Holding  her  mask  between  her  and  the  crowd  be 
low,  the  maiden  blush  mounted  to  her  temples,  and 
the  long  sweeping  lashes  dropped  over  her  eyes  their 
veiling  and  silken  fringes.  And  while  the  red-cross 
knight  still  made  eloquent  love  to  Giulio  in  the  saloon 
of  the  masquerade,  Amieri  and  Violanta,  in  their  un 
observed  retreat,  exchanged  vows,  faint  and  choked 
with  emotion  on  his  part,  but  all  hope,  encouragement, 
and  assurance,  on  hers 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  WILL  you  waltz  ?"  said  a  merry-voiced  domino 
to  the  red-cross  knight,  a  few  minutes  after  tapping 
him  smartly  on  the  corslet  with  her  black  fan,  and 
pointing,  for  the  first  step,  a  foot  that  would  have 
tempted  St.  Anthony. 

"By  the  mass!"  answered  Malaspina,  "I  should 
pay  an  ill  compliment  to  the  sweetest  voice  that  ever 
enchanted  human  ear"  (and  he  bowed  low  to  Guilio), 
"  did  1  refuse  invitation  so  sweetly  toned.  Yet  my 
Milan  armor  is  not  light  !" 

"  I  have  been  refusing  his  entreaties  this  hour," 
said  Giulio,  as  the  knight  whirled  away  with  Violanta, 
"  for  though  I  can  chatter  like  a  woman,  I  should 
dance  like  myself.  He  is  not  unwilling  to  show  his 
grace  to 'his  lady-mistress  !'  Ha!  ha!  It  is  worth 
while  to  sham  the  petticoat  for  once  to  see  what  fools 
men  are  when  they  would  please  a  woman  !  But, 
close  mask  !  Here  comes  the  count  Cesarini  !" 

"How  fares  my  child?"  said  the  old  noble,  leaning 
over  the  masked  Giulio,  and  touching  with  his  lips  the 
glossy  curl  which  concealed  his  temple.  Are  you 
amused,  idolo  wiio?" 

A  sudden  tremor  shot  through  the  frame  of  poor 
Giulio  at  the  first  endearment  ever  addressed  to  his 
ear  by  the  voice  of  a  parent.  The  tears  coursed  down 
under  his  mask,  and  for  all  answer  to  the  question,  he 
could  only  lay  his  small  soft  hand  in  his  lather's  and 
return  his  pressure  with  irresistible  strength  and  emo 
tion. 

"You  are  not  well,  rr.y  child!"  he  said,  surprised  at 
not  receiving  an  answer,  "this  ugly  hump  oppresses 
you!  Come  to  the  air!  So — lean  on  me,  caro  lesoro! 
We  will  remove  the  hump  presently.  A  Cesarini  with 
a  hump  indeed  !  Straighten  yourself,  my  life,  my 
child,  and  you  will  breathe  more  freely  !" 

Thus  entered,  at  one  wound,  daggers  and  balm  into 
the  heart  of  the  deformed  youth;  and  while  Bettina, 
trembling  in  every  limb,  grew  giddy  with  fear  as  they 
made  their  way  through  the  crowd,  Giulio,  relieved 
by  his  tears,  nerved  himself  with  a  strong  effort  and 
prepared  to  play  out  his  difficult  part  with  calmness. 

They  threaded  slowly  the  crowded  maze  of  M  allzers, 
and,  emerging  from  the  close  saloons,  stood  at  last  in 
the  gallery  overhanging  the  river.  The  moon  was 
rising,  and  touched  with  a  pale  light  the  dark  face  of 
the  Tiber;  the  music  came  faintly  out  to  the  night 
air,  and  a  fresh  west  wind,  cool  and  balmy  from  the 
verdant  campagna,  breathed  softly  through  the  lat 
tices. 

Refusing  a  chair,  Giulio  leaned  over  the  balustrade, 
and  the  count  stood  by  his  side  and  encircled  his  waist 
with  his  arm. 

"I  can  not  bear  this  deformity,  my  Violanta!"  he 
said,  "  you  look  so  unlike  my  child  with  it ;  I  need 
this  little  hand  to  reassure  me." 

"  Should  you  know  that  was  my  hand,  father?"  said 
Giulio. 

"  Should  I  not !  I  have  told  you  a  thousand  times 
that  the  nails  of  a  Cesarini  were  marked — let  me  see 


130 


PASQUALI,  THE  TAILOR  OF  VENICE. 


you  again — by  the  arch  of  this  rosy  line!  See,  my 
little  Gobbo  !  They  are  like  four  pink  fairy  shells  of 
India  laid  over  rolled  leaves  of  roses.  What  was  the 
poet's  name  who  said  that  of  the  old  countess  Giulia 
Cesarini — la  belia  Giulia?'''' 

"  Should  you  have  known  my  voice,  father  ?"  asked 
Giiilio,  evading  the  question. 

"  Yes,  my  darling,  why  ask  me  ?" 

"But,  father! — if  I  had  been  stolen  by  brigands 
from  the  cradle — or  you  had  not  seen  me  for  many, 
many  years — and  I  had  met  you  to-night  as  a  gobbo 
and  had  spoken  to  you — only  in  sport — and  had 
called  you  '•father,  dear  father."  should  you  have 
known  my  voice  ?  would  you  have  owned  me  for  a 
Cesarini?" 

"  Instantly,  my  child  !" 

"But  suppose  my  back  had  been  broken — suppose 
1  were  a  gobbo — a  deformed  hunchback  indeed,  in 
deed — but  had  still  nails  with  a  rosy  arch,  and  the 
same  voice  with  which  I  speak  to  you  now — and 
pressed  your  hand  thus — and  loved  you — would  you 
disown  me,  father?'' 

Giulio  had  raised  himself  while  he  spoke,  and  taken 
his  hand  from  his  father's  with  a  feeling  that  life  or 
death  would  be  in  his  answer  to  that  question.  Cesa 
rini  was  disturbed,  and  did  not  reply  for  a  moment. 

"  My  child !"  said  he  at  last,  "  there  is  that  in  your 
voice  that  would  convince  me  you  are  mine,  against 
all  the  evidence  in  the  universe.  I  can  not  imagine 
the  dreadful  image  you  have  conjured  up,  for  the 
Cesarini  are  beautiful  and  straight  by  long  inheritance. 
But  if  a  monster  spoke  to  me  thus,  I  should  love 
him  !  Come  ro  my  bosom,  my  blessed  child  !  and 
dispel  those  wild  dreams  !  Come,  Violanta  !" 

Giulio  attempted  to  raise  his  arms  to  his  father's 
neck,  but  the  strength  that  had  sustained  him  so  well, 
began  to  ebb  from  him.  He  uttered  some  indistinct 
words,  lifted  his  hand  to  his  mask  as  if  to  remove  it 
for  breath,  and  sunk  slowly  to  the  floor. 

"It.  is  i/our  son,  my  lord !"  cried  Bettina.  "Lift 
him,  Count  Cesarini  !  Lift  your  child  to  the  air  be 
fore  he  dies!" 

She  tore  off  his  mask  and  disclosed  to  the  thunder- 
stricken  count  the  face  of  the  stranger !  As  he  stood 
pale  and  agliast,  too  much  confounded  for  utterance  or 
action,  the  black  domino  tripped  into  the  gallery,  follow 
ed  by  the  red-cross  knight,  panting  under  his  armor. 

"  Giulio  !  my  own  Giulio  !"  cried  Violanta,  throw 
ing  herself  on  her  knees  beside  her  pale  and  insensible 
brother,  and  covering  his  forehead  and  lips  with  kisses. 
"Is  he  hurt?  Is  he  dead?  Water!  for  the  love 
of  Heaven!  Will  no  one  bring  water?"  And  tear 
ing  away  her  own  mask,  she  lifted  him  from  the 
ground,  and,  totally  regardless  of  the  astonished  group 
who  looked  on  in  petrified  silence,  fanned  and  caressed 
him  into  life  and  consciousness. 

"  Come  away,  Violanta  !"  said  her  father  at  last,  in 
a  hoarse  voice. 

"IS  ever,  my  father  !  he  is  our  own  blood!  How 
feel  you  now,  Giulio  ?" 

"  Better,  sweet !  where  is  Biondo  ?" 

"Near  by!  But  you  shall  go  home  with  me. 
Sigrior  Malaspina,  as  you  hope  for  my  favor,  lend  my 
brother  an  arm.  Bettina,  call  up  the  chariot.  Nay, 
father !  he  goes  home  with  me,  or  I  with  him,  we 
never  part  more !" 

The  red-cross  knight  gave  Giulio  an  arm,  and  lean 
ing  on  him  and  Violanta,  the  poor  youth  made  his 
way  to  the  carriage.  Amieri  sat  at  the  door,  and  re 
ceived  only  a  look  as  she  passed,  and  helping  Giulio 
tenderly  in,  she  gave  the  order  to  drive  swiftly  home, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  they  entered  together  the  palace 
of  their  common  inheritance. 

It  would  be  superfluous  to  dwell  on  the  incidents 
of  the  sequel,  which  were  detailed  in  the  Diario  di 


Roma,  and  are  known  to  all  the  world.  The  hunch 
back  Count  Cesarini  has  succeeded  his  father  in  his 
title  and  estates,  and  is  beloved  of  all  Rome.  The 
next  heir  to  the  title  is  a  son  (now  two  years  of  age) 
of  the  countess  Amieri,  who  is  to  take  the  name  of 
Cesarini  on  coming  to  his  majority.  They  live  to 
gether  in  the  old  palazzo,  and  all  strangers  go  to  see 
their  gallery  of  pictures,  of  which  none  are  bad,  except 
some  well  intended  but  not  very  felicitously  executed 
compositions  by  one  Lenzoni. 

Count  Lamba  Malaspina  is  at  present  in  exile,  having 
been  convicted  of  drawing  a  sword  on  a  disabled  gentle 
man,  on  his  way  from  a  masquerade  at  La  Pergola. 
His  seclusion  is  rendered  the  more  tolerable  by  the 
loss  of  his  teeth,  which  were  rudely  thrust  down  his 
throat  by  this  same  Lenzoui  (fated  to  have  a  finger  in 
every  pie)  in  defence  of  the  attacked  party  on  that  oc 
casion.  You  will  hear  Lenzoni's  address  (should  you 
wish  to  purchase  a  picture  of  his  painting)  at  the  Caffc 
del  Gioco,  opposite  the  trattoria  of  La  Bella  Donna 
in  the  Corso. 


PASQUALI,  THE  TAILOR  OF  VENICE, 

CHAPTER  I. 

GIANNINO  PASQUALI  was  a  smart  tailor  some  five 
years  ago,  occupying  a  cool  shop  on  one  of  the  smaller 
canals  of  Venice.  Four  pairs  of  suspenders,  a  print 
of  the  fashions,  and  a  motley  row  of  the  gay-colored 
trousers  worn  by  the  gondoliers,  ornamented  the  win 
dow  looking  on  the  dark  alley  in  the  rear,  and,  attach 
ed  to  the  post  of  the  water-gate  on  the  canal  side, 
floated  a  small  black  gondola,  the  possession  of  which 
afforded  the  same  proof  of  prosperity  of  the  Venetian 
tailor  which  is  expressed  by  a  horse  and  buggy  at  the 
door  of  a  snip  in  London.  The  place-seeking  travel 
ler,  who.  nez  en  I'air,  threaded  the  tangled  labyrinth 
of  alleys  and  bridges  between  the  Rialto  and  St. 
Mark's,  would  scarce  have  observed  the  humble  shop- 
window  of  Pasquali,  yet  he  had  a  consequence  on  the 
Piazza,  and  the  lagoon  had  seen  his  triumphs  as  an 
amateur  gondolier.  Giannino  was  some  thirty  years 
of  age,  and  his  wife  Fiametta,  whom  he  had  married 
for  her  zecchini,  was  on  the  shady  side  of  fifty. 

If  the  truth  must  be  told,  Pasquali  had  discovered 
that,  even  with  a  bag  of  sequins  for  eye-water,  Fi 
ametta  was  not  always  the  most  lovely  woman  in 
Venice.  Just  across  the  canal  lived  old  Donna 
Bentoccata,  the  nurse,  whose  daughter  Tuiturilla 
was  like  the  blonde  in  Titian's  picture  of  the  Marys  ; 
and  to  the  charms  of  Turturilla,  even  seen  through 
the  leaden  light  of  poverty,  the  unhappy  Pasquali  was 
far  from  insensible. 

The  festa  of  San  Antonio  arrived  after  a  damp  week 
of  November,  and  though  you  would  suppose  the  at 
mosphere  of  Venice  not  liable  to  any  very  sensible  in 
crease  of  moisture,  Fiametta,  like  people  who  live  on 
land,  and  who  have  the  rheumatism  as  a  punishment 
for  their  a»e  and  ugliness,  was  usually  confined  to  her 
brazero  of  hot  coals  till  it  was  dry  enough  on  the  Lido 
for  the  peacocks  to  walk  abroad.  On  this  festa,  how 
ever,  San  Antonio  being,  as  every  one  knows,  the 
patron  saint  of  Padua,  the  Padovese  were  to  come 
down  the  Brenta,  as  was  their  custom,  and  cross  over 
the  sea  to  Venice  to  assist  in  the  celebration  ;  and 
Fiametta  once  more  thought  Pasquali  loved  her  for 
herself  alone  when  he  swore  by  his  rosary  that  unless 
she  accompanied  him  to  the  festa  in  her  wedding  dress, 
he  would  not  turn  an  oar  in  the  race,  nor  unfasten  his 
gondola  from  the  door-post.  Alas  !  Fiametta  was 


PASQUALI,  THE  TAILOR  OF  VENICE. 


131 


married  in  the  summer  solstice,  and  her  dress  was 
permeable  to  the  wind  as  a  cobweb  or  gossamer.  Is 
it  possible  you  could  have  remembered  that,  oh,  wick 
ed  Pasquali  ? 

It  was  a  day  to  puzzle  a  barometer ;  now  bright, 
now  rainy  ;  now  gusty  as  a  corridor  in  a  novel,  and 
now  calm  as  a  lady  after  a  fit  of  tears.     Pasquali  was 
up  early  and  waked  Fiametta  with  a  kiss,  and,  by  way 
of  unusual  tenderness,  or  by  way  of  ensuring;  the  wed-  j 
ding   dress,  he  chose  to  play  dressing  maid,  and  ar 
ranged  with  his  own  hands  her  jupon  and  fezzoletta.  • 
She  emerged  from  her  chamber  looking  like  a  slice  : 
of  orange-peel  in  a  flower-bed,  but  smiling  arid  nod 
ding,  and  vowing  the  day  warm  as  April,  and  the  sky 
without  a  cloud.     The  widening  circles  of  an  occa-  ; 
sional  drop  of  rain  in  the  canal  were  nothing  but  the 
bubbles  bursting  after  a  passing  oar,  or  perhaps  the  last  i 
flies  ofsummer.     Pasquali  swore  it  was  weather  to  win  [ 
down  a  peri. 

As  Fiametta  stepped  into  the  gondola,  she  glanced 
her  eyes  over  the  way  and  saw  Turturilla,  with  a  face 
as  sorrowful  as  the  first  day  in  Lent,  seated  at  her 
window.  Her  lap  was  full  of  work,  and  it  was  quite 
evident  that  she  had  not  thought  of  being  at  the  festa.  j 
Fiametta's  heart  was  already  warm,  and  it  melted  quite 
at  the  view  of  the  poor  girl's  loneliness. 

"  Pasquali  mio  !"  she  said,  in  a  deprecating  tone, 
as  if  she  were  uncertain  how  the  proposition  would 
be  received,  "  I  think  we  could  make  room  for  poor 
Turturilla,!" 

A  gleam  of  pleasure,  unobserved  by  the  confiding 
sposa,  tinted  faintly  the  smooth  olive  cheek  of  Pasquali.  ! 

"Eh!  diavolo /"  he  replied,  so  loud  that  the  sor-  ] 
rowful  seamstress  heard,  and  hung  down  her  head 
still  lower;  "must  you  take  pity  on  every  cheese 
paring  of  a  regezza  who  happens  to  have  no  lover! 
Have  reason  !  have  reason  !  The  gondola  is  narrower 
than  your  brave  heart  my  fine  Fiametta  !"  And  away 
he  pushed  from  the  water-steps. 

Turturilla  rose  from  her  work  and  stepped  out  upon 
the  rusly  gratings  of  the  balcony  to  see  them  depart. 
Pasquali  stopped  to  grease  the  notch  of  his  oar,  and 
between  that  and  some  other  embarrassments,  the 
gondola  was  suffered  to  float  directly  under  her 
window.  The  compliment  to  the  generous  nature 
of  Fiametta,  was,  meantime,  working,  and  as  she  was 
compelled  to  exchange  a  word  or  two  with  Turturilla 
while  her  husband  was  getting  his  oar  into  the  socket, 
it  resulted  (as  he  thought  it  very  probable  it  would), 
in  the  good  wile's  renewing  her  proposiiion,  and  ma 
king  a  point  of  sending  the  deserted  girl  for  her  holy- 
day  bonnet.  Pasquali  swore  through  all  the  saints 
and  angels  by  the  time  she  had  made  herself  ready, 
though  she  was  but  five  minutes  gone  from  the  window, 
and  telling  Fiametta  in  her  ear  that  she  must  consider 
it  as  the  purest  obligation,  he  backed  up  to  the  steps  of 
old  Donna  Bentoccata,  helped  in  her  daughter  with  a 
better  grace  than  could  have  been  expected,  and  with 
one  or  two  short  and  deep  strokes,  put  forth  into  the 
grand  canal  with  the  velocity  of  a  lance-fly. 

A  gleam  of  sunshine  lay  along  the  bosom  of  the 
broad  silver  sheet,  and  it  was  beautiful  to  see  the 
gondolas  with  their  gay  colored  freights  all  hastening 
in  one  direction,  and  with  swift  track  to  the  festa. 
Far  up  and  down  they  rippled  the  smooth  water,  here 
gliding  out  from  below  a  palace-arch,  there  from  a  nar 
row  and  unseen  canal,  the  steel  beaks  curved  and  (lash 
ing,  the  water  glancing  on  the  oar-blades,  the  curtains 
moving,  and  the  fair  women  of  Venice  leaning  out  and 
touching  hands  as  thev  neared  neighbor  or  acquaint 
ance  in  the  close-pressing  gondolas.  It  was  a  beauti 
ful  sight,  indeed,  and  three  of  the  happiest  hearts  in 
that  swift  gliding  company  were  in  Pasquali's  gondola, 
though  the  bliss  of  Fiametta,  I  am  compelled  to  say, 
was  entirely  owing  to  the  bandage  with  which  love  is 
so  significantly  painted.  Ah  !  poor  Fiametta! 


From  the  Lido,  from  Fusina,  from  under  the  Bridge 
of  Sighs,  from  all  quarters  of  the  lagoon,  and  from  all 
points  of  the  floating  city  of  Venice,  streamed  the  fly- 
ing  gondolas  to  the  Giudecca.  The  narrow  walk 
along  the  edge  of  the  long  and  close-built  island  was 
thronged  \vith  booths  and  promenaders.  and  the  black 
barks  by  hundreds  bumped  their  steel  noses  against 
the  pier  as  the  agitated  water  rose  and  fell  beneath 
them.  The  gondolas  intended  for  the  race  pulled 
slowly  up  and  down,  close  to  the  shore,  exhibiting 
their  fairy-like  forms  and  their  sinewy  and  gayly  dress 
ed  gondoliers  to  the  crowds  on  land  and  water ;  the 
bands  of  music,  attached  to  different  parties,  played 
here  and  there  a  strain  ;  the  criers  of  holy  pictures 
and  gingerbread  made  the  air  vocal  with  their  lisping 
and  soft  Venetian  ;  and  all  over  the  scene,  as  if  it  was 
the  light  of  the  sky  or  some  other  light  as  blessed  but 
less  common,  shone  glowing  black  eyes,  black  as 
night,  and  sparkling  as  the  stars  on  night's  darkest 
bosom.  He  who  thinks  lightly  of  Italian  beauty 
should  have  seen  the  women  of  Venice  on  St.  An 
tonio's  day  '32,  or  on  any  or  at  any  hour  when  their 
pulses  are  beating  high  andtheireyes  alight — for  they 
are  neither  one  nor  the  other  always.  The  women 
of  that  fair  clime,  to  borrow  the  simile  of  Moore,  are 
like  lava-streams,  only  bright  when  the  volcano  kindles. 
Their  long  lashes  cover  lustreless  eyes,  and  their  blood 
shows  dully  through  the  cheek  in  common  and  listless 
I  hours.  The  calm,  the  passive  tranquillity  in  which 
the  delicate  graces  of  colder  climes  find  their  element 

I  are  to  them  a  torpor  of  the  heart  when  the  blood  scarce 
seems  to   flow.     They  are  wakeful  only  to  the  ener 
getic,  the  passionate,  the  joyous  movements  of  the 
soul. 

Pasquali  stood  erect  in  the  prow  of  his  gondola,  and 
stole  furtive  glances  at  Turturilla  while  he  pointed 
away  with  his  finger  to  call  off  the  sharp  eyes  of  Fi 
ametta  ;  but  Fiametta  was  happy  and  unsuspicious. 
Only  when  now  and  then  the  wind  came  up  chilly 
from  the  Adriatic,  the  poor  wife  shivered  and  sat 
closer  to  Turturilla,  who  in  her  plainer  but  thicker 
dress,  to  say  nothing  of  younger  blood,  sat  more  com 
fortably  on  the  black  cushion  and  thought  less  about 
the  weather.  An  occasional  drop  of  rain  fell  on  the 
nose  of  poor  Fiametta,  but  if  she  did  not  believe  it  was 
\  the  spray  from  Pasquali's  oar,  she  at  least  did  her  best 

II  to  believe  so;  and  the  perfidious  tailor  swore  by  St. 
I   Anthony  that  the  clouds  were  as  dry  as  her  eyelashes. 

1  never  was  very  certain  that  Turturilla  was  not  in  the 
secret  of  this  day's  treacheries. 

The  broad  centre  of  the  Giudecca  was  cleared,  and 
the  boats  took  their  places  for  the  race.  Pasquali 
ranged  his  gondola  with  those  of  the  other  spectators, 
and  telling  Fiametta  in  her  ear  that  he  should  sit  on 
the  other  side  of  Turturilla  as  a  punishment  for  their 
malapropos  invitation,  he  placed  himself  on  the  small 
remainder  of  the  deep  cushion  on  the  farthest  side 
from  his  now  penitent  spouse,  and  while  he  complain 
ed  almost  rudely  of  the  narrowness  of  his  seat,  he 
made  free  to  hold  on  by  Turturilla's  waist  which  no 
doubt  made  the  poor  girl's  mind  more  easy  on  the 
subject  of  her  intrusion. 

Who  won  and  who  lost  the  race,  what  was  the 
device  of  each  flag,  and  what  bets  and  bright  eyes 
changed  owners  by  the  result,  no  personage  of  this 
!  tale  knew  or  cared,  save  Fiametta.  She  looked  on 
eagerly.  Pasquali  and  Turturilla,  as  the  French  say, 
trouvaient  autress  chats  a  frailer. 

After  the  decision  of  the  grand  race,  St.  Antonio 
being  the  protector,  more  particularly  of  the  humble 
("patron  of  pigs"  in  the  saints'  calendar),  the  seignoria 
and  the  grand  people  generally,  pulled  away  for  St. 
Mark's,  leaving  the  crowded  Giudecca  to  the  people. 
Pasquali,  as  was  said  before,  had  some  renown  as  a 
gondolier.  Something  what  would  be  called  in  other 
countries  a  scrub  race,  followed  the  departure  of  the 


132 


PASQUALI,  THE  TAILOR  OF  VENICE. 


•winning  boar,  and  several  gondolas,  holding  each  one 
person  "only,  took  their  places  for  the  start.  The 
tailor  laid  his  hand  on  his  bosom,  and,  with  the  smile 
that  had  first  stirred  the  heart  and  the  sequins  of 
Fiametta,  begged  her  to  gratify  his  love  by  acting  as 
his  make-weight  while  he  turned  an  oar  for  the  pig  of 
St.  Antonio.  The  prize  roasted  to  an  appetizing 
crisp,  stood  high  on  a  platter  in  front  of  one  of  the 
booths  on  shore,  and  Fiametia  smacked  her  lips, 
overcame  her  tears  with  an  effort,  and  told  him,  in 
accents  as  little  as  possible  like  the  creak  of  a  dry  oar 
iu  the  socket,  that  he  might  set  Turturilla  on  shore. 

A  word  in  her  ear,  as  he  handed  her  over  the  gun 
wale,  reconciled  Bonna  Bentoccata's  fair  daughter  to 
this  conjugal  partiality,  and  stripping  his  manly  figure 
of  its  upper  disguises,  Pasquali  straightened  out  his 
fine  limbs,  and  drove  his  bark  to  the  line  in  a  style  that 
drew  applause  from  even  his  competitors.  As  a  mark 
of  their  approbation,  they  offered  him  an  outside  place 
where  his  fair  dame  would  be  less  likely  to  be  spatter 
ed  with  the  contending  oars  ;  but  he  was  too  generous 
to  take  advantage  of  this  considerate  offer,  and  crying 
out  as  he  took  the  middle,  "  ben  pronto,  si  gnori!"  gave 
Fiametta  a  confident  look  and  stood  like  a  hound  in 
the  leash. 

Off  they  went  at  the  lap  of  the  drum,  poor  Fiametta 
holding  her  breath  and  clinging  to  the  sides  of  the 
gondola,  and  Pasquali  developing  skill  and  muscle — 
not  for  Fiamelta's  eyes  only.  It  was  a  short,  sharp 
race,  without  jockeying  or  management,  all  fair  play 
and  main  strength,  and  the  tailor  shot  past  the  end  of 
the  Giudecca  a  boat's  length  ahead.  Much  more  ap 
plauded  than  a  king  at  a  coronation  or  a  lord-mayor 
taking  water  at  London  stairs,  he  slowly  made  his  way 
back  to  Turturilla,  and  it  was  only  when  that  demure 
damsel  rather  shrunk  from  sitting  down  in  two  inches 
of  water,  that  he  discovered  how  the  disturbed  element 
had  quite  filled  up  the  hollow  of  the  leather  cushion 
and  made  a  peninsula  of  the  uncomplaining  Fiametta. 
She  was  as  well  watered,  as  a  favorite  plant  in  a  flower- 
garden. 

"  Pasquali  mio  /"  she  said  in  an  imploring  tone, 
holding  up  the  skirt  of  her  dress  with  the  tips  of  her 
thumb  and  finger,  "  could  you  just  take  me  home 
while  I  change  my  dress." 

•'  One  moment,  Fiametia  cara  !  they  are  bringing 
the  pig  !" 

The  crisp  and  succulent  trophy  was  solemnly  placed 
in  the  prow  of  the  victor's  gondola,  and  preparation 
was  made  to  convoy  him  home  with  a  triumphant 
procession.  A  half  hour  before  it  was  in  order  to 
move — an  hour  in  first  making  the  circuit  of  the  grand 
canal,  and  an  hour  more  in  drinking  a  glass  and  ex 
changing  good  wishes  at  the  stairs  of  the  Rialto,  and 
Donna  Fiametta  had  sat  too  long  by  two  hours  and  a 
half  with  scarce  a  dry  thread  on  her  body.  What 
afterward  befell  will  be  seen  in  the  more  melancholy 
sequel. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  hospital  of  St.  Girolamo  is  attached  to  the 
convent  of  that  name,  standing  on  one  of  the  canals 
which  put  forth  on  the  seaward  side  of  Venice.  It  is 
a  long  building,  with  its  low  windows  and  latticed 
doors  opening  almost  on  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  the 
wards  for  the  sick  are  large  and  well  aired  ;  but,  ex 
cept  when  the  breeze  is  stirring,  impregnated  with  a 
saline  dampness  from  the  canal,  which,  as  Pasquali 
remarked,  was  good  for  llie  rheumatism.  It  was  not 
so  good  for  the  patient. 

The  loving  wife  Fiametta  grew  worse  and  worse 
after  the  fatal  festa,  and  the  fit  of  rheumatism  brought 
OQ  by  the  slight  ness  of  her  dress  and  the  spattering  he 


had  given  her  in  the  race,  had  increased  by  the  end  of 
the  week,  to  a  rheumatic  fever.  Fiametta  was  old 
and  tough,  however,  and  struggled  manfully  (woman 
as  she  was)  with  the  disease,  but  being  one  night  a 
little  out  of  her  head,  her  loving  husband  took  occa 
sion  to  shudder  at  the  responsibility  of  taking  care  of 
her,  and  jumping  into  his  gondola,  he  pulled  across  to 
St.  Girolamo  and  bespoke  a  dry  bed  and  a  sister  of 
charity,  and  brought  back  the  pious  father  Gasparo 
and  a  comfortable  litter.  Fiametta  was  dozing  when 
they  arrived,  and  the  kind-hearted  tailor  willing  to 
spare  her  the  pain  of  knowing  that  she  was  on  her  way 
to  the  hospital  for  the  poor,  set  out  some  meat  and 
wine  for  the  monk,  and  sending  over  for  Tunurilla 
and  the  nurse  to  mix  the  salad,  they  sal  and  ate  away 
the  hours  till  the  poor  dame's  brain  should  be  wander 
ing  again. 

Toward  night  the  monk  and  Dame  Bentoccata  were 
comfortably  dozing  with  each  other's  support  (having 
fallen  asleep  at  table),  and  Pasquali  with  a  kiss  from 
Turturilla,  stole  softly  up  stairs.  Fiamettn  was  ma 
turing  unquietly,  and  working  her  fingers  in  the  palms 
of  her  hands,  and  on  feeling  her  pulse  lie  found  the 
fever  was  at  its  height.  She  took  him,  besides,  for  the 
prize  pig  of  the  festa,  for  he  knew  her  wits  were  fairly 
abroad.  He  crept  down  stairs,  gave  the  monk  a  strong 
cup  of  coffee  to  get  him  well  awake,  and,  between  the 
four  of  them,  they  got  poor  Fiametta  into  the  litter, 
drew  the  curtains  tenderly  around  and  deposited  her 
safely  in  the  bottom  of  the  gondola. 

Lightly  and  smoothly  ihe  winner  of  ihe  pig  pulled 
away  with  his  loving  burden,  and  gliding  around  the 
slimy  corners  of  the  palaces,  and  hushing  his  voice 
as  he  cried  out  "right!"'  or  "left!"  to  guard  the 
coming  gondoliers  of  his  vicinity,  he  arrived,  like  a 
thought  of  love  to  a  maid's  mind  in  sleep,  at  the  door 
of  St.  Girolamo.  The  abbess  looked  out  and  said, 
"  Beriedicite  /"  and  the  monk  stood  fiirn  on  his  brown 
sandals  to  receive  the  precious  burden  from  the  arms 
of  Pasquali.  Believing  firmly  that  it  was  equivalent 
to  committing  her  to  the  hand  of  St.  Peter,  and  of 
course  abandoning  all  hope  of  seeing  her  again  in 
this  world,  the  soft-hearled  tailor  wiped  his  eye  as 
she  was  lifted  in,  and  receiving  a  promise  from  Faiher 
Gasparo  that  he  would  communicate  faithfully  the 
state  of  her  soul  in  the  last  agony,  he  pulled,  with 
lightened  gondola  and  heart,  back  to  his  widower's 
home  and  Turturilla. 

For  many  good  reasons,  and  apparent  as  good,  it  is 
a  rule  in  the  hospital  of  St.  Girolamo,  that  the  sick 
under  its  holy  charge  shall  receive  the  visil  of  neither 
friend  nor  relative.  If  they  recover,  they  return  to 
their  abodes  to  earn  candles  for  the  altar  of  the  restor 
ing  saint.  If  they  die,  their  clolhes  are  sent  to  their 
surviving  friends,  and  this  affecting  memorial,  besides 
communicating  the  melancholy  news,  affords  all  the 
particulars  and  all  the  consolation  they  are  supposed 
to  require  upon  the  subject  of  their  loss. 

Waiting  patiently  for  Father  Gasparo  and  his  bundle, 
Pasquali  and  Turturilla  gave  themselves  up  to  hopes, 
which  on  the  tailor's  part  (we  fear  it  must  be  admitted), 
augured  a  quicker  recovery  from  grief  than  might  be 
credited  to  an  elastic  constitution.  The  fortune  of 
poor  Fiametta  was  sufficient  to  warrant  Pasquali  in 
neglecting  his  shop  to  celebrate  every  festa  that  the 
church  acknowledged,  and  for  ten  days  subsequent  to 
the  committal  of  his  wife  to  the  tender  mercies  of  St. 
Girolamo,  five  days  out  of  seven  was  the  proportion  of 
merry  holydays  with  his  new  betrothed. 

They  were  sitting  one  evening  in  the  open  piazza 
of  St.  Mark,  in  front  of  the  most  thronged  cafe,  of 
that  matchless  square.  The  moon  was  resting  her 
silver  disk  on  the  point  of  the  Campanile,  and  the 
shadows  of  thousands  of  gay  Venetians  fell  on  ihe 
immense  pavement  below,  clear  and  sharply  drawn 
as  a  black  cartoon.  The  four  extending  sides  of  the 


THE  BANDIT  OF  AUSTRIA. 


133 


square  Iny  ha!(  m  shades  half  in  light,  with  their 
inmimeiiilm:  columns  <m(i  balconies  and  sculptured 
wutK.  .itnl,  frowning  down  on  all,  in  broken  light  and 
sh.iduw,  stow!  iht;  arabesque  structure  of  St.  Mark's 
hsell  rli//.yini>  ihe  eyes  with  its  mosaics  and  confused 
devic.es.  and  thrusting  forth  the  heads  of  her  four 
golden-collared  steeds  into  the  moonbeams,  till  they 
looked  on  that  black  relief,  like  the  horses  of  Pluto 
issuing  from  the  gates  of  Hades.  In  the  centre  of 
the  square  stood  a  tall  woman,  singing,  in  rich  con 
tralto,  an  old  song  of  the  better  days  of  Venice  ;  and 
against  one  of  the  pillars,  Polichinello  had  backed 
his  wooden  stage,  and  beat  about  his  puppets  with 
an  energy  worthy  of  old  Dandolo  and  his  helmeted 
galley-men.  To  those  who  wore  not  the  spectacles 
of  grief  or  discontent,  the  square  of  St.  Mark's  that 
night  was  like  some  cozening  tableau.  I  never  saw 
anything  so  gay. 

Everybody  who  has  "swam  in  a  gondola,"  knows 
how  the  cafes  of  Venice  thrust  out  their  checkered 
awnings  over  a  portion  of  the  square,  and  filled  tli3 
shaded  space  below  with  chairs  and  marble  tables. 
In  a  corner  of  the  shadow  thus  afforded,  with  ice  and 
coffee  on  a  small  round  slab  between  them,  and  the 
flat  pavement  of  the  public  promenade  under  their  feet, 
sat  our  two  lovers.  With  neither  hoof  nor  wheel  to 
drown  or  interrupt  their  voices  (as  in  cities  who 


posed,  bridegroom  as  he  was,  to  make  him  wait  her 
leisure.  Her  clothes  fitted  her  ill,  and  she  carried  in 
her  hand  a  pair  ofshoes.it  was  easy  to  see  were  never 
made  for  her.  She  rose  at  last,  and  as  her  face  be 
came  visible,  down  dropped  Turturilla  and  the  pious 
father,  and  motionless  and  aghast  stood  the  simple 
Pasquali.  Fiametta  stepped  on  shore  ! 

In  broken  words  Pasquali  explained.  He  had 
landed  at  the  stairs  near  the  fish  market,  and  with  two 
leaps  reaching  the  top,  sped  off  past  the  buttress  in 
the  direction  of  the  goldsmith,  when  his  course  was 
arrested  by  encountering  at  full  speed,  the  person  of 
an  old  woman.  Hastily  raising  her  up,  he  recognised 
his  wife,  who,  fully  recovered,  but  without  a  gondola, 
was  threading  the  zig-zag  alleys  on  foot,  on  her  way 
to  her  own  domicil.  After  the  first  astonishment  was 
over,  her  dress  explained  the  error  of  the  j;ood  father 
I  and  the  extent  of  his  own  misfortune.  The  clothes 
had  been  hung  between  the  bed  of  Fiametta  and  that 
of  a  smaller  woman  who  had  been  long  languishing 
of  a  consumption.  She  died,  and  Fiametta's  clothes, 
brought  to  the  door  by  mistake,  were  recognised  by 
Father  Gasparo  and  taken  to  Pasquali. 

The  holy  monk,  chop-fallen  and  sad,  took  his  soli 
tary  way  to  the  convent,  but  with  the  first  step  he  felt 
something  slide  into  the  heel  of  his  sandal.  He  sat 
down  on  the  church  stairs  and  absolved  the  devil  from 


streets  are  stones,  not  water),  they  murmured  their  |!  theft— it  was  the  lost  ring,  which  had  fallen  upon  his 

hopes  and  wishes  in  the  softest  language  under  the  i  foot  and  saved  Pasquali  the  tailor  from  the  pains  of 

sun,  and  with  the  sotto  race  acquired  by  all  the  inhabi-   j  bigamy. 

tants  of  this  noiseless  city.     Turturilla  had  taken  ice  to 

cool  her  and  coffee  to  take  off  the  chill  of  her  ice,  and 

a  bicchicre  del  pofetto  anwre  to  reconcile  these  two 

antagonists  in  hei  digestion,  when  the  slippers  of  a 

monk   glided   by,  and    in   a   moment  the   recognised 

Father  Gasparo  made  a  third  in  the  shadowy  corner. 

The  expected  bundle  was  under  his  arm,  and  he  was 

on  his  way  to  Pasquali's  dwelling.     Having  assured 

the  disconsolate  tailor  that  she  hud  unction  and  wafer 

as  became  the  wife  of  a  citizen  of  Venice  like  himself, 

l)e  took  heart  and  grew  content  that  she  was  in  heaven. 

It  was  a  better  place,  and  Turturilla  for  so  little  as  a 

gold  ring,  would  supply  her  place  in  his  bosom. 

The  moon  was  but  a  brief  week  older  when  Pas 
quali  and  Turturilla  stood  in  the  church  of  our  lady 
of  grief,  and  Father  Gasparo  within  the  palings  of  the 
altar.  She  was  as  fair  a  maid  as  ever  bloomed  in  the 
garden  of  beauty  beloved  of  Titian,  and  the  tailor  was 
nearer  worth  nine  men  to  look  at,  than  the  fraction  of 


THE  BANDIT  OF  AUSTRIA, 

"  Affection  is  a  fire  which  kinclleth  as  well  in  the  bramble  ax  in 
the  oak,  and  catcheih  hnld  where  it  first  light.eth,  not  whore  it  may 
b«st  burn.  Larks  that  mount  in  the  air  build  their  nests  below  in 
the  earth  ;  and  women  that  cast  iheir  eyes  upon  kings,  may  placa 
their  hearts  upon  vassals." — MAULOWE. 

"  L'acrement  cst  arliitraire  :  }a  beaute  tst  quclque  chn<e  de  plus  reel 
et  de  plus  independent  du  gout  tt  de  I'optnion."— LA  BRUYERE. 

FAST  and  rebukingly  rang  the  matins  from  the 
towers  of  St.  Etienne,  and.  though  unused  to  wake, 
much  less  to  pray,  at  that  sunrise  hour,  I  felt  a  com 
punctious  visiting  as  my  postillion  cracked  his  whip 


a  man  considered  usually  the  exponent  of  his  profes-  i    and  flew  past  the  sacred  threshold,  over  which  trip- 


sion.  Aw  ly  mumbled  the  good  father  upon  the  mat 
rimonial  service,  thinking  of  the  old  wine  and  rich 
pastries  that  were  holding  their  sweetness  under  cork 


ped,  as  if  every  stroke  would  be  the  last,  the  tardy  yet 
light-footed  mass-goers  of  Vienna.  It  was  my  first 
entrance  into  this  Paris  of  Germany,  and  I  stretched 


upon  the  fretted  gothic  pile,  so  cumbered  with  orna- 
ment,  yet  so  light  and  airy  —  so  vast  in  the  area  it 
covered,  yet  so  crusted  in  every  part  with  delicate  de 


and  crust  only  till   he   had  done  his  ceremony,  and  I   my  head  from  the  window  to  look  back  with  delight 
quicker  by  some  seconds  than  had  ever  been  achieved 
before  by  priest  or  bishop,  he  arrived  at  the  putting  on 
of  the  ring.     His  hand  was  tremulous,  and  «(oh  un 
lucky  omen  !)  he  dropped  it  within  the  gilden  fence  i   vice  and  sculpture.     On  sped  the  merciless  postillion, 
of  the   chancel.      The   choristers   were   called,   and  j   and  the  next  moment  we  rattled  into  the  court-yard  of 
Father  Gasparo  dropped  on  his  knees  to  look  for  it —     the  hotel. 

but  if  the  devil  had  not  spirited  it  away,  there  was  no  jj      I  gave  my  keys  to  the  most  faithful  and  intelligent 
other  reason  why  that  search  was  in  vain.     Short  of 
an  errand   to  the  goldsmith  on  the  Rialto,  it  was  at 
last  determined  the  wedding  could  not  proceed.     Fa 


ther  Gasparo  went  to  hide  his  impatience  within  the 
restiary,  and  Turturilla  knelt  down  to  pray  against  the 
arts  of  Sathanas.  Before  they  had  settled  severally 
to  their  pious  occupations,  Pasquali  was  half  way  to 
the  Rialto. 

H;il("an  hour  elapsed,  and  then  instead  of  the  light 
grazing  of  i\  swift-sped  gondola  along  the  church 
stairs,  the  splash  of  a  sullen  oar  w-is  heard,  and  Pas- 
qu;di  stepped  on  shore.  They  had  hastened  to  the 
door  to  receive  him— monk,  choristers  rmd  bride — 
and  to  their  surprise  and  bewilderment,  he  waited  to 
hand  out  a  woman  in  a  strange  dress,  who  seemed  dis- 


of  valets  —  an  English  boy  of  sixteen,  promoted  from 
white  top-boots  and  a  cabriolet  in  London,  to  a  plain 
coat  and  almost  his  master's  friendship  upon  the  con 
tinent  —  and  leaving  him  to  find  rooms  to  my  taste, 
make  them  habitable  and  get  breakfast,  I  retraced  my 

!  way  to  ramble  a  half  hour  through  the  aisles  of  St. 
Etienne. 

The  lingering  bell  was  still  beating  its  quick  and 

I  monotonous  call,  and  just  before  me,  followed  closely 
by  a  female  domestic,  a  veiled  and  slightly-formed  lady 

I  stepped  over  the  threshold  of  the  cathedral,  and  look 
her  way  by  the  least-frequented  aisle  to  the  altar.  I 

j  gave  a  passing  glance  of  admiration  at  the  small  ankle 
and  dainty  chaussure  betrayed  by  her  hurried  step; 
but  remembering  with  a  slight  effort  that  I  had  sought 


134 


THE  BANDIT  OF  AUSTRIA. 


the  church  with  at  least  some  feeble  intentions  of  re 
ligious  worship,  I  crossed  ihe  broad  nave  to  the  oppo 
site  side,  and  was  soon  leaning  against  a  pillar,  and 
listening  to  the  heavenly-breathed  music  of  the  volun 
tary,  with  a  confused,  but  I  trust,  not  altogether  un 
profitable  feeling  of  devotion. 

The  peasants,  with  their  baskets  standing  beside 
them  on  the  tesselated  floor,  counted  their  beads  upon 
their  knees  ;  the  murmur,  low-toned  and  universal, 
rose  through  the  vibrations  of  the  anthem  with  an  ac 
companiment  upon  which  I  have  always  thought  the 
great  composers  calculated,  no  less  than  upon  the 
echoing  arches,  and  atmosphere  thickened  with  in 
cense  ;  and  the  deep-throated  priest  muttered  his 
Latin  prayer,  more  edifying  to  me  that  it  left  my 
thoughts  to  their  own  impulses  of  worship,  unde- 
meaned  by  the  irresistible  littleness  of  criticism,  and 
unchecked  by  the  narrow  bounds  of  another's  com 
prehension  of  the  Divinity.  Without  being  in  any 
leaning  of  opinion  a  son  of  the  church  of  Rome,  I 
confess  my  soul  gets  nearer  to  heaven  ;  and  my  re 
ligious  tendencies,  dulled  and  diverted  from  improve 
ment  by  a  life  of  travel  and  excitement,  are  more 
gratefully  ministered  to,  in  the  indistinct  worship  of 
the  catholics.  It  seems  to  me  that  no  man  can  pray- 
well  through  the  hesitating  lips  of  another.  The 
inflated  style  or  rhetorical  efforts  of  many,  addres 
sing  Heaven  with  difficult  grammar  and  embarrass 
ed  logic — and  the  weary  monotony  of  others,  re 
peating  without  interest  and  apparently  without 
thought,  the  most  solemn  appeals  to  the  mercy  of 
the  Almighty — are  imperfect  vehicles,  at  least  to 
me,  for  a  fresh  and  apprehensive  spirit  of  worship. 
The  religious  architecture  of  the  catholics  favors  the 
solitary  prayer  of  the  heart.  The  vast  floor  of  the 
cathedral,  the  far  receding  aisles  with  their  solemn 
light,  to  which  penetrate  only  the  indistinct  murmur 
of  priest  and  penitent,  and  the  affecting  wail  or  tri 
umphant  hallelujah  of  the  choir;  the  touching  atti 
tudes  and  utter  abandonment  of  all  around  to  their 
unarticulated  devotions;  the  freedom  to  enterand  de 
part,  unquestioned  and  unnoticed,  and  the  wonderful 
impressiveness  of  the  lofty  architecture,  clustered 
with  mementoes  of  death,  and  presenting  through 
every  sense,  some  unobtrusive  persuasion  to  the  duties 
of  the  spot — all  these,  I  can  not  but  think,  are  aids, 
not  unimportant  to  devout  feeling,  nor  to  the  most 
careless  keeper  of  his  creed  and  conscience,  entirely 
without  salutary  use. 

My  eye  had  been  resting  unconsciously  on  the 
drapery  of  a  statue,  upon  which  the  light  of  a  painted 
oriel  window  threw  the  mingled  dyes  of  a  peacock. 
It  was  the  figure  of  an  apostle  ;  and  curious  at  last  to 
see  whence  the  colors  came  which  turned  the  saintly 
garb  into  a  mantle  of  shot  silk,  I  strayed  toward  the 
eastern  window,  and  was  studying  the  gorgeous  dyes 
and  grotesque  drawing  of  an  art  lost  to  the  world,  when 
I  discovered  that  I  was  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
pretty  figure  that  had  tripped  into  church  so  lightly 
before  me.  She  knelt  near  the  altar,  a  little  forward 
from  one  of  the  heavy  gothic  pillars,  with  her  maid 
beside  her,  and,  close  behind  knelt  a  gentleman,  who 
I  observed  at  a  second  glance,  was  paying  his  devo 
tions  exclusively  to  the  small  foot  that  peeped  from 
the  edge  of  a  snowy  peignoir,  the  dishabille  of  which 
was  covered  and  betrayed  by  a  lace-veil  and  mantle. 
As  I  stood  thinking  what  a  graceful  study  her  figure 
would  make  for  a  sculptor,  and  what  an  irreligious  im 
pertinence  was  visible  in  the  air  of  the  gentleman  be 
hind,  he  leaned  forward  as  if  to  prostrate  his  face  upon 
the  pavement,  and  pressed  his  lips  upon  the  slender 
sole  of  (I  have  no  doubt)  the  prettiest  shoe  in  Vienna. 
The  natural  aversion  which  all  men  have  for  each 
other  as  strangers,  was  quickened  in  my  bosom  by  a 
feeling  much  more  vivid,  and  said  to  be  quite  as  natu 
ral—resentment  at  any  demonstration  by  another  of 


I  preference  for  the  woman  one  has  admired.  If  I  have 
j  not  mistaken  human  nature,  there  is  a  sort  of  imagina 
ry  property  which  every  man  feels  in  a  woman  he  has 
looked  upon  with  even  the  most  transient  regard, 
which  is  violated  malgre  lui,  by  a  similar  feeling  on 
the  part  of  any  other  individual. 

Not  sure  that  the  gentleman,  who  had  so  suddenly 
become  my  enemy,  had  any  warrant  in  the  lady's  con 
nivance  for  his  attentions,  I  retreated  to  the  shelter 
of  the  pillar,  and  was  presently  satisfied  that  he  was  as 
I  much  a  stranger  to  her  as  myself,  and  was  decidedly 
i  annoying  her.     A  slight  advance  in  her  position  to 
j  escape  his  contact  gave  me  the  opportunity  I  wished, 
and  stepping  upon  the  small  space  between  the  skirt 
of  her  dress  and  the  outpost  of  his  ebony  cane,  I  began 
to  study  the  architecture  of  the  roof  with  gre;it  serious 
ness.     The  gothic  order,  it  is  said,  sprang  from  the 
|  first  attempts  at  constructing  roofs  from  the  branches 
!  of  trees,  and  is  more  perfect  as  it  imitates  more  closely 
I  the  natural  wilderness  with  its  tall  tree-shafts  and  in 
terlacing  limbs.     With  my  eyes  half  shut  I  endeavor- 
!  ed  to  transport  myself  to  an  American  forest,  and  con- 
vert  the  beams  and  angles  of  this  vast  gothic  structure 
into  a  primitive  temple  of  pines,  with  the  sunshine 
coining  brokingly  through;  but  the  delusion,  other- 
|  wise  easy  enough,  was  destroyed  by  the  cherubs  roost- 
j  ing  on  the  cornices,  and  the  apostles  and  saints  perch- 
j  ed  as  it  were  in  the  branches ;  and,  spite  of  myself,  I 
j  thought  it  represented  best  Shylock's  "wilderness  of 
j  monkeys." 

"  S'il  vous  plait,  monsieur ."'  said  the  gentleman, 
j  pulling  me  by  the  pantaloons  as  I  was  losing  myself 
in  these  ill-timed  speculations. 
I  looked  down. 
"  Vous  me  genez,  monsieur  .'" 

" J'en  suis  bien  sure,  monsieur!" — and  I  resumed  my 
study  of  the  roof,  turning  gradually  round  till  my  heels 
were  against  his  knees,  and  backing  peu-d-peu. 

It  has  often  occurred  to  me  as  a  defect  in  the  system 
of  civil  justice,  that  the  time  of  the  day  at  which  a 
crime  is  committed  is  never  taken  into  account  by  judge 
or  jury.  The  humors  of  an  empty  stomach  act  so  ener 
getically  on  the  judgment  and  temper  of  a  man,  and 
the  same  act  appears  so  differently  to  him,  fasting  and 
full,  that  I  presume  an  inquiry  into  the  subject  would 
prove  that  few  offences  against  law  and  human  pity 
were  ever  perpetrated  by  villains  who  had  dined.  In 
the  adventure  before  us,  the  best-disposed  reader  will 
condemn  my  interference  in  a  stranger's  gallantries  as 
impertinent  and  quixotic.  Later  in  the  day,  I  should 
as  soon  have  thought  of  ordering  water-cresses  for  the 
'  gentleman's  dindon  aux  trvffes. 

I  was  calling  myself  to  account  something  after  the 

above  fashion,  the  gentleman  in  question  standing  near 

5  me,  drumming  on  his  boot  with  his  ebony  cane,  when 

the  ladv   rose,  threw  her  rosary  over  her  neck,  and 

\  turning  to  me  with  a  graceful  smile,  courtesied  slight- 

|  ly  and  disappeared.     1  was  struck  so  exceedingly  with 

the  intense  melancholy  in  the  expression  of  the  face — 

|  an  expression  so  totally  at  variance  with  the  elasticity 

I1  of  the  step,  and  the  promise  of  the  slight  and  riante 

|  figure   and   air — that  I  quite  forgot  I   had  drawn  a 

j  quarrel  on  myself,  and  was  loitering  slowly  toward  the 

I  door  of  the  church,  when  the  gentleman  1  had  offeud- 

I  ed  touched  me  on  the  arm,  and  in  the  politest  manner 

possible  requested  my  address.     We  exchanged  cards, 

and  1  hastened   home  to   breakfast,   musing  on   the 

facility  with  which  the  current  of  our  daily  life  may  be 

i  thickened.     I  fancied  I  had  a  new  love  on  my  hands, 

and  I  was  tolerably  sure  of  a  quarrel — yet  I  had  oeen 

in  Vienna  but  fifty-four  minutes  by  Breguet. 

My  breakfast  was  waiting,  and  Percie  had  found 
time  to  turn  a  comb  through  his  brown  curls,  and  get 
the  dust  off  his  gaiters.  He  was  tall  for  his  age,  and 
(unaware  to  himself,  poor  boy  !)  every  word  and  action 
reflected  upon  the  handsome  seamstress  in  Cranboutne 


THE  BANDIT  OF  AUSTRIA. 


135 


Alley,  whom  lie  called  his  mother — for  he  showed 
blood.  His  father  was  a  gentleman,  or  there  is  no 
truth  in  thorough-breeding.  As  I  looked  at  him,  a 
difficulty  vanished  from  my  mind. 

"  Percie!" 

"Sir!" 

"Get  into  your  best  suit  of  plain  clothes,  and  if  a 
foreigner  calls  on  me  this  morning,  come  in  and  forget 
that  you  are  a  valet.  I  have  occasion  to  use  you  for 
a  gentleman." 

"  Yes,  sir !" 

"  My  pistols  are  clean,  I  presume  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir!" 

I  wrote  a  letter  or  two,  read  a  volume  of  "  Ni 
jamais,  ni  toujours,"  and  about  noon  a  captain  of 
dragoons  was  announced,  bringing  me  the  expected 
cartel.  Percie  came  in,  treading  gingerly  in  a  pa 


"  My  friend  is  not  satisfied.  He  presumes  that 
monsieur  I" Anglais  wishes  to  trifle  with  him." 

"  Then  let  your  fiiend  take  care  of  himself/'  said  I, 
roused  by  the  unprovoked  murderousness  of  the  feel 
ing.  Load  the  pistols,  Percie!  In  my  country,"  I 
continued,  turning  to  the  dragoon,  "  a  man  isdisgraced 
who  fires  twice  upon  an  antagonist  who  has  spared 
him  !  Your  friend  is  a  ruffian,  and  the  consequences 
be  on  his  own  hand  !" 

We  took  our  places  and  the  first  word  was  given, 
when  a  man  dashed  between  us  on  horseback  at  top- 
speed.  The  violence  with  which  he  drew  rein  brought 
his  horse  upon  his  haunches,  and  he  was  on  his  feet  in 
half  a  breath. 

The  idea  that  he  was  an  officer  of  the  police  was 
immediately  dissipated  by  his  step  and  air.  Of  the 
finest  athletic  form  I  had  ever  seen,  agile,  graceful, 


of  tight  t  rench  boots,  but  behaving  exceedingly  like  I  and  dressed  pointedly  well,  there  was  still  an  inde- 
a  genileman,  and  alter  a  little  conversation,  managed  on  j  finable  something  about  him,  either  above  or  below 
his  part  str.ctly  according  to  my  instructions,  he  took  !  a  gentleman— which,  it  was  difficult  to  say.  His 
his  cane  and  walked  oft  with  his  fiiend  of  the  steel  |i  features  were  slight,  fair,  and,  except  a  brow  too 
scabbard  to  become  acquainted  with  the  ground.  j  heavy  for  them  and  a  lip  of  singular  and  (I  thought) 

The   gray   of   a    heavenly   summer   morning   was     habitual  defiance,   almost  feminine.     His  hair  g'rew 
brightening  above  the  chimneys  of  the  fair  city  of  j   long  and  had   been  soi^e,  probably  by  mo. 
Vienna  as  I  stepped  into  a  caliche,  followed   by  Per-  j1  sing  fingers  than  his  own,  and  his  rather  silk 
:ie.     With  a  special  passport  (procured  by  the  polite- 
less  of  my  antagonist)  we  made  our  sortie  at  that  early 


cie. 

ness  of  my  antagonist)  we  made  our  sortie  at  that  early 
hour  from  the  gates,  and  crossing  the  glacis,  took  the 
road  to  the  banks  of  the  Danube.  It  was  but  a  mile 
from  the  city,  and  the  mist  lay  low  on  the  face  of  the 
troubled  current  of  the  river,  while  the  towers  and 
pinnacles  of  the  silent  capital  cut  the  sky  in  clear  and 
sharp  lines — as  if  tranquillity  and  purity,  those  im 
maculate  hand-maidens  of  nature,  had  tired  of  inno 
cence  and  their  mistress — and  slept  in  town  ! 

I  had  taken  some  coffee  and  broiled  chicken  before 
starting,  and  (removed  thus  from  the  category  of  the 
savage  unbreakfasted)  I  was  in  one  of  those  moods  of 


to  be 


pro 


cares- 

rather  silken  mus 
tache  was  glossy  with  some  odorent  oil.  As  he 
approached  me  and  took  my  hand,  with  a  clasp  like  a 
smith's  vice,  I  observed  these  circumstances,  and  could 
have  drawn  his  portrait  without  ever  seeing  him  again 
— so  marked  a  man  was  he,  in  every  point  and  feature. 
His  business  was  soon  explained.  He  was  the 

j  husband  of  the  lady  my  opponent  had  insulted,  and 
that  pleasant  gentleman  could,  of  course,  make  no  ob 
jection  to  his  taking  my  place.  I  officiated  as  temoin, 

\  and,  as  they  took  their  position,  I  anticipated  for  the 

;  dragoon  and  myself  the  trouble  of  carrying  them  both 
off  the  field.  1  had  a  practical  assurance  of  my  friend's 

!  pistol,  and  the  stranger  was  not  the  looking  man  to 

I  miss  a  hair's  breadth  of  his  aim. 


The  word  was  not  fairly  off  my  lips  when  both 
pistols  cracked  like  one  discharge,  and  high  into  the 
air  sprang  my  revengeful  opponent,  and  dropped  like 
a  clod  upon  the  grass.  The  stranger  opened  his 


universal  benevolence,  said  (erroneously) 

duced  only  by  a  clean  breast  and  milk  diet.     I  could 

have  wept,  with  Wordsworth,  over  a  violet. 

My  opponent  was  there  with  his  dragoon,  and  Per 
cie,  cool   and   gentlemanlike,  like  a  man  who  "had          „ ._„        .  ,„.      ^  ^  „ .^. 

served,"  looked  on  at  the  loading  of  the  pistols,  and  waistcoat",' thrust his  'fore-finger  Into TwoTindTn  his 
gave  me  mine  with  a  very  firm  hand,  but  with  a  mois-  j.  ]eft  breast,  and  slightly  closing  his  teeth,  pushed  a 
ture  and  anxiety  m  his  eye  which  I  have  remembered  bullet  through,  which  had  been  checked  by  the  bone 
since.  We  were  to  fire  any  time  after  the  counting  j  and  lodged  in  the  flesh  near  the  skin.  The  surgeon 
of  three,  and  having  no  malice  against  my  friend,  |  who  had  accompanied  my  unfortunate  antagonist Jeft 
whose  impertinence  to  a  lady  was  (really!)  no  business  |  the  body,  which  he  had  found  beyond  his  art,  and 

m,'ne;    iiriten^ed'  of  course,  to  throw  away  my  fire,     readily  gave  his  assistance  to  stanch  the  blood  of  my 

preserver;  and  jumping  with  the  latter  into  my  ca/eche, 
1   put  Percie  upon  the  stranger's  horse,  and  we  drove 


The  first  word  was  given  and  I  looked  at  my  an 
tagonist,  who,  I  saw  at  a  glance,  had  no  such  gentle 
intentions.  He  was  taking  deliberate  aim,  and  in  the 
four  seconds  that  elapsed  between  the  remaining  two 
words,  I  changed  my  mind  (one  thinks  so  fast  when 
his  leisure  is  limited  !)  at  least  twenty  times  whether  I 
should  fire  at  him  or  no.  * 


back  to  Vienna. 

The  market  people  were  crowding  in  at  the  gate, 
the  merry  peasant  girls  glanced  at  us  with  their  blue, 
German  eyes,  the  shopmen  laid  out  their  gay  wares 
to  the  street,  and  the  tide  of  life  ran  on  as  busily  and 


"  Iroisr  pronounced  the  dragoon,  from  a  throat  !.  ;,s  gayly,  though  a  drop  had  been  extracted,  within 
like  a  trombone,  and  with  the  last  thought,  up  flew  \,  scarce  ten  minutes,  from  its  quickest  vein.     I  felt  a 
my  hnnd,  and  as  my  pistol  discharged  in  the  air,  my  j|  revulsion  at  my  heart,  and  grew  faint  and  sick.     Is  a 
friend's  shot  struck  upon  a  large  turquoise  which  I      human  life— is  HIV  life  worth  anything,  even 
wore  on  my  third  finger,  and  drew  a  slight  pencil-line 
across  my  left  organ  of  causality.     It  was  well  aimed 
for  my  temple,  but  the  ring  had  saved  me. 

Friend  of  those  days,  regretted  and  unforgotten  ! 
days  of  the  deepest  sadness  and  heart-heaviness,  yet 
somehow  dearer  in  remembrance  than  all  the  joys  I 
can  recall — there  was  a  talisman  in  thy  parting  gift  thou 
didst  not  think  would  be,  one  day,  my  angel ! 

"  You  will  be  able  to  wear  your  hair  over  the  scar, 
sir!"  said  Percie,  coming  up  and  putting  his  finger  on 
the  wound. 

"  Monsieur !"  said  the  dragoon,  advancing  to  Per 
cie  after  a  short  conference  with  his  principal,  and 
looking  twice  as  fierce  as  before. 

"  Monsieur !"  said  Percie,  wheeling  short  upon  him. 


y  life  worth  anything,  even  a  thought, 
to  my  fellow-creatures  ?  was  the  bitter  question  forced 
upon  my  soul.  How  icily  and  keenly  the  unconscious 
indifference  of  the  world  penetrates  to  the  nerve  and 
marrow  of  him  who  suddenly  realizes  it. 

We  dashed  through  the  kohl-market,  and  driving 
into  the  porle-cochere  of  a  dark-looking  house  in  one 
of  the  cross  streets  of  that  quarter,  were  ushered  into 
apartments  of  extraordinary  magnificence. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  WHAT  do  you  want,  Percie  ?" 
He  was  walking  into  the  room  with  all  the  deli- 
berate  politeness  of  a  "  gold-stick-in-waiting." 


136 


THE  BANDIT  OF  AUSTRIA. 


"  1  ben  pardon,  sit,  but  I  was  asked  to  walk  up,  and 
I  was  not  sure  whether  I  was  still  a  gentleman." 

ji  instantly  struck  me  that  it  might  seem  rather 
infra  di«  to  the  chevalier  (my  new  friend  had  thus 
announced  himself)  to  have  had  a  valet  for  a  second,  and 
as  he  immediately  after  entered  the  room,  having  step 
ped  below  to  give  orders  about  his  horse,  I  presented 
Percie  as  a  gentleman  and  my  friend,  and  resumed  my 
observation  of  the  singular  apartment  in  which  I  found 
myself. 

The  effect  on  coming  first  in  at  the  door,  was  that 
of  a  small  and  lofty  chapel,  where  the  light  struggled 
in  from  an  unseen  aperture  above  the  altar.  There 
were  two  windows  at  the  farther  extremity,  but  cur 
tained  so  heavily,  and  set  so  deeply  into  the  wall,  that 
I  did  not  at  first  observe  the  six  richly-carpeted  steps 
which  led  up  to  them,  nor  the  luxuriously  cushioned 
seats  on  either  side  of  the  casement,  within  the  niche, 
for  those  who  would  mount  thither  for  fresh  air.  The 
walls  were  tapestried,  but  very  ragged  and  dusty,  and 
the  floor,  though  there  were  several  thicknesses  of  the 
heavy-piled,  small,  Turkev  carpets  laid  loosely  over  it, 
was  irregular  and  sunken.  The  corners  were  heaped 
with  various  articles  I  could  not  at  first  distinguish. 
My  host  fortunately  gave  me  an  opportunity  to  gratify 
my  curiosity  by  frequent  absences  under  the  house 
keeper's  apology  (odd  1  thought  for  a  chevalier)  of 
expediting  breakfast;  and  with  the  aid  of  Percie,  I 
tumbled  his  chattels  about  with  all  necessary  freedom. 

"  That,"  said  the  chevalier,  entering,  as  I  turned  out 
the  face  of  a  fresh  colored  picture  to  the  light,  "  is  a 
capo  tVopera  of  a  French  artist,  who  painted  it,  as  you 
may  say,  by  the  gleam  of  the  dagger." 

"  A  cool  light,  as  a  painter  would  say  !" 

"  He  was  a  cool  fellow,  sir,  and  would  have  handled 
a  broadsword  better  than  a  pencil.'* 

Percie  stepped  up  while  I  was  examining  the  ex 
quisite  finish  of  the  picture,  and  asked  very  respect 
fully  if  the  chevalier  would  give  him  the  particulars 
of  the  story.  It  was  a  full-length  portrait  of  a  young 
and  excessively  beautiful  girl,  of  apparently  scarce 
fifteen,  entirely  nude,  and  lying  upon  a  black  velvet 
couch,  with  one  foot  laid  on  a  broken  diadem,  and  her 
right  hand  pressing  a  wild  rose  to  her  heart. 

"  It  was  the  fancy,  sir,"  continued  the  chevalier, 
"  of  a  bold  outlaw,  who  loved  the  only  daughter  of  a 
noble  of  Hungary." 

"  Is  this  the  lady,  sir?"  asked  Percie,  in  his  politest 
valet  French. 

The  chevalier  hesitated  a  moment  and  looked  over 
his  shoulder  as  if  he  might  be  overheard. 

"  This  is  she — copied  to  the  minutest  shadow  of  a 
hair !  He  was  a  bold  outlaw,  gentlemen,  and  had 
plucked  the  lady  from  her  father's  castle  with  his 
own  hand." 

"  Against  her  will  ?"  interrupted  Percie,  rather 
energetically. 

"  No  !"  scowled  the  chevalier,  as  if  his  lowering 
brows  had  articulated  the  word,  "  by  her  own  will  and 
connivance:  for  she  loved  him." 

Percie  drew  a  long  breath,  and  looked  more  close 
ly  at  the  taper  limbs  and  the  exquisitely-chiselled 
features  of  the  face,  which  was  turned  over  the 
shoulder  with  a  look  of  timid  shame  inimitably  true 
to  nature. 

"  She  loved  him,"  continued  our  fierce  narrator, 
who,  I  almost  began  to  suspect  was  the  outlaw  him 
self,  by  the  energy  with  which  he  enforced  the  tale, 
••  and  after  a  moonlight  ramble  or  two  with  him  in  the 
forest  of  her  father's  domain,  she  fled  and  became  his 
wife.  You  are  admiring  the  hair,  sir!  It  is  as 
luxuriant  and  glossy  now  !" 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  it  is  the  villain  himself!"  said 
Percie  in  an  undertone. 

"  Bref,"  continued  the  chevalier,  either  not  under 
standing  English  or  not  heeding  the  interruption,  "  an 


adventurous  painter,  one  day  hunting  the  picturesque 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  outlaw's  retreat,  surprised 
this  fair  creature  bathing  in  one  of  the  loneliest  moun 
tain-streams  in  Hungary.  His  art  appeared  to  be  his 
first  passion,  for  he  hid  himself  in  the  trees  and  drew 
her  as  she  stood  dallying  on  the  margin  of  the  small 
pool  in  which  the  brook  loitered;  and  so  busy  was  he 
with  his  own  work,  or  so  soft  was  the  mountain  moss 
under  its  master's  tread,  that  the  outlaw  looked,  un- 
perceived  the  while,  over  his  shoulder,  and  fell  in  love 
anew  with  the  admirable  counterfeit.  She  looked 
like  a  naiad,  sir,  new-born  of  a  dew-drop  and  a  violet." 

I  nodded  an  assent  to  Percie. 

"The  sketch,  excellent  as  it  seemed,  was  still  un 
finished  when  the  painter,  enamored  as  he  might 
well  be,  of  these  sweet  limbs,  glossy  with  the  shining 
water,  flung  down  his  book  and  sprang  toward  her. 
The  outlaw " 

"Struck  him  to  the  heart?  Oh  Heaven!"  said 
Percie,  covering  his  eyes  as  if  he  could  see  the 
murder. 

"  No !  he  was  a  student  of  the  human  soul,  and  de 
ferred  his  vengeance." 

Percie  looked  up  and  listened,  like  a  man  whose 
wits  were  perfectly  abroad. 

"  He  was  not  unwilling  since  her  person  had  been 
seen  irretrievably,  to  know  how  his  shrinking  Iminild 
(this  was  her  name  of  melody)  would  have  escaped, 
had  she  been  found  alone." 

"  The  painter" — prompted  Percie,  impatient  for 
the  sequel. 

"  The  painter  flew  over  rock  and  brake,  and  sprang 
into  the  pool  in  which  she  was  half  immersed  ;  and 
my  brave  girl " 

He  hesitated,  for  he  had  betrayed  himself. 

"Ay — she  is  mine,  gentlemen;  and  I  am  Yvain, 
the  outlaw — my  brave  wife,  I  say  with  a  single  bound, 
leaped  to  the  rock  where  her  dress  was  concealed, 
seized  a  short  spear  which  she  used  as  a  staff  in  lier 
climbing  rambles,  and  struck  it  through  his  shoulder 
as  he  pursued  !" 

"  Bravely  done  !"  I  thought  aloud. 

"  Was  it  not  ?  I  came  up  the  next  moment,  but  the 
spear  stuck  in  his  shoulder,  and  I  could  not  fall  upon 
a  wounded  man.  We  carried  him  to  our  ruined 
castle  in  the  mountains,  and  while  my  Iminild  cured 
her  own  wound,  I  sent  for  his  paints,  and  let  him 
finish  his  bold  beginning  with  a  difference  of  my  own. 
You  see  the  picture." 

"  Was  the  painter's  love  cured  with  his  wound  !" 
I  asked  with  a  smile. 

"No,  by  St.  Stephen!  He  grew  ten  times  more 
enamored  as  he  drew.  He  was  as  fierce  as  a  welk 
hawk,  and  as  willing  to  quarrel  for  his  prey.  I  could 
have  driven  my  dagger  to  his  heart  a  hundred  limes 
for  the  mutter  of  his  lips  and  the  flash  of  his  dark  eyes 
as  he  fed  his  gaze  upon  her  ;  but  he  finished  the  pic 
ture,  and  I  gave  him  a  fair  field.  He  chose  the  broad 
sword,  and  hacked  away  at  me  like  a  man." 

"And  the  result" — 1  asked. 

"  I  am  here  !"  replied  the  outlaw  significantly. 

Percie  leaped  upon  the  carpeted  steps,  and  pushed 
back  the  window  for  fresh  air;  and,  for  myself,  1  scarce 
knew  how  to  act  under  the  roof  of  a  man,  who,  though 
he  confessed  himself  an  outlaw  and  almost  an  assassin, 
was  bound  to  me  by  the  ties  of  our  own  critical  ad 
venture,  and  had  confided  his  condition  to  me  with  so 
ready  a  reliance  on  my  honor.  In  the  rnidst  of  my 
dilemma,  while  I  was  pretending  to  occupy  myself 
with  examining  a  silver  mounted  and  peaked  saddle, 
which  I  found  behind  the  picture  i«  the  corner,  a  deep 
and  unpleasant  voice  announced  breakfast. 

"Wolfen  is  rather  a  grim  chamberlain,"  said  the 
chevalier,  bowing  with  the  grace  and  smile  of  the 
softest  courtier,  "  but  he  will  usher  you  to  breakfast 
and  I  am  sure  you  stand  in  need  of  it.  For  myself, 


THE  BANDIT  OF  AUSTRIA. 


137 


I  could  eat  worse  meat  than  my  grandfather  with  this 
appetite." 

Percie  gave  me  a  look  of  inquiry  and  uneasiness 
when  lie  found  we  were  to  follow  the  rough  domestic 
through  the  dark  corridors  of  the  old  house,  and 
through  his  underbred  politeness  of  insisting  on  fol 
lowing  his  host,  I  could  see  that  he  was  unwilling  to 
trust  the  outlaw  with  the  rear;  but  a  massive  and 
broad  door,  flung  open  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  let 
in  upon  us  presently  the  cool  and  fresh  air  from  a 
northern  exposure,  and,  stepping  forward  quickly  to  ; 
the  threshold,  we  beheld  a  picture  which  changed  the  | 
current  and  color  of  our  thoughts. 

In   the    bottom  of  an    excavated   area,   which,    as  ' 
well  as  I   could  judge,  must  be  forty  feet  below  the 
level  of  the  court,  lay  a  small  and  antique  garden,  j 
brilliant  with  the  most  costly  flowers,  and  cooled  by  ! 
a  fountain  gushing  from  under  the  foot  of  a  nymph  in  ' 
marble.     The  spreading  tops  of  six  alleys  of  lindens 
reaching  to  the  level  of  the  street,  formed  a  living 
roof  to  the  grot-like  depths  of  the  garden,  and  con-  [ 
cealed  it  from  all  view  but  that  of  persons  descend 
ing  like  ourselves  from  the  house;  while,  instead  of  | 
walls  to  shut  in  this  paradise  in  the  heart  of  a  city,  I 
sharply  inclined    slopes    of    green-sward     leaned    in  ! 
under  the  branches  of  the  lindens,  and  completed  the  j 
fairy-like  enclosure  of  shade   and   verdure.     As  we  | 
descended  the    rose-laden  steps  and   terraces,   I  ob-  j 
served,  that,  of  the  immense  profusion  of  flowers  in  ! 
the  area  below,  nearly  all  were  costly  exotics,  whose  j 
pots   were   set  in   the   earth,   and    probably    brought  , 
away  from  the   sunshine  only  when  in  high  bloom; 
and  as  we  rounded  the  spreading  basin  of  the  foun 
tain  which  broke  the  perspective  of  the  alley,  a  table, 
which  had   been   concealed    by  the   marble   nymph, 
and  a  skilfully-disposed   array  of  rhododendrons  lay 
just  beneath  our  feet,  while  a  lady,  whose  features  i 
1  could   not  fail  to  remember,  smiled   up  from  her 
couch  of  crimson  cushions  and   gave  us  a  graceful 
welcome. 

The  same  taste  for  depth  which  had  been  shown 
in  the  room  sunk  below  the  windows,  and  the  garden 
below  the  street,  was  continued  in  the  kind  of  mar 
ble  divan  in  which  we  were  to  breakfast.  Four  steps  j 
descending  from  the  pavement  of  the  alley  introduc 
ed  us  into  a  circular  excavation,  whose  marble  seats, 
covered  with  cushions  of  crimson  silk,  surrounded  a 
table  laden  with  the  substantial  viands  which  are 
common  to  a  morning  meal  in  Vienna,  and  smoking 
with  coffee,  whose  aroma  (Percie  agreed  with  me) 
exceeded  even  the  tube  roses  in  grateful  sweetness. 
Between  the  cushions  at  our  backs  and  the  pave 
ments  just  above  the  level  of  our  heads,  were  piled  cir 
cles  of  thickly-flowering  geraniums,  which  enclosed 
us  in  rings  of  perfume,  and,  pouring  from  the  cup  of 
a  sculptured  flower,  held  in  the  hand  of  the  nymph, 
a  smooth  stream  like  a  silver  rod  supplied  a  ctiannel 
grooved  around  the  centre  of  the  marble  table,  through 
which  the  bright  water,  with  the  impulse  of  itsdescent, 
made  a  swift  revolution  and  disappeared. 

It  was  a  scene  to  give  memory  the  lie  if  it  could 
have  recalled  the  bloodshed  of  the  morning.  The 
green  light  decked  down  through  the  lofty  roof  upon 
the  glittering  and  singing  water ;  a  nightingale  in  a 
recess  of  the  garden,  gurgled  through  his  wires  as  if 
intoxicated  with  the  congenial  twilight  of  his  prison  ; 
the  heavy-cupped  flowers  of  the  tropics  nodded  with 
the  rain  of  the  fountain  spray;  the  distant  roll  of 
wheels  in  the  neighboring  streets  came  with  an 
assurance  of  reality  to  this  dream-land,  yet  softened 
by  the  unreverberating  roof  and  an  air  crowded  with 
flowers  and  trembling  with  the  pulsations  of  falling 
water;  the  lowering  forehead  of  the  outlaw  cleared 
up  like  a  sky  of  June  after  a  thunder-shower,  ami  his 
voice  grew  gentle  and  caressing ;  and  the  delicate 
mistress  of  all  (by  birth,  Countess  Iminild),  a  crea- 


ture  as  slight  as  Psyche,  and  as  white  as  the  lotus, 
whose  flexile  stem  served  her  for"  a  bracelet,  wel 
comed  us  with  her  soft  voice  and  humid  eyes,  and 
saddened  by  the  event  of  the  morning,  looked  on  her 
husband  with  a  tenderness  that  would  have  assoiled 
her  of  her  sins  against  delicacy,  I  thought  even  in  the 
mind  of  an  angel. 

"  We  live,  like  truth,  here,  in  the  bottom  of  a  well," 
said  the  countess  to  Percie.  as  she  gave  him  his  cof 
fee  ;  "  how  do  you  like  my  whimsical  abode,  sir?" 

"  I  should  like  any  place  where  you  were,  Miladi  !" 
he  answered,  blushing  and  stealing  his  eyes  across  at 
me,  either  in  doubt  how  far  he  might  presume  upon 
his  new  character,  or  suspecting  that  I  should  smile 
at  his  gallantry. 

The  outlaw  glanced  his  eyes  over  the  curling  head 
of  the  boy,  with  one  of  those  just  perceptible  smiles 
which  developed,  occasionally,  in  great  beauty,  the 
gentle  spirit  in  his  bosom  :  and  I  mini  hi.  pleased  with 
the  compliment  or  the  blush,  threw  off'  her  pensive 
mood,  and  assumed  in  an  instant,  the  coquettish  air 
which  had  attracted  my  notice  as  she  stepped  before 
me  into  the  church  of  St.  Ktienne. 

"You  had  hard  work,"  she  said,  "to  keep  up 
with  your  long-legged  dragoon  yesterday,  Monsieur 
Percie  !" 

"  [Miladi  ?"  he  answered,  with  a  look  of  inquiry. 

"Oh,  I  was  behind  you,  and  my  legs  are  not  much 
longer  than  yours.  How  he  strided  aw.iy  with  his 
long  spurs,  to  be  sure  !  Do  you  remember  a  smart 
young  gentleman  with  a  blue  cap  that  walked  past 
you  on  the  glacis  occasionally." 

Ah,  witli  laced  boots,  like  a  Hungarian  ?" 
I  see  I  am  ever  to  be  known  by  my  foot,"  said 
she,  putting  it  out  upon  the  cushion,  and  turning  it 
about  with  naive  admiration  ;  "  that  poor  captain  of 
the  imperial  guard  paid  dearly  for  kissing  it,  holy 
virgin  !"  and  she  crossed  herself  and  was  silent  for  a 
moment. 

"  If  I  might  take  the  freedom,  chevalier,"  I  said, 
"  pray  how  came  I  indebted  to  your  assistance  in  this 
affair  ?" 

"Iminild  has  partly  explained,"  he  answered. 
"  She  knew,  of  course,  that  a  challenge  would  follow 
your  interference,  and  it  was  very  easy  to  know  that 
an  officer  of  some  sort  would  take  a  message  in  the 
course  of  the  morning  to  Le  Prince  Charles,  the  only 
hotel  frequented  by  the  English  d'un  certain  gens. 

I  bowed  to  the  compliment. 

"  Arriving  in  Vienna  late  last  night,  I  found  Iminild 
(who  had  followed  this  gentleman  and  the  diagoou 
unperceived)  in  possession  of  all  the  circumstances; 
and,  but  for  oversleeping  myself  this  morning.  1  should 
have  saved  your  turquoise,  nvm  seigneur  .'" 

"  Have  you  lived  here  long,  Miladi  ?"  asked  Per 
cie,  looking  up  into  her  eyes  with  an  unconscious 
passionateness  which  made  the  countess  Iminild  color 
slightly,  and  bite  her  lips  to  retain  au  expression  of 
pleasure. 

"  I  have  not  lived  long,  anywhere,  sir!"  she  nnswer- 
ed  half  archly,  "but  I  played  in  this  garden  when  not 
much  older  than  you!" 

Percie  looked  confused  and  pulled  tip  his  crnvnt. 

"  This  house  said  the  chevalier,  willing  apparently 
to  spare  the  countess  a  painful  narration,  "  is  the 
property  of  the  old  count  lldefert,  my  wile's  lather. 
He  has  long  ceased  to  visit  Vienna,  and  has  left  it,  he 
supposes,  to  a  stranger.  When  Iminild  tires  ol  the 
forest,  she  comes  here,  and  I  join  her  if  I  can  find 
time.  Imusttothesaddle  to-morrow,  by  St.  Jacques!" 

The  word  had  scarce  died  on  his  lips  when  the  door 

by  which  we  had  entered  the  garden  was  flung  open, 

j  and  the  measured  tread  of  gens-d'armes  resounded  in 

I  the  corridor.     The  first  man  who  stood  out  upon  the 

upper  terrace  was  the  dragoon  who  had  been  second 

to  my  opponent. 


138 


THE  BANDIT  OF  AUSTRIA. 


«•  Traiter  and  villain  !"  muttered  the  outlaw  between 
his  teeth,  "I  thought  I  remembered  you  !  It  is  that 
false  comrade  Berthold,  Iminild  !" 

Yvain  had  risen  from  the  table  as  if  but  to  stretch 
his  legs;  and  drawing  a  pistol  from  his  bosom  he 
cocked  it  as  he  quietly  stepped  up  into  the  garden. 
I  saw  at  a  glance  that  there  was  no  chance  for  his 
escape,  and  laid  my  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Chevalier !"  I  said,  "  surrender  and  trust  to  op 
portunity.  It  is  madness  to  resist  here." 

••  Yvain  !"  said  Iminild,  in  a  low  voice,  flying  to  his 
side  as  she  comprehended  his  intention,  "  leave  me 
that  vengeance,  and  try  the  parapet.  I'll  kill  him  be 
fore  he  sleeps!  Quick  !  Ah,  Heavens  !" 

The  dragoon  had  turned  at  that  instant  to  fly,  and 
with  suddenness  of  thought  the  pistol  flashed,  and 
the  traitor  dropped  heavily  on  the  terrace.  Spring 
ing  like  a  cat  up  the  slope  of  green  sward,  Yvain  stood 
an  instant  on  the  summit  of  the  wall,  hesitating  where 
to  jump  beyond,  and  in  the  next  moment  rolled  heavily 
back,  stabbed  through  and  through  with  a  bayonet 
from  the  opposite  side. 

The  blood  left  the  lips  and  cheek  of  Iminild;  but 
without  a  word  or  a  sign  of  terror,  she  sprang  to  the 
side  of  the  fallen  outlaw  and  lifted  him  up  against 
her  knee.  The  gens-d'armes  rushed  to  the  spot,  but 
the  subaltern  who  commanded  them  yielded  instantly 
to  my  wish  that  they  should  retire  to  the  skirts  of  the 
garden;  and,  send  ing  Percie  to  the  fountain  for  water, 
we  bathed  the  lips  and  forehead  of  the  dying  man  and 
set  him  against  the  sloping  parapet.  With  one  hand 
grasping  the  dress  of  Iminild  and  the  other  clasped  in 
mine,  he  struggled  to  speak. 

"  The  cross  !"  he  gasped,  "the  cross  !" 

Iminild  drew  a  silver  crucifix  from  her  bosom. 

"Swear  on  this,"  he  said,  putting  it  to  my  lips  and 
speaking  with  terrible  energy,  »«  swear  that  you  will 
protect  her  while  you  live  !" 

"  I  swear!" 

He  shut  our  hands  together  convulsively,  gasped 
slightly  as  if  he  would  speak  again,  and,  in  another 
instant  sunk,  relaxed  and  lifeless,  on  the  shoulder  of 
Iminild. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  fate  and  history  of  Yvain,  the  outlaw,  became, 
on  the  following  day,  the  talk  of  Vienna.  He  had 
been  long  known  as  the  daring  horse-stealer  of  Hun 
gary  ;  and,  though  it  was  not  doubted  that  his  sway- 
was  exercised  over  plunderers  of  every  description, 
even  pirates  upon  the  high  seas,  his  own  courage  and 
address  were  principally  applied  to  robbery  of  the  well- 
guarded  steeds  of  the  emperor  and  his  nobles.  It  was 
said  that  there  was  not  a  horse  in  the  dominions  of 
Austria  whose  qualities  and  breeding  were  not  known 
to  him,  nor  one  he  cared  to  have  which  was  not  in  his 
concealed  stables  in  the  forest.  The  most  incredible 
stories  were  told  of  his  horsemanship.  He  would  so 
disguise  the  animal  on  which  he  rode,  either  by  forcing 
him  into  new  paces  or  by  other  arts  only  known  to  him 
self,  that  he  would  make  the  tour  of  the  Glacis  on  the 
emperor's  best  horse,  newly  stolen,  unsuspected  even 
by  the  royal  grooms.  The  roadsters  of  his  own  troop 
were  the  best  steeds  bred  on  the  banks  of  the  Danube; 
but,  though  always  in  the  highest  condition,  they 
would  never  have  been  suspected  to  be  worth  a  florin 
till  put  upon  their  mettle.  The  extraordinary  escapes 
of  his  band  from  the  vigilant  and  well-mounted  gens- 
d'armes  were  thus  accounted  for ;  and,  in  most  of  the 
villages  in  Austria,  the  people,  on  some  market-day 
or  other,  had  seen  a  body  of  apparently  ill-mounted 
peasants  suddenly  start  off  with  the  speed  of  lightning 
at  the  appearance  of  gens-d'armes,  and,  flying  over 


fence  and  wall,  draw  a  straight  course  for  the  mount 
ains,  distancing  their  pursuers  with  the  ease  of  swal 
lows  on  the  wing. 

After  the  death  of  Yvain  in  the  garden,  I  had  been 
forced  with  Percie  into  a  carriage,  standing  in  the 
court,  and  accompanied  by  a  guard,  driven  to  my 
hotel,  where  I  was  given  to  understand  that  I  was  to 
remain  under  arrest  till  further  orders.  A  sentinel  at 
the  door  forbade  all  ingress  or  egress  except  to  the 
people  of  the  house:  a  circumstance  which  was  only 
distressing  to  me,  as  it  precluded  my  inquiries  after 
the  countress  Iminild,  of  whom  common  rumor,  the 
servants  informed  me,  made  not  the  slightest  mention. 
Four  days  after  this,  on  the  relief  of  the  guard  at 
noon,  a  subaltern,  entered  my  room  and  informed  me 
that  I  was  at  liberty.  I  instantly  made  preparations  to 
go  out,  and  was  drawing  on  my  boots,  when  Percie, 
who  had  not  yet  recovered  from  the  shock  of  his 
arrest,  entered  in  some  alarm,  and  informed  me  that 
one  of  the  royal  grooms  was  in  the  court  with  a  letter, 
which  he  would  deliver  only  into  my  own  hands.  He 
had  orders  beside,  he  said,  not  to  leave  his  saddle. 
Wondering  what  new  leaf  of  my  destiny  was  to  turn 
over,  I  went  below  and  received  a  letter,  with  apparent- 

j  ly  the  imperial  seal,  from  a  well-dressed  groom  in  the 

:  livery  of  the  emperor's  brother,  the  king  of  Hungary. 

j  He  was  mounted  on  a  compact,  yet  fine-limbed  horse, 

I  and   both  horse  and   rider  were  as  still   as  if  cut  in 

j  marble. 

I  returned  to  my  room  and  broke  the  seal.  It  was 
a  letter  from  Iminild,  and  the  bold  bearer  was  an  out 
law  disguised  !  She  had  heard  that  I  was  to  be  re 
leased  that  morning,  and  desired  me  to  ride  out  on  the 
road  to  Gratz.  In  a  postscript  she  begged  I  would 
request  Monsieur  Percie  to  accompany  me. 

I  sent  for  horses,  and,  wishing  to  be  left  to  my  own 
thoughts,  ordered  Percie  to  fall  behind,  and  rode 
slowly  out  of  the  southern  gate.  If  the  countess 
Iminild  were  safe,  I  had  enough  of  the  adventure  for 
my  taste.  My  oath  bound  me  to  protect  this  wild  and 
unsexed  woman,  but  farther  intercourse  with  a  band 
of  outlaws,  or  farther  peril  of  my  head  for  no  reason 
that  either  a  court  of  gallantry  orof  justice  would  rec 
ognise,  was  beyond  my  usual  programme  of  pleasant 
events.  The  road  was  a  gentle  ascent,  and  with  the 
bridle  on  the  neck  of  my  hack  I  paced  thoughtfully  on, 
till,  at  a  slight  turn,  we  stood  at  a  fair  height  above 
Vienna. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  city,  sir,"  said  Percie,  riding  up. 
"  How  the  deuce  could  she  have  escaped  ?"  said  I, 
thinking  aloud. 

"  Has  she  escaped,  sir  ?  Ah,  thank  Heaven  !"  ex 
claimed  the  passionate  boy,  the  tears  rushing  to  his 
eyes. 

"  Why,  Percie  !"  I  said  with  a  tone  of  surprise 
which  called  a  blush  into  his  face,  "  have  you  really 
found  leisure  to  fall  in  love  amid  all  this  imbroglio?" 

"  I  beg  pardon,  my  dear  master !"  he  replied  in  a 
confused  voice,  "I  scarce  know  what  it  is  to  fall  in 
love  ;  but  I  would  die  for  Miladi  Iminild." 

"Not -at  all  an  impossible  sequel,  my  poor  boy! 
But  wheel  about  and  touch  your  hat,  for  here  comes 
some  one  of  the  royal  family  !" 

A  horseman   was  approaching  at  an  easy   canter, 

I  over  the  broad  and  unfenced  plain  of  table-land  which 

j  overlooks  Vienna  on  the  south,  attended  by  sixmount- 

|   ed  servants  in  the  white  kerseymere  frocks,  braided 

with  the  two-headed  black  eagle,  which  distinguish  the 

j  members  of  the  imperial  household. 

The  carriages  on  the  road  stopped  while  he  passed, 

j  the  foot-passengers  touched  their  caps,  and,  as  he  came 
near,  I  perceived  that  he.  was  slight  and  young,  but 
rode  with  a  confidence  and  a  grace  not  often  attained. 
His  horse  had  the  subdued,  half-fiery  action  of  an 

1  Arab,  and  Percie  nearly  dropped  from  his  saddle  when 

I  the  young   horseman  suddenly  drove   in  his  spurs, 


THE  BANDIT  OF  AUSTRIA. 


139 


and  with  almost  a  single  vault  stood  motionless  be 
fore  us. 

"  Monsieur  /" 

"  Madame  la  Contesse  .'" 

I  was  uncertain  how  to  receive  her,  and  took  refuge 
in  civility.  Whether  she  would  be  overwhelmed  with 
the  recollection  of  Yvain's  death,  or  had  put  away  the 
thought  altogether  with  her  masculine  firmness,  was 
a  dilemma  for  which  the  eccentric  contradictions  of 
her  character  left  me  no  probable  solution.  Motion 
ing  with  her  hand  after  saluting  me,  two  of  the  party 
rode  back  and  forward  in  different  directions,  as  if 
patrolling;  and  giving  a  look  between  a  tear  and  a 
smile  at  Percie,  she  placed  her  hand  in  mine,  and 
shook  off  her  sadness  with  a  strong  effort. 

"  You  did  not  expect  so  large  a  suite  with  your 
protegee,"  she  said,  rather  gayly,  after  a  moment. 

"  Do  I  tinderstand  that  you  come  now  to  put  your 
self  under  my  protection  ?"  I  asked  in  reply. 


It  had  been  a  long  summer's  day,  and,  contrary  to 
my  usual  practice,  1  had  riot  mounted,  even  for  half  a 
post,  to  Percie's  side  in  the  rumble.  Out  of  humor 
with  fate  for  having  drawn  me  into  very  embarrassing 
circumstances — out  of  humor  with  myself  for  the 
quixotic  step  which  had  first  brought  it  on  me — and  a 
little  ol  out  hutnor  with  Percie  (perhaps  from  an  un 
acknowledged  jealousy  of  Iminild's  marked  preference 
for  the  varlet),  I  left  him  to  toast  alone  in  the  sun, 
while  I  tried  to  forget  him  and  myself  in  "  Le  Marquis 
de  Pontangos."  What  a  very  clever  book  it  is,  by 
the  way  ! 

The  pompous  sergeant  of  the  guard  performed  his 
office  upon  my  passport  at  the  gate — giving  me  at 
least  a  kreutzer  worth  of  his  majesty's  black  sand  in 
exchange  for  my  florin  and  my  English  curse  (I  said 
before  I  was  out  of  temper,  and  he  was  half  an  hour 
writing  his  abominable  name),  and  leaving  my  carriage 
and  Percie  to  find  their  way  together  to  the  hotel,  I 


"  Soon,  but  not  now,  nor  here.     I  have  a  hundred  I   dismounted  at  the  foot  of  a  steep  street  and  made  my 

way  to  the  battlements  of  the  castle,  in  search  of  scene 
ry  and  equanimity. 

Ah  !  what  a  glorious  landscape  !  The  precipitous 
rock  on  which  the  old  fortress  is  built  seems  dropped 
by  the  Titans  in  the  midst  of  a  plain,  extending  miles 


men  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Semering,  whose  future 
fate,  in  some  important  respects,  none  can  decide  but 
myself.  Yvain  was  always  prepared  for  this,  and 
everything  is  en  train.  I  come  now  but  to  appoint  a 
place  of  meeting.  Quick  !  my  patrole  comes  in,  and 
some  one  approaches  whom  we  must  fly.  Can  you 
await  me  at  Gratz  ?'' 

"  I  can  and  will !" 

She  put  her  slight  hand  to  my  lips,  waved  a  kiss 
at  Percie,  and  away  with  the  speed  of  wind,  flew  her 
swift  Arab  over  the  plain,  followed  by  the  six  horse 
men,  every  one  of  whom  seemed  part  of  the  animal 
that  carried  him — he  rode  so  admirably. 

The  slight  figure  of  Iminild  in  the  close  fitting  dress 
of  a  Hungarian  page,  her  jacket  open  and  her  beauti 
ful  limbs  perfectly  defined,  silver  fringes  at  her  ankles 
and  waist,  and  a  row  of  silver  buttons  gallonne  down 
to  the  instep,  her  bright,  flashing  eyes,  her  short  curls 
escaping  from  her  cap  and  tangled  over  her  left  temple, 
with  the  gold  tassel,  dirk  and  pistol  at  her  belt  and 
spurs  upon  her  heels — it  was  an  apparition  I  had 
scarce  time  to  realize,  but  it  seemed  painted  on  my 


in  every  direction,  with  scarce  another  pebble.  Close 
at  its  base  run  the  populous  streets,  coiling  about  it 
like  serpents  around  a  pyramid,  and  away  from  the 
walls  of  the  city  spread  the  broad  fields,  laden,  as  far 
as  the  eye  can  see,  with  tribute  for  the  emperor!  The 
tall  castle,  with  its  armed  crest,  looks  down  among  the 
reapers. 

"  You  hive  not  lost  your  friend  and  lover,  yet  you 
are  melancholy !"  said  a  voice  behind  me,  that  I  was 
scarce  startled  to  hear. 

"Is  it  you,  Iminild  ?" 

"  Scarce  the  same — for  Iminild  was  never  before  so 
sad.  It  is  something  in  the  sunset.  Come  away  while 
the  woman  keeps  down  in  me,  and  let  us  stroll  through 
the  Plaza,  where  the  band  is  playing.  Do  you  love 
military  music  ?" 

1   looked  at  the   costume  and  figure  of  the  extra- 


eyes.     The  cloud  of  dust  which  followed  their  rapid     ordinary   creature   before  I  ventured   with   her  on   a 


flight  faded  away  as  I  watched  it,  but  I  saw  her  still. 

"Shall  I  ride  back  and  order  post-horses,  sir!" 
asked  Percie  standing  up  in  his  stirrups. 

"  No  ;  but  you  may  order  dinner  at  six.  And  Per 
cie  !"  he  was  riding  away  with  a  gloomy  air;  "you 
may  go  to  the  police  and  get  our  passports  for  Venice." 

"  By  the  way  of  Gratz,  sir!" 

"  Yes,  simpleton  !" 

There  is  a  difference  between  sixteen  and  twenty- 
six,  I  thought  to  myself,  as  the  handsome  boy  flogged 
his  horse  into  a  gallop.  The  time  is  gone  when  I 
coul.l  love  without  reason.  Yet  1  remember  when  a 
feather,  stuck  jauntily  into  a  bonnet,  would  have  made 
any  woman  a  princess;  and  in  those  days,  Heaven  help 
us  !  I  should  have  loved  this  woman  more  for  her 
galliardize  than  ten  times  a  prettier  one  with  all  the 
virtues  of  Dorcas.  For  which  of  my  sins  am  I  made 
guardian  to  a  robber's  wife,  I  wonder ! 

The  heavy  German  postillions,  with  their  cocked 
hats  and  yellow  coats,  got  us  over  the  ground  after  a 
manner,  and  toward  the  sunset  of  a  summer's  evening 
the  tall  castle  of  Gratz,  perched  on  a  pinnacle  of  rock 
in  the  centre  of  a  vast  plain,  stood  up  boldly  against 
the  reddening  sky.  The  rich  fields  of  Styria  were 
ripening  to  an  early  harvest,  the  people  sat  at  their 
doors  with  the  look  of  household  happiness  for  which 
the  inhabitants  of  these  "despotic  countries"  are  so 
remarkable  ;  and  now  and  then  on  the  road  the  rattling 
of  steel  scabbards  drew  my  attention  from  a  book  or  a 
reveiy,  and  the  mounted  troops,  so  perpetually  seen 
on  the  broad  roads  of  Austria,  lingered  slowly  past 
with  their  dust  and  baggage-trains. 


public  promenade.  She  was  dressed  like  one  of  thf 
travelling  apprentices  of  Germany,  with  cap  and  bleuzcr. 
and  had  assumed  the  air  of  the  craft  with  a  success 
!  absolutely  beyond  detection.  I  gave  her  my  arm  and 
I  we  sauntered  through  the  crowd,  listening  lo  the 
thrilling  music  of  one  of  the  finest  bands  in  Germany. 
j  The  privileged  character  and  free  manners  of  tho 
wandering  craftsmen  whose  dress  she  had  adopted, 
I  was  well  aware,  reconciled,  in  the  eyes  of  the  in 
habitants,  the  marked  contrast  between  our  conditions 
in  life.  They  would  simply  have  said,  if  they  had 
made  a  remark  at  all,  that  the  Englishman  was  Ion 
enfant  and  the  craftsman  bon  camarade. 

"  You  had  better  look  at  me,  messieurs  !"  said  the 
dusty  apprentice,  as  two  officers  of  the  regiment  passed 
and  gave  me  the  usual  strangers'  stare  ;  "  f  am  better 
worth  your  while  by  exactly  five  thousand  florins." 

"  And  pray  how  ?"  I  asked. 

"  That  price  is  set  on  my  head  !" 

"Heavens!  and  you  walk  here  !" 

"  They  kept  you  longer  than  usual  with  your  pass 
port,  I  presume  ?" 

"  At  the  gate?  yes." 

"  I  came  in  with  my  pack  at  the,  time.  They  have 
orders  to  examine  all  travellers  and  passports  with 
unusual  care,  these  sharp  officials  !  But  I  shall  get 
I  out  as  easily  as  I  got  in  !" 

"My  dear  countess!"  I  said,  in  a  tone  of  serious 
do  not  trifle  with  the  vigilance  of  the 


My 

remonstrance, 


best  police  in  Europe!  I  am  your  guardian,  and  you 
owe  my  advice  some  respect.  Come  away  from  the 
square  and  let  us  talk  of  it  in  eainest." 

"Wise  seignior!   suffer  me  to  remind  you  how 


140 


THE  BANDIT  OF  AUSTRIA. 


defily  I  slipped  through  the  fingers  of  these  gentry 
after  our  tragedy  in  Vienna,  and  pay  w«/  opinion  some 
respect!  It  was  my  vanity  that  brought  me,  with 
my  lackeys,  to  meet  you  a  la  prince  royale  so  near 
Vienna  ;  and  hence  this  alarm  in  the  police,  for  1  was 
seen  and  suspected.  I  have  shown  myself  to  you 
in  my  favorite  character,  however,  and  have  done 
with  such  measures.  You  shall  see  me  on  the  road 
to-morrow,  safe  as  the  heart  in  your  bosom.  Where 
is  Monsieur  Percie  !" 

"  At  the  hotel.  But  stay  !  can  I  trust  you  with 
yourself?" 

"  Yes,  and  dull  company,  too  !  A  revoir  /" 
And  whistling  the  popular  air  of  the  craft  she  had  ! 
assumed,  the  countess  Iminild  struck  her  long  staff  j 
on  the  pavement,  and  with  the  gait  of  a  tired  and  I 
habitual  pedestrian,  disappeared  by  a  narrow  street  | 
Jeading  under  the  precipitory  battlements  of  the  ! 
castle. 

Percie  made  his  appearance  with  a  cup  of  coffee  ! 
the  following  morning,  and,  with  the  intention  of  post-  j 
ing  a  couple  of  leagues  to  breakfast,  I  hurried  through 
my  toilet  and  was  in  my  carriage  an  hour  after  sun-  i 
rise.     The  postillion  was  in  his  saddle  and  only  waited 
for  Percie,  who,  upon  inquiry,  was  nowhere   to   be 
found.     I  sat  fifteen  minutes,  and  just   as  I  was  be 
ginning  to  be  alarmed  he  ran  into  the  large  court  of 
the  hotel,  and,  crying  out  to  the  postillions  that  all 
was   right,  jumped   into    his   place   with    an    agility, 
it  struck    me,   very    unlike   his  usual   gantlemanlike 
deliberation.     Determining  to  take  advantage  of  the 
first  up  hill  to  catechize  him  upon  his  matutinal  ram 
bles,  I   read  the  signs  along  the  street  till  we  pulled 
up  at  the  gate. 

Iminild's  communication  had  prepared  me  for  un 
usual  delay  with  my  passport,  and  I  was  not  surprised 
when  the  officer,  in  returning  it  to  me,  requested  me 
as  a  matter  of  form,  to  declare,  upon  my  honor,  that 
the  servant  behind  my  carriage  was  an  Englishman, 
and  the  person  mentioned  in  my  passport. 

"  Foi  d'honneur,  monsieur,"  1  said,  placing  my  hand 
politely  on  my  heart,  and  off  trotted  the  postillion, 
while  the1  caplainof  the  guard,  flattered  with  my  civili 
ty,  touched  his  foraging-cap.  and  sent  me  a  German 
blessing  through  his  mustache. 

It  was  a  divine  morning,  and  the  fresh  and  dewy 
air  took  me  back  many  a  year,  to  the  days  when  I 
was  more  familiar  with  the  hour.  We  had  a  long 
trajet  across  the  plain,  and  unlooping  an  antivibralion 
tablet,  for  the  invention  of  which  my  ingenuity  took 
great  credit  to  itself  (suspended  on  caoutchouc  cords 
from  the  roof  of  the  carriage — and  deserving  of  a 
patent  I  trust  you  will  allow  !)  I  let  off  my  poetical 
vein  in  the  following  beginning  to  what  might  have 
turned  out,  but  for  the  interruption,  a  very  edifying 
copy  of  verses  : — 

"  Ye  are  not  what  3re  were  to  me, 

Oh  waning  night  and  morning  star  ! 

Though  silent  still  your  watches  flee- 
Though  hang  yon  lamp  in  heaven  as  far — 

Thoueh  live  the  thoughts  ye  fed  of  yore — 

I'm  thine,  oh  starry  dawn,  no  more  if 

Yet  to  that  dew-pe  irled  hour  alone 
I  was  not  folly's  blindest  child  ; 

It  came  when  wearied  mirth  had  flown, 
And  sleep  was  on  the  gay  and  wild  ; 

And  wakeful  with  repentant  pain, 
1  lay  amid  its  lap  of  flowers, 

And  with  a  truant's  earnest  brain 

Turned  hack  the  leaves  of  wnsted  hours. 

The  angels  that  by  day  would  floe, 

Returned,  oh  morning  star  !  with  thee  ! 

Yet  now  again  *      *      •      * 


A  foot  thrust  into  my  carriage-window  rudely  broke 
the  thread  of  these  delicate  musings.     The  postillion 


was  on  a  walk,  and  before  I  could  get  my  wits  back 
from  their  wool-gathering,  the  countess  Iminild,  in 
Percie's  clothes,  sat  laughing  on  the  cushion  beside 
me. 

"On  what  bird's  back  has  your  ladyship  descended 
from  the  clouds  ?"  I  asked  with  unfeigned  astonish 
ment. 

'•  The  same  bird  has  brought  us  both  down — c'est 
a  dire,  if  you  are  not  still  en  /'air,"  she  added,  looking 
from  my  scrawled  tablets  to  my  perplexed  face. 

"Are  you  really  and  really  the  countess  Iminild  ?" 
I  asked  with  a  smile,  looking  down  at  the  trowsered 
feet  and  loose-fitting  boots  of  the  pseudo-valet. 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  but  I  leave  it  to  you  to  swear, 
'fid  cVhonneurJ  that  a  born  countess  is  an  English 
valet  !"  And  she  laughed  so  long  and  merrily  that 
the  postillion  looked  over  his  yellow  epaulets  in  as 
tonishment. 

"  Kind,  generous  Percie  !'"  she  said,  changing  her 
tone  presently  to  one  of  great  feeling,  "  I  would  scarce 
believe  him  last  night  when  he  informed  me,  as  as  in 
ducement  to  leave  him  behind,  that  he  was  only  a  ser 
vant!  You  never  told  me  this.  But  he  is  a  gentle 
man,  in  every  feeling  as  well  as  in  every  feature,  and, 
by  Heavens!  he  shall  be  a  menial  no  longer!" 

This  speech,  begun  with  much  tenderness,  rose, 
toward  the  close,  to  the  violence  of  passion  ;  and 
folding  her  arms  with  an  air  of  defiance,  the  lady- 
outlaw  threw  herself  back  in  the  carriage. 

"  I  have  no  objection,"  I  said,  after  a  short  silence, 
"  that  Percie  should  set  up  for  a  gentleman.  Nature 
has  certainly  done  her  part  to  make  him  one  ;  but  till 
you  can  give  him  means  and  education,  the  coat  which 
you  wear,  with  such  a  grace,  is  his  safest  shell.  'Ants 
live  safely  till  they  have  gotten  wings,'  says  the  old 
proverb." 

The  blowing  of  the  postillion's  horn  interrupted  the 
argument,  and,  a  moment  after,  we  were  rolled  up, 
withGerman  leisure,  to  the  doorof  the  small  inn  where 
I  had  designed  to  breakfast.  Thinking  it  probable 
that  the  people  of  the  house,  in  so  small  a  village, 
would  be  too  simple  to  make  any  dangerous  comments 
upon  our  appearance,  I  politely  handed  the  countess 
out  of  the  carriage,  and  ordered  plates  for  two. 

"  It  is  scarce  worth  while,"  she  said,  as  she  heard 
the  order,  "  fot  I  shall  remain  at  the  door  on  the  look 
out.  The  eil-waggen,  for  Trieste,  which  was  to  leave 
Gratz  an  hour  after  us,  will  be  soon  here,  and  (if  my 
friends  have  served  me  well),  Percie  in  it.  St.  Mary 
speed  him  safely !" 

She  strode  away  to  a  small  hillock  to  look  out  for  the 
lumbering  diligence,  with  a  gait  that  was  no  stranger 
to,  "doublet  and  hose."  ft  soon  came  on  with  its 
usual  tempest  of  whip-cracking  and  bugle-blasts,  and 
nearly  overturning  a  fat  burgher,  who  would  have 
proffered  the  assistance  of  his  hand,  out  jumped  a 
petticoat,  which  I  saw,  at  a  glance,  gave  a  very  em 
barrassed  motion  to  gentleman  Percie. 

"  This  young  lady,"  said  the  countess,  dragging 
the  striding  and  unwilling  damsel  into  the  little  parlor 
where  I  was  breakfasting  "  travels  under  the  charge  of 
a  deaf  old  brazier,  who  has  been  requested  to  protect  her 
modesty  as  far  as  Laybach.  Make  a  courtesy,  child!" 

"  I  beg  pardon,  sir  !"  began  Percie. 

"  Hush,  hush!  no  English  !  Walls  have  ears,  and 
your  voice  is  rather  gruffish,  mademoiselle.  Show 
me  your  passport?  Cunegunda  Von  Krakcnjiatc, 
eighteen  years  of  age,  blue  eyes,  nose  and  chin  mid 
dling,  etc  !  Tliere'is  the  conductor's  horn  !  Atlez 
vile !  We  meet  at  Laybach.  Adieu,  charmante 
feninie !  Adieu!" 

And  with  the  sort  of  caricatured  elegance  which 
women  always  assume  in  their  imitations  of  our  sex, 
Countess  Iminild,  in  frock-coat  and  trowsers,  helped 
into  the  diligence,  in  hood  and  petticoat,  my  "  tiger" 
from  Cranbourne-alley ! 


THE  BANDIT  OF  AUSTRIA. 


HI 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SPITE  of  remonstrance  on  my  part,  the  imperative 
countess,  who  had  asserted  her  authority  more  than 
once  on  our  way  to  Laybach,  insisted  on  the   com 
pany  of  Miss   Cunegunda    Von   Krakenpate,    in   an 
evening   walk  around  the  town.     Fearing  that  Per- 
cie's  masculine  stride  would   betray  him,  and  object 
ing  to  lend  myself  to  a  farce  with  my  valet,  I  opposed 
the  freak  as  ibug  as  it  was  courteous— but  it  was  not  j 
the   first  time  I  had  learned   that  a  spoiled   woman 
would  have  her  own  way,  and  too  vexed  to  laugh,  I  I 
soberly  promenaded  the  broad  avenue  of  the  capital  j 
of  Styria,  with  a  valet  en  demoiselle,  and  a  dame  en  j 
valet. 

It  was  but  a  few  hours  hence  to  Planina,  and  Iminild, 
who  seemed  to  fear  no  risk  out  of  a  walled  city,  waited 
on  Percie  to  the  carriage  the  following  morning,  and 
in  a  few  hours  we  drove  up  to  the  rural  inn  of  this 
small  town  of  Littorale. 

I  had  been  too  much  out  of  humor  to  ask  the 
countess,  a  second  time,  what  errand  she  could  have  | 
in  so  rustic  a  neighborhood.  She  had  made  a  mystery 
of  it,  merely  requiring  of  me  that  I  should  defer  all 
arrangements  for  the  future,  as  far  as  she  was  concern 
ed,  till  we  had  visited  a  spot  in  Littorale,  upon  which 
her  fate  in  many  respects  depended.  After  twenty 
fruitless  conjectures,  I  abandoned  myself  to  the  course  j 
of  circumstances,  reserving  only  the  determination,  if  it 
should  prove  a  haunt  of  Yvain's  troop,  to  separate  at 
once  from  her  company  and  await  her  at  Trieste? 

Our  dinner  was  preparing  bt  the  inn,  and  tired  of 
the  embarrassment  Percie  exhibited  in  my  presence, 
I  walked  out  and  seated  myself  under  an  immense 
linden,  that  every  traveller  will  remember,  standing 
in  the  centre  of  the  motley  and  indescribable  clusters 
of  buildings,  which  serve  the  innkeeper  and  black 
smith  of  Planina  for  barns,  forge,  dwelling,  and  out 
houses.  The  tree  seems  the  father  of  the  village. 
It  was  a  hot  afternoon,  and  I  was  compelled  to  dis 
pute  the  shade  with  a  congregation  of  cows  and  double- 
jointed  posthorses ;  but  finding  a  seat  high  up  on  the 
root,  at  last  I  busied  myself  with  gazing  down  the 
road,  and  conjecturing  what  a  cloud  of  dust  might  con-  j 
tain,  which,  in  an  opposite  direction  from  that  which  j 
we  had  come,  was  slowly  creeping  onward  to  the  inn.  i 

Four  roughly-harnessed  horses  at  length,  appeared, 
with  their  traces  tied  over  their  backs — one  of  them 
ridden  by  a  man  in  a  farmer's  frock.     They  struck  me  , 
at  first  as  fine  specimens  of  the  German  breed   of 
draught-horses,  with  their  shaggy  fetlocks  and  long  ! 
manes  ;  but  while  they   drank  at  the  trough  which 
stood  in  the  shade  of  the  linden,  the  low  tone  in  which 
the  man  checked  their  greedy  thirst,  and  the  instant 
obedience  of  the   well-trained  animals,  awakened   at 
once   my   suspicions  that  we  were  to  becon^p  better 
acquainted.     A  more  narrow  examination  convinced 
me  that,  covered  with  dust  and  disguised  with  coarse  | 
harness  as  they  were,  they  were  four  horses  of  such 
bone  and  condition,  as  were  never  seen  in  a  farmer's 
stables.     The  rider  dismounted  at  the  inn  door,  and 
very  much  to  the  embarrassment  of  my  suppositions, 
the  landlord,  a  stupid  and  heavy  Boniface,  greeted  him  j 
with  the  familiarity  of  an  old  acquaintance,  and  in  an-  I 
swer,  apparently  to  an  inquiry,  pointed  to  my  carriage,  I 
and  led  him  into  the  house. 

"  Monsieur  Tyrell,"  said   Iminild,  coming  out  to 
me  a  moment  after,  "  a  servant  whom  I  had  expected  ' 
has  arrived  with  my  horses,  and  with  your  consent, 
they  shall  be  put  to  your  carriage  immediately." 

"  To  take  us  where  1" 

"  To  our  place  of  destination." 

"  Too  indefinite,  by  half,  countess  !     Listen  to  me ! 

I  have  very  sufficient  reason  to  fancy  that,  in  leaving 

the  post-road  to  Trieste,  I  shall  leave  the  society  of 

honest  men.     You  and  your  '  minions  of  the  moon' 

10 


may  be  very  pleasant,  but  you  are  not  very  safe  com 
panions  ;  and  having  really  a  wish  to  die  quietly  in 
my  bed — " 

The  countess  burst  into  a  laugh. 
"  If  you  will  have  the  character  of  the  gentleman 
you  are  about  to  visit  from  the  landlord  here — " 
"Who  is  one  of  your  ruffians  himself,  I'll  be  sworn!" 
"  No,  on  my  honor !  A  more  innocent  old  beer- 
I  guzzler  lives  not  on  the  road.  But  I  will  tell  you 
thus  much,  and  it  ought  to  content  you.  Ten  miles 
to  the  west  of  this  dwells  a  country  gentleman,  who, 
the  landlord  will  certify,  is  as  honest  a  subject  of  his 
gracious  majesty  as  is  to  be  found  in  Littorale.  He 
lives  freely  on  his  means,  and  entertains  strangers 
occasionally  from  all  countries,  for  he  has  been  a 
traveller  in  his  time.  You  are  invited  to  pass  a  day 
or  two  with  this  Mynheer  Krakenpate  (who,  by  the 
way,  has  no  objection  to  pass  for  father  of  the  young 
lady  you  have  so  kindly  brought  from  Laybach), 
and  he  has  sent  you  his  horses,  like  a  generous  host, 
to  bring  you  to  his  door.  More  seriously,  this  was 
a  retreat  of  Yvain's,  where  he  would  live  quietly  and 
play  ban  citoyen,  and  you  have  nothing  earthly  to  fear 
in  accompanying  me  thither.  And  now  will  you  wait 
and  eat  the  greasy  meal  you  have  ordered,  or  will  you 
save  your  appetite  for  la  fortune  de  pot  at  Mynheer 
Krakenpate's,  and  get  presently  on  the  road !" 

I  yielded  rather  to  the  seducing  smile  and  capti 
vating  beauty  of  my  pleasing  ward,  than  to  any  con 
fidence  in  the  honesty  of  Mynheer  Krakenpate  ;  and 
Percie  being  once  more  ceremoniously  handed  in,  we 
left  the  village  at  the  sober  trot  becoming  the  fat  steeds 
of  a  landholder.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  of  this  was  quite 
sufficient  for  Iminild,  and  a  word  to  the  postillion 
changed,  like  a  metamorphosis,  both  horse  and  rider. 
From  a  heavy  unelastic  figure,  he  rose  into  a  gallant 
and  withy  horseman,  and,  with  one  of  his  low-spoken 
words,  away  flew  the  four  compact  animals,  treading 
lightly  as  cats,  and.  with  the  greatest  apparent  ease, 
putting  us  over  the  ground  at  the  rate  of  fourteen 
miles  in  the  hour. 

The  dust  was  distanced,  a  pleasant  breeze  was 
created  by  the  motion,  and  when  at  last  we  turned 
from  the  main  road,  and  sped  off  to  the  right  at  the 
same  exhilarating  pace,  I  returned  Iminild's  arch 
look  of  remonstrance  with  my  best-hurnofed  smile 
and  an  affectionate  jemefe  d  rous!  Miss  Krakenpate, 
I  observed,  echoed  the  sentiment  by  a  slight  pressure 
of  the  countess's  arm,  looking  very  innocently  out  of 
the  window  all  the  while. 

A  couple  of  miles,  soon  done,  brought  us  round  the 

face  of  a  craggy  precipice,  forming  the  brow  of  a  hill, 

and  with  a  continuation  of  the  turn,  we  drew  up  at  the 

gate  of  a  substantial-looking  building,  something  be- 

;  tween  a  villa  and  a  farm-house,  built  against  the  rock, 

as  if  for  the  purpose  of  shelter  from  the  north  winds. 

|  Two  beautiful  Angora  hounds  sprang  out  at  the  noise, 

and  recognised  Iminild  through  all  her  disguise,  and 

presently,  with  a  look  offorced  courtesy,  as  if  not  quite 

sure  whether  he  might  throw  off  the   mask,  a  stout 

j  man  of  about  fifty,  hardly  a  gentleman,  yet  above  a 

common  peasant  in  his  manners,  stepped  forward  from 

the  garden  to  give  Miss  Krakenpate  his  assistance  in 

alighting. 

"Dinner  in  half  an  hour!"  was  Iminild's  brief 
greeting,  and,  stepping  between  her  bowing  dependant 
and  Percie,  she  led  the  way  into  the  house. 

I  was  shown  into  a  chamber,  furnished  scarce  above 

i  the  common  style  of  a  German  inn,  where  I  made  a 

hungry  man's  despatch  in  my  toilet,  and  descended 

at  once  to  the  parlor.     The  doors  were  all  open  upon 

!  the  ground  floor,  and,  finding  myself  quite  alone,  I 

I  sauntered  from  room  to  room,  wondering  at  the  scanti- 

j  ness  of  the  furniture  and  general  air  of  discomfort,  and 

'  scarce  able  to  believe  that  the  same  mistress  presided 

j  over  this  and  the  singular  paradise  in  which  I  had 


142 


THE  BANDIT  OF  AUSTRIA. 


first  found  her  at  Vienna.  After  visiting  every  corner 
of  the  ground  floor  with  a  freedom  which  I  assumed  in 
my  character  as  guardian,  it  occurred  to  me  that  I 
had  not  yet  found  the  dining-room,  and  I  was  making 
a  new  search,  when  Iminild  entered. 

I  have  said  she  was  a  beautiful  woman.  She  was 
dressed  now  in  the  Albanian  costume,  with  the  addi 
tional  gorgeousness  of  gold  embroidery,  which  might 
distinguish  the  favorite  child  of  a  chief  of  Suli.  it 
was  the  male  attire,  with  a  snowy  white  juktanilla 
reaching  to  the  knee,  a  short  jacket  of  crimson  velvet, 
and  a  close-buttoned  vest  of  silver  cloth,  fitting  ad 
mirably  to  her  girlish  bust,  and  leaving  her  slender  and 
pearly  neck  to  rise  bare  and  swan-like  into  the  masses 
of  her  clustering  hair.  Her  slight  waist  was  defined 
by  the  girdle  of  fine  linen  edged  with  fringe  of  gold, 
which  was  tied  coquettishly  over  her  left  side  and  fell 
to  her  ankle,  and  below  the  embroidered  leggin  appear 
ed  the  fairy  foot,  which  had  drawn  upon  me  all  this 
long  train  of  adventure,  thrust  into  a  Turkish  slipper 
with  a  sparkling  emerald  on  its  instep.  A.  feroniere 
of  the  yellowest  gold  sequins  bound  her  hair  back 
from  her  temples,  and  this  was  the  only  confinement 
to  the  dark  brown  meshes  which,  in  wavy  lines  and 
in  the  richest  profusion,  fell  almost  to  her  feet.  The 
only  blemish  to  this  vision  of  loveliness  was  a  flush 
about  her  eyes.  The  place  had  recalled  Yvain  to  her 
memory. 

"  I  am  about  to  disclose  to  you  secrets,"  said  she, 
laying  her  hand  on  my  arm,  "  which  have  never  been 
re'vealed  but  to  the  most  trusty  of  Yvain's  confederates. 
To  satisfy  those  whom  you  will  meet  you  must  swear 
to  me  on  the  same  cross  which  he  pressed  to  your  lips 
when  dying,  that  you  will  never  violate,  while  I  live, 
the  trust  we  repose  in  you." 

"  I  will  take  no  oath,"  I  said  ;  "  for  you  are  leading 
me  blindfolded.  If  you  are  not  satisfied  with  the 
assurance  that  I  can  betray  no  confidence  which  honor 
would  preserve,  hungry  as  I  am,  I  will  yet  dine  in 
Planina." 

"  Then  I  will  trust  to  the  faith  of  an  Englishman. 
And  now  I  have  a  favor,  not  to  beg,  but  to  insist  upon 
— that  from  this  moment  you  consider  Percie  as  dis 
missed  from  your  service,  and  treat  him,  while  here 
at  least,  as  my  equal  and  friend." 

"  Willingly !"  I  said ;  and  as  the  word  left  my  lips, 
enter  Percie  in  the  counterpart  dress  of  Iminild,  with 
a  silver-sheathed  ataghan  at  his  side,  and  the  bluish 
muzzles  of  a  pair  of  Egg's  hair-triggers  peeping  from 
below  his  girdle.  To  do  the  rascal  justice,  he  was  as 
handsome  in  his  new  toggery  as  his  mistress,  and  carried 
it  as  gallantly.  They  would  have  made  the  prettiest 
tableau  as  Juan  and  Haidee. 

"  Is  there  any  chance  that  these  '  persuaders'  may 
be  necessary,"  I  asked,  pointing  to  his  pistols  which 
awoke  in  my  mind  a  momentary  suspicion. 

»  No — none  that  I  can  foresee — but  they  are  loaded. 
A  favorite,  among  men  whose  passions  are  profession 
ally  wild,"  she  continued  with  a  meaning  glance  at 
Percie  ;  "  should  be  ready  to  lay  his  hand  on  them, 
even  if  stirred  in  his  sleep  !" 

I  had  been  so  accustomed  to  surprises  of  late,  that 
I  scarce  started  to  observe,  while  Iminild  was  speak 
ing,  that  an  old-fashioned  clock,  which  stood  in  a 
niche  in  the  wall,  was  slowly  swinging  out  upon 
hinges.  A  narrow  aperture  of  sufficient  breadth  to 
admit  one  person  at  a  time,  was  disclosed  when  it 
had  made  its  entire  revolution,  and  in  it  stood,  with 
a  lighted  torch,  the  stout  landlord  Von  Krakenpate. 
Iminild  looked  at  me  an  instant  as  if  to  enjoy  my 
surprise. 

"  Will  you  lead  me  in  to  dinner,  Mr.  Tyrell?"  she 
said  at  last,  with  a  laugh. 

"  If  we  are  to  follow  Mynheer  Von  Krakenpate,"  I 
replied,  "  give  me  hold  of  the  skirt  of  your  juktanilla, 
rather,  and  let  me  follow !  Do  we  dine  in  the  cellar  ?" 


I  stepped  before  Percie,  who  was  inclined  to  take 
advantage  of  rriy  hesitation  to  precede  me,  and  fol 
lowed  the  countess  into  the  opening,  which,  from 
the  position  of  the  house,  I  saw  must  lead  directly 
into  the  face  of  the  rock.  Two  or  three  descending 
steps  convinced  me  that  it  was  a  natural  opening  en 
larged  by  art ;  and  after  one  or  two  sharp  turns,  and 
a  descent  of  perhaps  fifty  feet,  we  came  to  a  door 
which,  suddenly  flung  open  by  our  torch-bearer, 
deluged  the  dark  passage  with  a  blaze  of  light  which 
the  eyesight  almost  refused  to  bear.  Recovering 
from  my  amazement,  I  stepped  over  the  threshold 
of  the  door,  and  stood  upon  a  carpet  in  a  gallery  of 
sparkling  stalactites,  the  dazzling  reflection  of  innu 
merable  lamps  flooding  the  air  around,  and  a  long 
snow-white  vista  of  the  same  brilliancy  and  effect 
stretching  downward  before  me.  Two  ridges  of 
the  calcareous  strata  running  almost  parallel  over 
our  heads,  formed  the  cornices  of  the  descending 
corridor,  and  from  these,  with  a  regularity  that 
seemed  like  design,  the  sparkling  pillars,  white  as 
alabaster,  and  shaped  like  inverted  cones,  dropped 
nearly  to  the  floor,  their  transparent  points  resting  on 
the  peaks  of  the  corresponding  stalagmites,  which,  of 
a  darker  hue  and  coarser  grain,  seemed  designed  as 
bases  to  a  new  order  of  architectural  columns.  The 
reflection  from  the  pure  crystalline  rock  gave  to  this 
singular  gallery  a  splendor  which  only  the  palace  of 
Aladdin  could  have  equalled.  The  lamps  were  hung 
between  in  irregular  but  effective  ranges,  and  in  our 
descent,  like  Thalaba,  who  refreshed  his  dazzled  eyes 
in  the  desert  of  snow  by  looking  on  the  green  wings  of 
the  spirit  bird,  I  was  compelled  to  bend  my  eyes  per 
petually  for  relief  upon  the  soft,  dark  masses  of  hair 
which  floated  upon  the  lovely  shoulders  of  Iminild. 

At  the  extremity  of  the  gallery  we  turned  short  to 
the  right,  and  followed  an  irregular  passage,  some 
times  so  low  that  we  could  scarce  stand  upright,  but 
all  lighted  with  the  same  intense  brilliancy,  and  formed 
of  the  same  glittering  and  snow-white  substance.  We 
had  been  rambling  on  thus  far  perhaps  ten  minutes, 
when  suddenly  the  air,  which  I  had  felt  uncomfort 
ably  chill,  grew  warm  and  soft,  and  the  low  reverbera 
tion  of  running  water  fell  delightfully  on  our  ears. 
Far  ahead  we  could  see  two  sparry  columns  standing 
close  together,  and  apparently  closing  up  the  way. 

"  Courage!  my  venerable  guardian  !"  cried  Iminild, 
laughing  over  her  shoulder ;  "  you  will  see  your  dinner 
presently.  Are  you  hungry,  Percie  ?" 

"  Not  while  you  look  back,  Madame  la  Comtesse  !" 
answered  the  callow  gentleman,  with  an  instinctive 
tact  at  his  new  vocation. 

We  stood  at  the  two  pillars  which  formed  the  ex 
tremity  of  the  passage,  and  looked  down  upon  a  scene 
of  which  all  description  must  be  faint  and  imperfect. 
A  hundred  feet  below  ran  a  broad  subterraneous  river, 
whose  waters  sparkling  in  the  blaze  of  a  thousand 
torches,  sprang  into  light  from  the  deepest  darkness, 
crossed  with  foaming  rapidity  the  bosom  of  the  vast 
illuminated  cavern,  and  disappeared  again  in  the  same 
inscrutable  gloom.  Whence  it  came  or  whither  it 
fled  was  a  mystery  beyond  the  reach  of  the  eye.  The 
deep  recesses  of  the  cavern  seemed  darker  for  the  in 
tense  light  gathered  about  the  centre. 

After  the  first  few  minutes  of  bewilderment,  I  en 
deavored  to  realize  in  detail  the  wondrous  scene  be- 
I  fore  me.  The  cavern  was  of  an  irregular  shape,  but 
all  studded  above  with  the  same  sparry  incrustation, 
i  thousands  upon  thousands  of  pendent  stalactites  glit- 
!  tering  on  the  roof,  and  showering  back  light  upon  the 
|  clusters  of  blazing  torches  fastened  everywhere  upon 
the  shelvy  sides.  Here  and  there  vast  columns, 
alabaster  white,  with  bases  of  gold  color,  fell  from  the 
roof  to  the  floor,  like  pillars  left  standing  in  the  ruined 
aisle  of  a  cathedral,  and  from  corner  to  corner  ran 
their  curtains  of  the  same  brilliant  calcareous  sps- 


THE  BANDIT  OF  AUSTRIA. 


143 


shaped  like  the  sharp  edge  of  a  snow-drift,  and  almost 
white.  It  was  like  laying  bare  the  palace  of  some 
king-wizard  of  the  mine  to  gaze  down  upon  it. 

"  What  think  you  of  Mynheer  Krakenpate's  taste 
in  a  dining-room,  Monsieur  Tyrell  ?"  asked  the  count 
ess,  who  stood  between  Percie  and  myself,  with  a 
hand  on  the  shoulder  of  each. 

I  had  scarce  found  time,  as  yet,  to  scrutinize  the 
artificial  portion  of  the  marvellous  scene,  but,  at  the 
question  of  Iminild,  I  bent  my  gaze  on  a  broad  plat 
form,  rising  high  above  the  river  on  its  opposite  bank, 
the  tear  of  which  was  closed  in  by  perhaps  forty  ir 
regular  columns,  leaving  between  them  and  the  sharp 
precipice  on  the  river-side,  an  area,  in  height  and  ex 
tent  of  about  the  capacity  of  a  ball-room.  A  rude 
bridge,  of  very  light  construction,  rose  in  a  single 


"No,  not  Yvain,  but  Tranchcreur  —  his  equal  in 
command  over  this  honest  confederacy.  By  the  way, 
he  is  your  countryman,  Mr.  Tyrell,  though  he  rights 
under  a  nom  de  guerre.  You  are  very  likely  to  see 
him,  too,  for  his  bark  is  at  Trieste,  and  he  is  the  only 
human  being  besides  myself  (and  my  company  here) 
who  can  come  and  go  at  wiH  in  this  robber's  paradise. 
He  is  a  lover  of  mine,  parbleu  !  and  since  Yvain's 
death,  Heaven  knows  what  fancy  he  may  bring  hith 
er  in  his  hot  brain  !  I  have  armed  Percie  for  the 
hazard  ?" 

The  thin  nostrils  of  my  friend  from  Cranbourue- 
alley  dilated  with  prophetic  dislike  of  a  rival  thus 
abruptly  alluded  to,  and  there  was  that  in  his  face 
which  would  have  proved,  against  all  the  nurses' 
oaths  in  Christendom,  that  the  spirit  of  a  gentleman's 


arch  across  the  river,  forming  the  only  possible  access  |  blood  ran  warm  through  his  heart.  Signor  Tranch- 
to  the  platform  from  the  side  where  we  stood,  and, 
following  the  path  back  with  my  eye,  I  observed  a 
narrow  and  spiral  staircase,  partly  of  wood  and  partly 
cut  in  the  rock,  ascending  from  the  bridge  to  the  galle 
ry  we  had  followed  hither.  The  platform  was  carpet 
ed  richly,  and  flooded  with  intense  light,  and  in  its 
centre  stood  a  gorgeous  array  of  smoking  dishes, 


co;ur  must  be  gentle  in  his  suit,  I  said  to  myself, 
or  he  will  find  what  virtue  lies  in  a  hair-trigger  ! 
Percie  had  forgot  to  eat  since  the  mention  of  the 
pirate's  name,  and  sat  with  folded  arms  and  his  right 
hand  on  his  pistol. 

A   black  slave  brought  in  an  omelette  souff.ee,   as 
light  and  delicate  as  the  ckef-d'ctuvre  of  an  artiste  in 


served  after  the  Turkish  fashion,  with  a  cloth  upon  '(  the  Palais  Royal.     Iminild  spoke  to  him  in  Greek,  as 
the  floor,  and  surrounded  with  cushions  and  ottomans   j  he  knelt  and  placed  it  before  her. 


of  every  shape  and  color.  A  troop  of  black  slaves, 
whose  silver  anklets,  glittered  as  they  moved,  were 
busy  bringing  wines  and  completing  the  arrangements 
for  the  meal. 

"  Allans,  mignon  /"  cried  Iminild,  getting  impatient 
and  seizing  Percie's  arm,  "  let  us  get  over  the  river,  i 
and  perhaps  Mr.  Tyrell  will  look  down  upon  us  with 
his  grands  yeux  while  we  dine.     Oh,  you  will  come 
with  us  !     Suivcz  done!" 

An  iron  door,  which  I  had  not  hitherto  observed,  ' 
let  us  out  from  the  gallery  upon  the  staircase,  and  ; 
Mynheer  Von  Krakenpate  carefully  turned  the  key  ! 
behind  us.     We  crept  slowly  down  the  narrow  stair 
case  and  reached  the  edge  of  the  river,  where  the 
warm  air  from  the  open  sunshine  came  pouring  through 
the  cavern  with  the  current,  bringing  with  it  a  smell 
of  green  fields  and  flowers,  and  removing  entirely  the 


I  have  a  presentiment,"  she  said,  looking  at  me 
as  the  slave  disappeared,  "  that  Tranchcoeur  will  be 
here  presently.  I  have  ordered  another  omelette  on  the 
strength  of  the  feeling,  for  he  is  fond  of  it,  and  may  be 
soothed  by  the  attention." 

"  You  fear  him,  then  ?" 

"  Not  if  I  were  alone,  for  he  is  as  gentle  as  a  woman 
when  he  has  no  rival  near  him — but  I  doubt  his  relish 
of  Percie.  Have  you  dined  ?" 

"  Quite." 

"  Then  come  and  look  at  my  garden,  and  have  a 
peep  at  old  Perdicaris.  Stay  here,  Percie,  and  finish 
your  crapes,  mon-mignon  !  I  have  a  word  to  say  to 
Mr.  Tyrell." 

We  walked  across  the  platform,  and  passing  be 
tween  two  of  the  sparry  columns  forming  its  bound 
ary,  entered  upon  a  low  passage  which  led  to  a  large 


chill  of  the  cavernous  and  confined  atmosphere  I  had   j  opening,  resembling  singularly  a  garden  of  low  shrubs 


found  so  uncomfortable  above.  We  crossed  the 
bridge,  and  stepping  upon  the  elastic  carpets  piled 
thickly  on  the  platform,  arranged  ourselves  about  the 
smoking  repast,  Mynheer  Von  Krakenpate  sitting  down 
after  permission  from  Iminild,  and  Percie  by  order  of 
the  same  imperative  dictatress,  throwing  his  graceful 
length  at  her  feet. 


CHAPTER  V. 

• 

«'  TAKE  a  lesson  in  flattery  from  Percie,  Mr.  Tyrell, 
and  be  satisfied  with  your  bliss  in  my  society  without 
asking  for  explanations.  I  would  fain  have  the  use 
of  my  tongue  (to  swallow)  for  ten  minutes,  and  I  see 
you  making  up  your  mouth  for  a  question.  Try  this 
pilau!  It  is  made  by  a  Greek  cook,  who  fries,  boils, 
and  stews,  in  a  kitchen  with  a  river  for  a  chimney." 

"  Precisely  what  I  was  going  to  ask  you.  1  was 
wondering  how  you  cook  without  smoking  your  snow- 
white  roof." 

"  Yes,  the  river  is  a  good  slave,  and  'steals  wood  as 
well.  We  have  only  to  cut  it  by  moonlight  and  com 
mit  it  to  the  current." 

"  The  kitchen  is  down  stream,  then  ?" 
"  Down  stream  ;  and  down  stream  lives  jolly  Per 
dicaris  the  cook,  who  having  lost  his  nose  in  a  sea- 
fight,  is  reconciled  to  forswear  sunshine  and  mankind, 
and  cook  rice  for  pirates." 

"  Is  it  true  then  that  Yvain  held  command  on  the 
wa?" 


turned  by  some  magic  to  sparkling  marble. 

Two  or  three  hundred  of  these  stalagmite  cones, 
formed  by  the  dripping  of  calcareous  water  from  the 
roof  (as  those  on  the  roof  were  formed  by  the  same 
fluid  which  hardened  and  pondered),  stood  about  in 
the  spacious  area,  every  shrub  having  an  answering 
cone  on  the  roof,  like  the  reflection  of  the  same  mar 
ble  garden  in  a  mirror.  One  side  of  this  singular 
apartment  was  used  as  a  treasury  for  the  spoils  of  the 
band,  and  on  the  points  of  the  white  cones  hung 
pitchers  and  altar  lamps  of  silver,  gold  drinking-cups, 
and  chains,  and  plate  and  jewellery  of  every  age  and 
description.  Farther  on  were  piled,  in  unthrifty  con 
fusion,  heaps  of  velvets  and  silks,  fine  broadcloths, 
French  gloves,  shoes,  and  slippers,  brocades  of  Genoa,  . 
pieces  of  English  linen,  damask  curtains  still  fasten 
ed  to  their  cornices,  a  harp  and  mandolin,  cases  of 
danla^ed  bons-bons,  two  or  three  richly-bound  books, 
and  (Fast  and  most  valuable  in  my  eyes),  a  miniature 
bureau,  evidently  the  plunder  of  some  antiquary's 
treasure,  containing  in  its  little  drawers  antique  gold 
|  coins  of  India,  carefully  dated  and  arranged,  with  a 
I  list  of  its  contents  half  torn  from  the  lid. 

"  You  should  hear  Tranchcoeur's  sermons  on 
these  pretty  texts,"  said  the  countess,  trying  to  thrust 
open  a  bale  of  Brusa  silk  with  her  Turkish  slipper. 

"He  will  beat  off  the  top  of  a  stalagmite  with  his 
sabre-hilt,  and  sit  down  and  talk  over  his  spoils  and  the 
adventures  they  recall,  till  morning  dawns." 

"  And  how  is  that  discovered  in  this  sunless  cave.?" 

"  By  the  perfume.  The  river  brings  news  of  it, 
and  fills  the  cavern  with  the  sun's  first  kisses.  Those 


144 


THE  BANDIT  OF  AUSTRIA. 


violets   •  kiss   and   tell,'    Mr.    Tyrell !      Apropos   des 
bottes,  let  us  look  into  the  kitchen." 

We  turned  to  the  right,  keeping  on  the  same  level, 
and  a  few  steps  brought  us  to  the  brow  of  a  consider 
able  descent  forming  the  lower  edge  of  the  carpeted 
platform,  but  separated  from  it  by  a  wall  of  close 
stalactites.  At  the  bottom  of  the  descent  ran  the 
river,  but  just  along  the  brink,  forming  a  considerable 
crescent,  extended  a  flat  rock,  occupied  by  all  the 
varied  implements  of  a  kitchen,  and  lighted  by  the 
glare  of  two  or  three  different  fires  blazing  against 
the  perpendicular  limit  of  the  cave.  The  smoke  of 
these  followed  the  inclination  of  the  wall,  and  was 
swept  entirely  down  with  the  current  of  the  river. 
At  the  nearest  fire  stood  Perdicaris,  a  fat,  long-haired 
and  sinister-looking  rascal,  his  noseless  face  glowing 
with  the  heat,  and  at  his  side  waited,  with  a  silver 
dish,  the  Nubian  slave  who  had  been  sent  for  Tranch- 
coeur's  omelette. 

*'  One  of  the  most  bloody  fights  of  my  friend  the 
rover,"  said  Iminild,  "  was  with  an  armed  slaver,  from 
whom  he  took  these  six  pages  of  mine.  They  have 
reason  enough  to  comprehended  an  order,  but  too 
little  to  dream  of  liberty.  They  are  as  contented  as 
tortoises,  ici-bas." 

"  Is  there  no  egress  hence  but  by  the  iron  door  ?" 

"  None  that  I  know  of,  unless  one  could  swim  up 
this  swift  river  like  a  salmon.     You  may  have  sur 
mised  by  this  time,  that  we  monopolize  an  unexplored 
part  of  the  great  cave  of  Adelsberg.     Common  report 
says  it  extends  ten  miles  under  ground,  but  common 
report  has  never  burrowed  as  far  as  this,  and  I  doubt 
whether  there  is  any  communication.     Father  Kraken-  j 
pate's  clock  conceals  an  entrance,  discovered  first  by  j 
robbers,  and  handed  down  by  tradition,  Heaven  knows  j 
how  long.     But — hark!     Tranchcceur,  by  Heaven! 
my  heart  foreboded  it !" 

I  sprang  after  the  countess,  who,  with  her  last  ex 
clamation,  darted  between  two  of  the  glittering  columns 
separating  us  from  the  platform,  and  my  first  glance 
convinced  me  that  her  fullest  anticipations  of  the 
pirate's  jealousy  were  more  than  realized.  Percie 
stood  with  his  back  to  a  tall  pillar  on  the  farther  side, 
with  his  pistol  levelled,  calm  and  unmoveable  as  a 
stalactite ;  and,  with  his  sabre  drawn  and  his  eyes 
flashing  fire,  a  tall  powerfully-built  man  in  a  sailor's 
press,  was  arrested  by  Iminild  in  the  act  of  rushing  on 
him.  "Stop!  or  you  die,  Tranchcoeur !"  said  the 
countess,  in  a  tone  of  trifling  command.  "  He  is  my 
guest !" 

"  He  is  my  prisoner,  madame  !"  was  the  answer,  as 
the  pirate  changed  his  position  to  one  of  perfect  repose 
and  shot  his  sabre  into  his  sheath,  as  if  a  brief  delay 
could  make  little  difference. 

"  We  shall  see  that,"  said  the  countess,  once  more, 
with  as  soft  a  voice  as  was  ever  heard  in  a  lady's 
boudoir ;  and  stepping  to  the  edge  of  the  platform, 
she  touched  with  her  slipper  a  suspended  gong,  which 
sent  through  the  cavern  a  shrill  reverberation  heard 
clearly  over  the  rushing  music  of  the  river. 

In  an  instant  the  click  of  forty  muskets  from  the 
other  side  fell  on  our  ears ;  and,  at  a  wave  of  her 
hand,  the  butts  rattled  on  the  rocks,  and  all  was  still 
again. 

"  I  have  not  trusted  myself  within  your  reach, 
Monsieur  Tranchcoeur,"  said  Iminild,  flinging  herself 
carelessly  on  an  ottoman,  and  motioning  to  Percie  to 
keep  his  stand,  "  without  a  score  or  two  of  my  free- 
riders  from  Mount  Semering  to  regulate  your  con 
science.  1  am  mistress  here,  sir!  You  may  sit 
down!" 

Tranchcceur  had  assumed  an  air  of  the  most  gen 
tlemanly  tranquillity,  and  motioning  to  one  of  the 
slaves  for  his  pipe,  he  politely  begged  pardon  for 
smoking  in  the  countess's  presence,  and  filled  the 
enamelled  bowl  with  Shiraz  tobacco. 


"  You  heard  of  Yvain's  death  ?"  she  remarked  after 
a  moment  passing  her  hand  over  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  at  Venice." 

"  With  his  dying  words,  he  gave  me  and  mine  in 
charge  to  this  Englishman.  Mr.  Tyrell,  Monsieur 
Tranchcoaur." 

The  pirate  bowed. 

"  Have  you  been  long  from  England  ?"  he  asked 
with  an  accent  and  voice  that  even  in  that  brief 
question,  savored  of  the  nonchalant  English  of  the 
west  end. 

"  Two  years  !"  I  answered. 

"  I  should  have  supposed  much  longer  from  your 
chivalry  in  St.Etienne,  Mr.  Tyrell.  My  countrymen 
generally  are  less  hasty.  Your  valet  there,"  he  con 
tinued,  looking  sneeringly  at  Percie,  "seems  as  quick 
on  the  trigger  as  his  master." 

Percie  turned  on  his  heel,  and  walked  to  the  edge 
of  the  platform  as  if  uneasy  at  the  remark,  and  Iminild 
rose  to  her  feet. 

"  Look  you,  Tranchcceur  !  I'll  have  none  of  your 
sneers.  That  youth  is  as  well-born  and  better  bred 
than  yourself,  and  with  his  consent,  shall  have  the 
authority  of  the  holy  church  ere  long  to  protect  my 
property  and  me.  Will  you  aid  me  in  this,  Mr. 
Tyrell  ?" 

"  Willingly,  countess !" 

"  Then,  Tranchcceur,  farewell  !  I  have  withdrawn 
from  the  common  stock  Yvain's  gold  and  jewels,  and 
I  trust  to  your  sense  of  honor  to  render  me  at  Venice 
whatever  else  of  his  private  property  may  be  concealed 
in  the  island." 

"  Iminild  !"  cried  the  pirate,  springing  to  his  feet, 
"  I  did  not  think  to  show  a  weakness  before  this 
stranger,  but  I  implore  you  to  delay  !" 

His  bosom  heaved  with  strong  emotion  as  he  spoke, 
and  the  color  fled  from  his  bronzed  features  as  if  he 
were  struck  with  a  mortal  sickness. 

"  I  can  not  lose  you,  Iminild  !  I  have  loved  you 
too  long.  You  must " 

She  motioned  to  Percie  to  pass  on. 

"  By  Heaven,  you  shall !"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  sud 
denly  become  hoarse  with  passion  ;  and  reckless  of 
consequences,  he  leaped  across  the  heaps  of  cushion, 
and,  seizing  Percie  by  the  throat,  flung  him  with 
terrible  and  headlong  violence  into  the  river. 

A  scream  from  Iminild,  and  the  report  of  a  musket 
from  the  other  side,  rang  at  the  same  instant  through 
the  cavern,  and  as  I  rushed  forward  to  seize  the  pistol 
which  he  had  struck  from  Percie's  hand,  his  half- 
drawn  sabre  slid  back  powerless  into  the  sheath,  and 
Tranchcceur  dropped  heavily  on  his  knee. 

"  I  am  peppered,  Mr.  Tyrell !"  he  said,  waving  me 
off  with  difficult  effort  to  smile,  "  look  after  the  boy, 
if  you  care  for  him  !  A  curse  on  her  German  wolves!" 

Percie  met  me  on  the  bridge,  supporting  Trninild, 
who  hung  on  his  neck,  smothering  him  with  kisses. 

"  Where  is  that  dog  of  a  pirate  ?"  she  cried,  sud 
denly  snatching  herataghan  from  the  sheath  and  flying 
across  the  platform.  "Tranchcceur  !" 

Her  hand  was  arrested  by  the  deadly  pallor  and 
helpless  attitude  of  the  wounded  man,  and  the  weapon 
dropped  as  she  stood  over  him. 

"I  think  it  is  not  mortal,"  he  said,  groaning  as  he 
pressed  his  hand  to  his  side,  "  but  take  your  boy  out 
of  my  sight  !  Iminild  !" 

"  Well,  Tranchcceur !" 

"  I  have  not  done  well — but  you  know  my  nature 
— and  iisy  love  !  Forgive  me,  and  farewell  !  Send 
Bertram  to  stanch  this  blood — I  get  faint!  A  little 
wine,  Iminild  !" 

He  took  the  massive  flagon  from  her  hand,  and 
drank  a  long  draught,  and  then  drawing  to  him  a  cloak 
which  lay  near,  he  covered  his  head  and  dropped  ou 
his  side  as  if  to  sleep. 

Iminild  knelt  beside  him  and  tore  open  the  shirt 


OONDER-HOOFDEN. 


145 


beneath  his  jacket,  and  while  she  busied  herself  in 
stanching  the  blood,  Perdicaris,  apparently  well  pre 
pared  for   such  accidents,   arrived   with  a  surgeon's 
probe,  and,   on  examination   of  the  wound,   assured  I 
Iminild  that  she  might  safely  leave  him.     Washing 
her  hands  in  the  flagon  of  wine,  she  threw  a  cloak  over  j 
the  wet  and  shivering  Percie,  and,  silent  with  horror  : 
at  the  scene  behind  us,  we  made  our  way  over  the  I 
bridge,  and  in  a  short  time,  to  my  infinite  relief,  stood  j 
in  the   broad  moonlight  on  the  portico  of  Mynheer 
Krakenpate. 

My  carriage  was  soon  loaded  with  the  baggage  and 
treasure  of  the  countess,  and  with  the  same  swift 
horses  that  had  brought  us  from  Planina,  we  regained 
the  post-road,  and  sped  on  toward  Venice  by  the 
Friuli.  We  arrived  on  the  following  night  at  the  fair 
city  so  beloved  of  romance,  and  with  what  haste  I 
might,  I  procured  a  priest  and  married  the  Countess 
Iminild  to  gentleman  Percie. 

As  she   possessed   now  a  natural   guardian,  and  a 
sufficient  means  of  life,  I  felt  released  from  my  death  j 
vow   to   Yvain,  and  bidding  farewell   to  the  •'  happy  i 
couple,"  I  resumed  my  quiet  habit  of  travel,  and  three 
days  after  my  arrival  at  Venice,  was  on  the  road   to 
Padua  by  the  Brenta. 


OONDERrHOOFDEN,  OR  THE  UNDERCLIFF, 

A  TALE  OF  THE  VOYAGE  OF  HEXDRICK 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  IT  is  but  an  arm  of  the  sea,  as  I  told  thee,  skip 
per,"  said  John  Fleming,  the  mate  of  the  "  Halve- 
Mane,"  standing  ready  to  jam  down  the  tiller  and  bring- 
to,  if  his  master  should  agree  with  him  in  opinion. 

Hudson  stood  by  his  steersman,  with  folded  arms, 
now  looking  at  the  high-water  mark  on  the  rocks, 
which  betrayed  a  falling  tide,  now  turning  his  ear 
slightly  forward  to  catch  the  cry  of  the  man  who  stood 
heaving  the  lead  from  the  larboard  bow.  The  wind 
drew  lightly  across  the  starboard  quarter,  and,  with  a 
counter-tide,  the  little  vessel  stole  on  scarce  percepti 
bly,  though  her  mainsail  was  kept  full — the  slowly 
passing  forest  trees  on  the  shore  giving  the  lie  to  the 
merry  and  gurgling  ripple  at  the  prowl 

The  noble  river,  or  creek,  which  they  had  followed 
in  admiring  astonishment  for  fifty  miles,  had  hitherto  | 
opened  fairly  and  broadly  before  them,  though,  once  : 
or  twice,  its  widening  and  mountain-girt  bosom  had  • 
deceived  the  bold  navigator  into  the  belief,  that  he  ', 
was  entering  upon  some  inland  lake.  The  wind  still  | 
blew  kindly  and  steadily  from  the  southeast,  and  the 
sunset  of  the  second  day — a  spectacle  of  tumultuous 
and  gorgeous  glory  which  Hudson  attributed  justly 
to  the  more  violet  atmospheric  laws  of  an  unsettled 
continent — had  found  them  apparently  closed  in  by 
impenetrable  mountains,  and  running  immediately  on 
the  head  shore  of  an  extended  arm  of  the  sea. 

"  She'll  strike  before  she  can  follow  her  helm," 
cried  the  young  sailor  in  an  impatient  tone,  yet  still 
with  habitual  obedience  keeping  her  duly  on  her 
course. 

"  Port  a  little  !"  answered  the  skipper,  a  moment 
after,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  the  querulous  comment 
of  his  mate. 

Fleming's  attention  was  withdrawn  an  instant  by 
a  low  guttural  sound  of  satisfaction,  which  reached 
his  ear  as  the  head  of  the  vessel  went  round,  and, 
casting  his  eye  amidships,  he  observed  the  three 
Indians  who  had  come  oil'  to  the  Half-Moon  in  a 


c^noe,  and  had  been  received  on  board  by  the  master, 
standing  together  in  the  chains,  and  looking  forward 
to  the  rocks  they  were  approaching  with  countenances 
of  the  most  eager  interest. 

"  Master  Hendrick  !"  he  vociferated  in  the  tone  of 
a  man  who  can  contain  his  anger  no  longer,  "will you 
look  at  these  grinning  red-devils,  who  are  rejoicing  to 
see  you  run  so  blindly  ashore?" 

The  adventurous  little  bark  was  by  this  time  within 
a  biscuit  toss  of  a  rocky  point  that  jutted  forth  into 
the  river  with  the  grace  of  a  lady's  foot  dallying  with 
the  water  in  her  bath ;  and,  beyond  the  sedgy  bank 
disappeared  in  an  apparent  inlet,  barely  deep  enough, 
it  seemed  to  the  irritated  steersman,  to  shelter  a 
canoe. 

As  the  Half-Moon  obeyed  her  last  order,  and  headed 
a  point  more  to  the  west,  Hudson  strode  forward  to 
the  bow,  and  sprang  upon  the  windlass,  stretching  his 
gaze  eagerly  into  the  bosom  of  the  hills  that  were  now 
darkening  with  the  heavy  shadows  of  twilight,  though 
the  sky  was  still  gorgeously  purple  overhead. 

The  crew  had  by  this  time  gathered  with  uncon 
scious  apprehension  at  the  halyards,  ready  to  let  go 
at  the  slightest  gesture  of  the  master,  but,  in  the  slow- 
progress  of  the  little  bark,  the  minute  or  two  which 
she  took  to  advance  beyond  the  point  on  which  his 
eye  was  fixed,  seemed  an  age  of  suspense. 

The  Half-Moon  seemed  now  almost  immoveable, 
for  the  current,  which  convinced  Hudson  there  was 
a  passage  beyond,  set  her  back  from  the  point  with 
increasing  force,  and  the  wind  lulled  a  little  with  the 
sunset.  Inch  by  inch,  however,  she  crept  on,  till  at 
last  the  silent  skipper  sprang  from  the  windlass  upon 
the  bowsprit,  and  running  out  with  the  agility  of  a 
boy,  gave  a  single  glance  ahead,  and  the  next  mo- 
merit  had  the  tiller  in  his  hand,  and  cried  out  with  a 
voice  of  thunder,  "  Stand  by  the  halyards !  helm's- 
a-lee !" 

In  a  moment,  as  if  his  words  had  been  lightning, 
the  blocks  rattled,  the  heavy  boom  swung  round  like 
a  willow  spray,  and  the  white  canvass,  after  fluttering 
an  instant  in  the  wind,  filled  and  drew  steadily  on  the 
other  tack. 

Looks  of  satisfaction  were  exchanged  between  the 
crew,  who  expected  the  next  instant  an  order  to  take 
in  the  sail  and  drop  anchor  ;  but  the  master  was  at  the 
!  helm,  and  to  their  utter  consternation,  he  kept  her 
steadily  to  the  wind,  and  drove  straight  on,  while  a 
gorge,  that,  in  the  increasing  darkness,  seemed  the 
entrance  to  a  cavern,  opened  its  rocky  sides  as  they 
advanced. 

The  apprehensions  of  the  crew  were  half  lost  in 
their  astonishment  at  the  grandeur  of  the  scene.  The 
cliffs  seemed  to  close  up  behind  them;  a  mountain, 
that  reached  apparently  to  the  now  colorless  clouds, 
rose  up  gigantic,  in  the  increasing  twilight,  over  the 
prow  ;  on  the  right,  where  the  water  seemed  to  bend, 
a  craggy  precipice  extended  its  threatening  wall  ;  and 
in  the"  midst  of  this  round  bay,  which  seemed  to  them, 
to  be  an  enclossd  lake  in  the  bottom  of  an  abyss,  the 
wind  suddenly  took  them  aback,  the  Halve-Mane  lost 
her  headway,  and  threatened  to  go  on  the  rocks  with 
the  current,  and  audible  curses  at  his  folly  reached 
the  ears  of  the  determined  master. 

More  to  divert  their  attention  than  with  a  prognos 
tic  of  the  direction  of  the  wind,  Hudson  gave  the 
order  to  tack,  and,  more  slowly  this  time,  but  still 
with  sufficient  expedition,  the  movement  was  execu 
ted,  and  the  flapping  sails  swung  round.  The  hal 
yards  were  not  belayed  before  the  breeze,  rush 
ing  down  a  steep  valley  on  the  left,  struck  full  on 
the  larboard  quarter,  and,  running  sharp  past  the  face 
of  the  precipice  over  the  starboard  bow,  Hudson 
pointed  out,  exultingly,  to  his  astonished  men,  the 
j  broad  waters  of  the  mighty  river,  extending  far  through 
I  the  gorge  beyond — the  dim  purple  of  the  lingering 


146 


OONDER-HOOFDEN. 


day,  which  had  been  long  lost  to  the  cavernous  and 
overshadowed  pass  they  had  penetrated,  tinting  its  far 
bosom  like  the  last  faint  hue  of  the  expiring  dolphin. 
The  exulting  glow  of  triumph  suffused  the  face 
of  the  skipper,  and  relinquishing  the  tiller  once  more 
to  the  mortified  Fleming,  he  walked  forward  to  look 
out  for  an  anchorage.  The  Indians,  who  still  stood 
in  the  chains  together,  and  who  had  continued  to 
express  their  satisfaction  as  the  vessel  made  her  way 
through  the  pass,  now  pointed  eagerly  to  a  little 
bay  on  the  left,  across  which  a  canoe  was  shooting 
like  the  reflection  of  a  lance  in  the  air,  and,  the  wind 
dying  momently  away,  Hudson  gave  the  order  to 
round  to,  and  dropped  his  anchor  for  the  night. 

In  obedience  to  the  politic  orders  of  Hudson  the 
men  were  endeavoring,  by  presents  and  signs,  to 
induce  the  Indians  to  leave  the  vessel,  and  the  mas 
ter  himself  stood  on  the  poop  with  his  mate,  gazing 
back  on  the  wonderful  scene  they  had  passed  through. 

"  This  passage,"  said  Hudson,  musingly,  "  has  been 
rent  open  by  an  earthquake,  and  the  rocks  look  still  as 
if  they  felt  the  agony  of  the  throe." 

11  It  is  a  pity  the  earthquake  did  its  job  so  raggedly, 
then  !"  answered  his  sulky  companion,  who  had  not 
yet  forgiven  the  mountains  for  the  shame  their  zig-zag 
precipices  had  put  upon  his  sagacity. 

At  that  instant  a  sound,  like  that  of  a  heavy  body 
sliding  into  the  water,  struck  the  ear  of  Fleming, 
and  looking  quickly  over  the  stern,  he  saw  one  of 
the  Indians  swimming  from  the  vessel  with  a  pillow 
in  his  hand,  which  he  had  evidently  stolen  from  the 
cabin  window.  To  seize  a  musket,  which  lay  ready 
for  attack  on  the  quarter-deck,  and  fire  upon  the  poor 
savage,  was  the  sudden  thought  and  action  of  a  man  on 
the  watch,  for  a  vent  to  incensed  feelings. 

The  Indian  gave  a  yell  which  mingled  wildly  with 
the  echoes  of  the  report  from  the  reverberating  hills,  ! 
and  springing  waist-high  out  of  the  water,  the  gurgling  j 
eddy  closed  suddenly  over  his  head. 

The  canoe  in  which  the  other  savages  were  already 
embarked  shot  away,  like  an  arrow,  to  the  shore,  and  j 
Hudson,  grieved  and  alarmed  inexpressibly  at  the  fool-  ! 
hardy  rashness  of  his  male,  ordered  all  hands  to  arms,  i 
and  established  a  double  watch  for  the  night. 

Hour  after  hour,  the  master  and  the  non-repent-  ' 
ant  Fleming  paced  fore  and  aft,  each  in  his  own  I 
quarter  of  the  vessel,  watching  the  shore  and  the 
dark  face  of  the  water  with  straining  eyes:  but  no 
sound  came  from  the  low  cliff  round  which  the  fly-  i 
ing  canoe  had  vanished,  and  the  stars  seemed  to  I 
wink  almost  audibly  in  the  dread  stillness  of  nature,  j 
The  men  alarmed  at  the  evident  agitation  of  Hudson,  j 
who,  in  these  pent-up  waters,  anticipated  a  most  ef-  j 
fective  and  speedy  revenge  from  the  surrounding  j 
tribes,  drowsed  not  upon  their  watch,  and  the  gray  i 
light  of  the  morning  began  to  show  faintly  over  the  : 
mountains  before  the  anxious  master  withdrew  his  | 
aching  eyes  from  the  still  and  star  waters. 


CHAPTER  II. 

LIKE  a  web  woven  of  gold  by  the  lightning,  the 
sun's  rays  ran  in  swift  threads  from  summit  to  sum-  j 
mit  of  the  dark  green  mountains,  and  the  soft  mist  i 
that  slept  on  the  breast  of  the  river  began  to  lift  like  ; 
the  slumberous  lid  from  the  eye  of  woman,  when  her  j 
dream  is  broken   at  dawn.     Not  so  poetically  were 
these  daily  glories  regarded,  however,  by  the  morning 
watch  of  the  Half- Moon,  who,  between  the  desire  to 
drop  asleep  with  their  heads  on  the  capstan,  and  the 
necessity  of  keeping  sharper  watch  lest  the  Indians 
should  come  off  through  the  rising  mist,  bore  the 
double  pains  of  Tantalus  and  Sysiphus — ungratified 
desire  at  their  lips  and  threatening  ruin  over  their  heads. 


After  dividing  the  watch  at  the  break  of  day,  Hud 
son,  with  the  relieved  part  of  his  crew,  had  gone  be 
low,  and  might  have  been  asleep  an  hour,  when  Flem 
ing  suddenly  entered  the  cabin  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
his  shoulder.  The  skipper  sprang  from  his  berth 
with  the  habitual  readiness  of  a  seaman,  and  followed 
his  mate  upon  deck,  where  he  found  his  men  standing 
to  their  arms,  and  watching  an  object  that,  to  his  first 
glance,  seemed  like  a  canoe  sailing  down  upon  them 
through  the  air.  The  rash  homicide  drew  close  to 
Hendrick  as  he  regarded  it,  and  the  chatter  of  his 
teeth  betrayed  that,  during  the  long  and  anxious 
watches  of  the  night,  his  conscience  had  not  justified 
him  for  the  hasty  death  he  had  awarded  to  a  fellow- 
creature. 

"  She  but  looms  through  the  mist !"  said  the  skip 
per,  after  regarding  the  advancing  object  for  a  moment. 
"  It  is  a  single  canoe,  and  can  scarce  harm  us.  Let 
her  come  alongside !" 

The  natural  explanation  of  the  phenomenon  at  once 
satisfied  the  crew,  who  had  taken  their  superstitious 
fears  rather  from  Fleming's  evident  alarm  than  from 
their  own  want  of  reflection  ;  hut  the  guilty  man  him 
self  still  gazed  on  the  advancing  phantom,  and  when 
a  slight  stir  of  the  breeze  raised  the  mist  like  the  cor 
ner  of  a  curtain,  and  dropped  the  canoe  plain  upon 
the  surface  of  the  river,  he  turned  gloomily  on  his 
heel,  and  muttered  in  an  undertone  to  Hudson,  "  It 
brings  no  good,  Skipper  Hendrick  !" 

Meanwhile  the  canoe  advanced  slowly.  The  single 
paddle  which  propelled  her  paused  before  every  turn, 
and  as  the  mist  lifted  quite  up  and  showed  a  long 
green  line  of  shore  between  its  shadowy  fringe  and 
the  water,  an  Indian,  highly-painted,  and  more  orna 
mented  than  any  they  had  hitherto  seen,  appeared 
gazing  earnestly  at  the  vessel,  and  evidently  approach- 
ng  with  fear  and  caution. 

The  Half-Moon  was  heading  up  the  river  with 
he  rising  tide,  and  Hudson  walked  forward  to  the 
jows  to  look  at  the  savage  more  closely.  By  the 
eagle  and  bear,  so  richly  embroidered  in  the  gay- 
colored  quills  of  the  porcupine  on  his  belt  of  wam- 
}um,  he  presumed  him  to  be  a  chief;  and  glancing 
is  eye  into  the  canoe,  he  saw  the  pillow  which  had 
occasioned  the  death  of  the  plunderer  the  night  before, 
and  on  it  lay  two  ears  of  corn,  and  two  broken  arrows. 
Pausing  a  moment  as  he  drew  near,  the  Indian  pointed 
o  these  signs  of  peace,  and  Hudson,  in  reply,  spread 
out  his  open  hands  and  beckoned  him  to  come  on 
joard.  In  an  instant  the  slight  canoe  shot  under  the 
starboard  bow,  and  with  a  noble  confidence  which  the 
skipper  remarked  upon  with  admiration,  the  tall  savage 
sprang  upon  the  deck  and  laid  the  hand  of  the  com 
mander  to  his  breast. 

The  noon  arrived,  hot  and  sultry,  and  there  was  no 
ikelihood  of  a  wind  till  sunset.  The  chief  had  been 
easted  on  board,  and  had  shown,  in  his  delight,  the 
most  unequivocal  evidence  of  good  feeling;  and  even 
Fleming,  at  last,  who  had  drank  more  freely  than  usual 
during  the  morning,  abandoned  his  suspicion,  and 
oined  in  amusing  the  superb  savage  who  was  their 
*uest.  In  the  course  of  the  forenoon,  another  canoe 
;ame  off,  paddled  by  a  single  young  woman,  whom 
Fleming,  recognised  as  having  accompanied  the  plun 
derers  the  night  before,  but  in  his  half-intoxicated 
tate,  it  seemed  to  recall  none  of  his  previous  bodings, 
and  to  his  own  surprise,  and  that  of  the  crew,  she 
evidently  regarded  him  with  particular  favor,  and  by 
pertinacious  and  ingenious  signs,  endeavored  to  in 
duce  him  to  go  ashore  with  her  in  the  canoe.  The 
particular  character  of  her  face  and  form  would  have 
given  the  mate  a  clue  to  her  probable  motives,  had  he 
been  less  reckless  from  his  excitement.  She  was 
taller  than  is  common  for  females  of  the  savage  tribes, 
and  her  polished  limbs,  as  gracefully  moulded  in  their 


OONDER-HOOFDEN. 


147 


dark  hues  as  those  of  the  mercury  of  the  fountain, 
combined,  with  their  slightness,  a  nerve  and  steadi 
ness  of  action  which  betrayed  strength  and  resolution 
of  heart  and  frame.     Her  face  was  highly  beautiful,  j 
but  the  voluptuous  fulness  of  the  lips  was  contradicted 
by  a  fierce  fire  in  her  night-dark  eyes,  and  a  quickness  i 
of  the  brow  to  descend,  which  told  of  angry  passions  j 
habitually  on  the  alert.     It  was  remarked   by   Hans 
Christaern,  one  of  the  crew,  that  when  Fleming  left  I 
her  for  an  instant,  she   abstracted  herself  from  the  j 
other  joyous  groups,  and,  with  folded  arms  and  looks  j 
of  brooding  thoughtfulness,  stood  looking  over  the  i 
stern ;    but    immediately   on   his   reappearance,   her  j 
snowy  teeth  became  visible  between  her  relaxing  lips, 
and  she  resumed  her  patient  gaze  upon  his  counten 
ance,  and  her  occasional  efforts  to  draw  him  into  the 
canoe. 

Quite  regardless  of  the  presence  of  the  woman,  the 
chief  sat  apart  with  Hudson,  communicating  his  ideas  j 
by  intelligent  signs,  and  after  a  while,  the  skipper  j 
called  his  mate,  and  informed  him  that,  as  far  as  he  j 
could  understand,  the  chief  wished  to  give  them  a  ' 
feast  on  shore.  "  Arm  yourselves  well,"  said  he,  j 
"  though  I  look  for  no  treachery  from  this  noble  pagan ;  j 
and  if  chance  should  put  us  in  danger,  we  shall  be  j 
more  than  a  match  for  the  whole  tribe.  Come  with  j 
me,  Fleming,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause,  "you  are  j 
too  rash  with  your  firearms  to  be  left  in  command. 
Man  the  watch,  four  of  you,  and  the  rest  get  into  the 
long-boat.  We'll  while  away  these  sluggish  hours,  \ 
though  danger  is  in  it." 

The   men  sprang  gayly  below  for  their  arms,  and 
were  soon  equipped  and  ready,  and  the  chief,  with  an  | 
expression  of  delight,  put  off  in  his  canoe,  followed 
more  slowly  by  the  heavy  long-boat,  into  which  Hud-  j 
son,  having  given  particular  orders  to  the  watch  to  let 
no  savages  on  board  during  his  absence,  was  the  last 
to  embark.     The  woman,  whom  the  chief  had  called  j 
to  him  before  his  departure  by  the  name  of  Kihyalee,  I 
sped  off  before  in  her  swift  canoe  to  another  point  of  j 
the  shore,  and  when  Fleming  cried  out  from  the  bow  j 
of  the  boat,  impatiently  motioning  her  to  follow,  she 
smiled  in  a  manner  that  sent  a  momentary  shudder 
through  the  veins  of  the  skipper  who  chanced  to  ob-  j 
serve  the  action,  and  by  a  circular  movement  of  her  J 
arm  conveyed  to  him  that  she  should  meet  him  from 
the  other  side  of  the  hill.     As  they  followed  the  chief,  j 
they  discovered  the  wigwams  of  an  Indian  village  be 
hind  the  rocky  point  for  which  she  was  making,  and  ; 
understood  that  the  chief  had  sent  her  thither  on  some 
errand  connected  with  his  proposed  hospitality. 

A  large  square  rock,  which  had  the  look  of  having 
been  hurled  with  some  avalanche  from  the  mountain, 
lay  in  the  curve  of  a  small  beach  of  sand,  surrounded 
by  the  shallow  water,  and,  on  the  left  of  this,  the  chief 
pointed  out  to  the  skipper  a  deeper  channel,  hollowed 
by  the  entrance  of  a  mountain-torrent  intoihe  river, 
through  which  he  might  bring  his  boat  to  land.  At 
the  edge  of  this  torrent's  bed,  the  scene  of  the  first  act 
of  hospitality  to  our  race  upon  the  Hudson,  stands  at 
this  day  the  gate  to  the  most  hospitable  mansion  on 
the  river,  as  if  the  spirit  of  the  spot  had  consecrated  it 
to  its  first  association  with  the  white  man. 

The  chief  led  the  way  when  the  crew  had  disem 
barked,  by  a  path  skirting  the  deep-worn  bed  of  the 
torrent,  and  after  an  ascent  of  a  few  minutes,  through 
a  grove  of  tall  firs,  a  short  turn  to  the  left  brought 
them  upon  an  open  table  of  land,  a  hundred  and  fifty 
feet  above  the  river,  shut  in  by  a  circle  of  forest-trees, 
and  frowned  over  on  the  east  by  a  tall  and  bald  cliff, 
which  shot  up  in  a  perpendicular  line  to  the  height 
of  three  hundred  feet.  From  a  cleft  in  the  face  of 
this  precipice  a  natural  spring  oozed  forth,  drawing 
a  darker  line  down  the  sun-parched  rock,  and  feeding 
a  small  stream  that  found  its  way  to  the  river  on  the 
northern  side  of  the  platform  just  mentioned,  creating 


between  itself  and  the  deeper  torrent  to  the  south,  a 
sort  of  highland  peninsula,  now  constituting  the  estate 
of  the  hospitable  gentleman  above  alluded  to. 

Hudson  looked  around  him  with  delight  and  sur 
prise  when  he  stood  on  the  highest  part  of  the  broad 
natural  table  selected  by  the  chief  for  his  entertain 
ment.  The  view  north  showed  a  cleft  through  the 
hills,  with  the  river  coiled  like  a  lake  in  its  widening 
bed,  while  a  blue  and  wavy  line  of  mountains  form 
ed  the  far  horizon  at  its  back;  south,  the  bold  eminen 
ces,  between  which  he  had  found  his  adventurous 
way,  closed  in  like  the  hollowed  sides  of  a  bright- 
green  vase,  with  glimpses  of  the  river  lying  in  its 
bottom  like  crystal ;  below  him  descended  a  sharp 
and  wooded  bank,  with  the  river  at  its  foot,  and 
directly  opposite  rose  a  hill  in  a  magnificent  cone  to 
the  very  sky,  sending  its  shadow  down  through  the 
mirrored  water,  as  if  it  entered  to  some  inner  world. 
The  excessive  lavishness  of  the  foliage  clothed  these 
bold  natural  features  with  a  grace  and  richness  al 
together  captivating  to  the  senses,  and  Hudson  long 
stood,  gazing  around  him,  believing  that  the  tales  of 
brighter  and  happier  lands  were  truer  than  he  had 
deemed,  and  that  it  was  his  lucky  destiny  to  have  been 
the  discoverer  of  a  future  Utopia. 

A  little  later,  several  groups  of  Indians  were  seen 
advancing  from  the  village,  bearing  the  materials  for 
a  feast,  which  they  deposited  under  a  large  tree,  indi 
cated  by  the  chief.  It  was  soon  arranged,  and  Hud 
son  with  his  men  surrounded  the  dishes  of  shell  and 
wood,  one  of  which,  placed  in  the  centre,  contained  a 
roasted  dog,  half  buried  in  Indian-corn.  While  the 
chief  and  several  of  his  warriors  sat  down  in  company 
with  the  whites,  the  young  men  danced  the  calumet- 
;  dance  to  the  sound  of  a  rude  drum,  formed  by  drawing 
a  skin  tightly  over  a  wooden  bowl,  and  near  them,  in 
groups,  stood  the  women  and  children  of  the  village, 
glancing  with  looks  of  curiosity  from  the  feats  of  the 
young  men  to  the  unaccustomed  faces  of  the  strangers. 

Among  the  women  stood  Kihyalee,  who  kept  her 
large  bright  eyes  fixed  almost  fiercely  upon  Fleming, 
yet  when  he  looked  toward  her,  she  smiled  and  turned 
;  as  if  she  would  beckon  him  away — a  bidding  which  he 
tried  in  vain  to  obey,  under  the  vigilant  watch  of  his 
:  master. 

The  feast  went  on,  and  the  Indians  having  produced 
gourds,  filled  with  a  slight  intoxicating  liquor  made 
from  the  corn,  Hudson  offered  to  the  chief,  some 
spirits  from  a  bottle  which  he  had  intrusted  to  one 
of  the  men  to  wash  down  the  expected  roughness  of 
the  savage  viands.  The  bottle  passed  in  turn  to  the 
j  mate,  who  was  observed  to  drink  freely,  and,  a  few 
minutes  after,  Hudson  rising  to  see  more  nearly  a  trial 
of  skill  with  the  bow  and  arrow,  Fleming  found  the 
desired  opportunity,  and  followed  the  tempting  Kihyalee 
into  the  forest. 

The  sun  began  to  throw  the  shadows  of  the  tall 
pines  in  gigantic  pinnacles  along  the  ground,  and  the 
youths  of  the  friendly  tribe,  who  had  entertained  the 
|!  great  navigator,   ceased   from  their  dances  and  feats 
of  skill,  and  clustered  around  the  feast-tree.     Intend- 
i,  ing  to  get  under  weigh  with  the  evening  breeze  and 
i   proceed  still  farther  up  the  river,  Hudson  rose  to  col 
lect  his  men,  and  bid  the  chief  farewell.     Taking  the 
hand  of  the   majestic   savage   and   putting   it  to   his 
i   breast,  to  express  in  his  own  manner  the  kind   feel- 
!   ings  he  entertained  for  him,  he  turned  toward  the  path 
i !  by'which  he  came,  and  was  glancing  round  at  his  men, 
!!  when   Hans  Christaern  inquired  if  he  bad  sent  the 
I :  mate  back  to  the  vessel. 

"  Der  teufel,  no  /"  answered  the  skipper,  missing 
him  for  the  first  time ;  "  has  he  been  long  gone  ?" 
"  A  full  hour  !"  said  one  of  the  men. 
Hudson  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  remembered 
the  deep  wrong  Fleming  had  done  to  the  tribe.     Re- 


148 


THE  PICKER  AND  FILER. 


tribution,  he  feared,  had  over-taken  him — but  how  was 
it  done  so  silently?  How  had  the  guilty  man  been 
induced  to  leave  his  comrades,  and  accelerate  his 
doom  by  his  own  voluntnry  act  ? 

The  next  instant  resolved  the  question.  A  distant 
and  prolonged  scream,  as  of  a  man  in  mortal  agony, 
drew  all  eyes  to  the  summit  of  the  beetling  cliff,  which 
overhung  them.  On  its  extremes!  verge,  outlined 
distinctly  against  the  sky,  stood  the  tall  figure  of  Kih- 
yalee,  holding  from  her,  yet  poised  over  the  precipice, 
the  writhing  form  of  her  victim,  while  in  the  other 
hand,  flashing  in  the  rays  of  the  sun,  glittered  the 
bright  hatchet  she  had  plucked  from  his  fiirdle.  In 
furiated  at  the  sight,  and  suspecting  collision  on  the 
part  of  the  chief,  Hudson  drew  his  cutlass  and  gave 
the  order  to  stand  to  arms,  but  as  he  turned,  the  gigan 
tic  savage  had  drawn  an  arrow  to  its  head  with  incredi 
ble  force,  and  though  it  fell  far  short  of  its  mark,  there 
was  that  in  the  action  and  in  his  look  which,  in  the 
passing  of  a  thought,  changed  the  mind  of  the  skipper. 
In  another  instant,  the  hesitating  arm  of  the  widowed 
Kihyalee  descended,  and  loosening  her  hold  upon  the 
relaxed  body  of  her  victim,  the  doomed  mate  fell 
heavily  down  the  face  of  the  precipice. 

The  chief  turned  to  Hudson,  who  stood  trembling 
and  aghast  at  the  awful  scene,  and  plucked  the  re 
maining  arrows  from  his  quiver,  he  broke  them  and 
threw  himself  on  the  ground.  The  tribe  gathered 
around  their  chief,  Hudson  moved  his  hand  to  them 
in  token  of  forgiveness,  and  in  a  melancholy  silence 
the  crew  took  their  way  after  him  to  the  shore. 


THE  PICKER  AND  FILER, 

THE  nature  of  the  strange  incident  I  have  to  relate 
forbids  me  to  record  either^place  or  time. 

On  one  of  the  wildest  nights  in  which  I  had  ever 
been  abroad,  I  drove  my  panting  horses  through  a 
snowdrift  breast  high,  to  the  door  of  a  small  tavern  in 
the  western  country.  The  host  turned  out  unwilling 
ly  at  the  knock  of  my  whip  handle  on  the  outer  door, 
and,  wading  before  the  tired  animals  to  the  barn,  which 
was  nearly  inaccessible  from  the  banks  of  snow,  he 
assisted  me  in  getting  off  their  frozen  harnesses,  and 
bestowing  them  safely  for  the  night. 

The  "  bar-room"  fire  burnt  brightly,  and  never  was 
fire  more  welcome.  Room  was  made  for  me  by  four 
or  five  rough  men  who  sat  silent  around  it,  and  with  a 
keen  comprehension  of  "  pleasure  after  pain,'1  I  took 
off  my  furs  and  moccasins,  and  stretched  my  cold  con 
tracted  limbs  to  the  blaze.  When,  a  few  minutes 
after,  a  plate  of  cold  salt  beef  was  brought  me,  with  a 
corn  cake  and  a  mug  of  "  flip"  hissing  from  the  poker, 
it  certainly  would  have  been  hard  to  convince  me  that 
I  would  have  put  on  my  coats  and  moccasins  again  to  | 
have  ridden  a  mile  to  paradise. 

The  faces  of  my  new  companions,  which  I  had  not 
found  time  to  inspect  very  closely  while  my  supper 
lasted,  were  fully  revealed  by  the  light  of  a  pitch-pine 
knot,  thrown  on  the  hearth  by  the  landlord,  and  their 
grim  reserve  and  ferocity  put  me  in  mind,  for  the  first 
time  since  I  had  entered  the  room,  of  my  errand  in 
that  quarter  of  the  country. 

The  timber-tracts  which  lie  convenient  to  the  rivers 
of  the  west,  offer  to  the  refugee  and  desperado  of  every  | 
description,  a  resource  from  want  and  (in  their  own  | 
opinion)  from  crime,  which  is  seized  upon  by  all  at  j 
least  who  are  willing  to  labor.     The  owners  of  the  ex-  j 
tensive   forests,  destined   to  become  so  valuable,  are 
mostly  men  of  large  speculation,  living  in  cities,  who, 
satisfied  with  the  constant  advance  in  the  price  of  j 


lumber,  consider  their  pine-trees  as  liable  to  nothing 
but  the  Jaws  of  nature,  and  leave  them  unfenced  and 
unprotected,  to  increase  in  size  and  value  till  the  land 
beneath  them  is  wanted  for  culture.  It  is  natural 
enough  that  solitary  settlers,  living  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  miles  of  apparently  unclaimed  land,  should 
think  seldom  of  the  owner,  and  in  time  grow  to  the 
opinion  of  the  Indian,  that  the  Great  Spirit  gave  the 
land,  the  air,  and  the  water,  to  all  his  children,  and 
they  are  free  to  all  alike.  Furnishing  the  requisite 
teams  and  implements,  therefore,  the  inhabitants  of 
these  tracts  collect  a  numberof  the  stragglers  through 
the  country,  and  forming  what  is  called  a  "  bee,"  go 
into  the  nearest  woods,  and  for  a  month  or  more,  work 
laboriously  at  selecting,  and  felling  the  tallest  and 
straightest  pines.  In  their  rude  shanty  at  night  they 
have  bread,  pork,  and  whiskey,  which  hard  labor  makes 
sufficiently  palatable,  and  the  time  is  passed  merrily 
till  the  snow  is  right  for  sledding.  The  logs  are  then 
drawn  to  the  water  sides,  rafts  are  formed,  and  the 
valuable  lumber,  for  which  they  paid  nothing  but  their 
labor  is  run  to  the  cities  for  their  common  advantage. 
The  only  enemies  of  this  class  of  men  are  the  agents 
who  are  sometimes  sent  out  in  the  winter  to  detect 
them  in  the  act  of  felling  or  drawing  off  timber,  and 
in  the  dark  countenances  around  the  fire,  I  read  this 
as  the  interpretation  of  my  own  visit  to  the  woods. 
They  soon  brightened  and  grew  talkative  when  they 
discovered  that  I  was  in  search  of  hands  to  fell  and 
burn,  and  make  clearing  for  a  farm;  and  after  a  talk 
of  an  hour  or  two,  I  was  told  in  answer  to  my  inquiries, 
that  all  the  "  men  people"  in  the  country  were  busy 

"  lumbering  for  themselves,"  unless  it  were 

the  "  Picker  and  Filer." 

As  the  words  were  pronounced,  a  shrill  neigh 
outside  the  door  pronounced  the  arrival  of  a  new-comer. 
"Talk  of  the  devil" — said  the  man  in  a  lower  tone, 
and  without  finishing  the  proverb  he  rose  with  a 
respect  which  he  had  not  accorded  to  me,  to  make 
room  for  the  Picker  and  Filer. 

A  man  of  rather  low  stature  entered,  and  turned  to 
Jrive  back  his  horse,  who  had  followed  him  nearly  in. 
[  observed  that  the  animal  had  neithersaddle  nor  bridle. 
Shutting  the  door  upon  him  without  violence,  he  ex 
changed  nods  with  one  or  two  of  the  men,  and  giving 
the  landlord  a  small  keg  which  he  had  brought,  he 
pleaded  haste  for  refusing  the  offered  chair,  and  stood 
silent  by  the  fire.  His  features  were  blackened  with 
smoke,  but  I  could  see  that  they  were  small  and  regu 
lar,  and  his  voice,  though  it  conveyed  in  its  deliberate 
accents  an  indefinable  resolution,  was  almost  feminine 
ly  soft  and  winning. 

"  That  stranger  yonder  has  got  a  job  for  you,"  said 
the  landlord,  as  he  gave  him  back  the  keg  and  received 
the  money. 

•Turning  quickly  upon  me,  he  detected  me  in  a  very 
eager  scrutiny  of  himself,  and  for  a  moment  I  was 
thrown  too  much  oft' my  guard  to  address  him. 

"  Is  it  you,  sir  ?"  he  asked,  after  waiting  a  moment. 
"Yes, — I  have  some  work  to  be  done  hereabouts, 
but — you  seem  in  a  hurry.     Could  you  call  here  to 
morrow." 

"I  may  not  be  here  again  in  a  week." 
"Do  you  live  far  from  here  ?"    He  smiled. 
"  I  scarce  know  where  I  live,  but  I  am  burning  a 
piece  of  wood  a  mile  or  two  up  the  run,  and  if  you 
would  like  a  warmer  bed  than  the  landlord  will  give 
you — " 

That  personage  decided  the  question  for  me  by 
telling  me  in  so  many  words  that  I  had  better  go. 
His  beds  were  all  taken  up,  and  my  horses  should  be 
taken  care  of  till  my  return.  1  saw  that  my  presence 
had  interrupted  something,  probably  the  formation  of 
a  "  bee,"  and  more  willingly  than  I  would  have  be 
lieved  possible  an  hour  before,  I  resumed  my  furs  and 
wrappers,  and  declared  that  1  was  ready.  The  Picker 


THE  PICKER  AND  FILER. 


149 


and  Filer  had  inspired  me,  and  I  knew  not  why,  with 
an  involuntary  respect  and  liking. 

"  It  is  a  rough  night,  sir,"  said  he,  as  he  shouldered 
a  rifle  he  had  left  outside,  and  slung  the  keg  by  a 
leather  strap  over  the  neck  of  his  horse,  "  but  I  will 
soon  show  you  a  better  climate.  Come,  sir,  jump  on !" 

"  And  you  ?"  1  said  inquisitively,  as  he  held  his 
horse  by  the  mane  for  me  to  mount.  It  was  a  Cana 
dian  pony,  scarce  larger  than  a  Newfoundland  dog. 

"  I  am  more  used^to  the  road,  sir,  and  will  walk. 
Come  ?" 

It  was  no  time  to  stand  upon  etiquette,  even  if  it 
had  been  possible  to  resist  the  strange  tone  of  authori 
ty  with  which  he  spoke.  So  without  more  ado,  I 
sprang  upon  the  animal's  back,  and  holding  on  by  the 
long  tuft  upon  his  withers,  suffered  him  passively  to 
plunge  through  the  drift  after  his  master. 

Wondering  at  the  readiness  with  which  I  had  en 
tered  upon  this  equivocal  adventure,  but  never  for  an 
instant  losing  confidence  in  my  guide,  I  shut  my  eyes 
to  the  blinding  cold,  and  accommodated  my  limbs  as 
well  as  1  could  to  the  bare  back  and  scrambling  paces 
of  the  Canadian.  The  Picker  and  Filer  strode  on 
before,  the  pony  following  like  a  spaniel  at  his  heels, 
and  after  a  half  hour's  tramp,  during  which  I  had 
merely  observed  that  we  were  rounding  the  base  of  a 
considerable  hill,  we  turned  short  to  the  right,  and 
were  met  by  a  column  of  smoke,  which,  lifting,  the 
moment  after,  disclosed  the  two  slopes  of  a  consider 
able  valley  enveloped  in  one  sea  of  fire.  A  red,  lurid 
cloud,  overhung  it  at  the  tops  of  the  tallest  trees,  and 
far  and  wide,  above  that,  spread  a  covering  of  black 
smoke,  heaving  upward  in  vast  and  billowy  masses,  and 
rolling  away  on  every  side  into  the  darkness. 

We  approached  a  pine  of  gigantic  height,  on  fire 
to  the  very  peak,  not  a  branch  left  on  the  trunk,  and 
its  pitchy  knots  distributed  like  the  eyes  of  the  lamprey, 
burning  pure  and  steady  amid  the  irregular  flame.  I 
had  once  or  twice,  with  an  instinctive  wish  to  draw 
rein,  pulled  hard  upon  the  tangled  tuft  in  my  hand, 
but  master  and  horse  kept  on.  This  burning  tree, 
however,  was  the  first  of  a  thousand,  and  as  the  pony 
turned  his  eyes  away  from  the  intense  heat  to  pass  be-  j 
tween  it  and  a  bare  rock,  I  glanced  into  the  glowing 
labyrinth  beyond,  and  my  faith  gave  way.  I  jumped 
from  his  back  and  hailed  the  Ficker  and  Filer,  with  a 
halloo  scarcely  audible  amid  the  tumult  of  the  crack 
ling  branches.  My  voice  did  not  evidently  reach  his 
ear,  but  the  pony,  relieved  from  my  weight,  galloped 
to  his  side,  and  rubbed  his  muzzle  against  the  unoc-  j 
cupied  hand  of  his  master. 

He  turned  back  immediately.  "I  beg  pardon,"  he 
said,  "I  have  that  to  think  of  just  now  which  makes 
me  forgetful.  I  am  not  surprised  at  your  hesitation, 
but  mount  again  and  trust  the  pony." 

The  animal  turned  rather  unwillingly  at  his  mas 
ter's  bidding,  and  a  little  ashamed  of  having  shown 
fear,  while  a  horse  would  follow,  I  jumped  again  on 
his  back. 

"If  you  find  the  heat  inconvenient,  cover  your  face." 
And  with  this  laconic  advice,  the  Picker  and  Filer 
turned  on  his  heel,  and  once  more  strode  away  be 
fore  us. 

Sheltering  the  sides  of  my  face  by  holding  up  the 
corners  of  my  wrapper  with  both  hands,  I  abandoned 
myself  to  the  horse.  He  overtook  his  master  with  a 
shuffling  canter,  and  putting  his  nose  as  close  to  the 
ground  as  he  could  carry  it  without  stumbling,  fol 
lowed  closely  at  his  heels.  I  observed,  by  the  green 
logs  lying  immediately  along  our  path,  that  we  were 
following  an  avenue  of  prostrate  timber  which  had  been 
felled  before  the  wood  was  fired ;  but  descending 
presently  to  the  left,  we  struck  at  once  into  the  deep 
bed  of  a  brook,  and  by  the  lifted  head  and  slower  gait 
of  the  pony,  as  well  as  my  own  easier  respiration,  I 
found  that  the  hollow  through  which  it  ran,  contained 


a  body  of  pure  air  unreached  by  the  swaying  curtains 
of  smoke  or  the  excessive  heat  of  the  fiery  currents 
above.  The  pony  now  picked  his  way  leisurely  along 
the  brookside,  and  while  my  lungs  expanded  with  the 
relief  of  breathing  a  more  temperate  atmosphere,  I 
raised  myself  from  my  stooping  posture  in  a  profuse 
perspiration,  and  one  by  one  disembarrassed  myself 
from  my  protectives  against  the  cold. 

I  had  lost  sight  for  several  minutes  of  the  Picker 
and  Filer,  and  presumed  by  the  pony's  desultory 
movements  that  he  was  near  the  end  of  his  journey, 
when,  rounding  a  shelvy  point  of  rock,  we  stood  sud 
denly  upon  the  brink  of  a  slight  waterfall,  where  the 
brook  leaped  four  or  five  feet  into  a  shrunken  dell,  and 
after  describing  a  half  circle  on  a  rocky  platform,  re- 
|  sumed  its  onward  course  in  the  same  direction  as  be 
fore.  This  curve  of  the  brook  and  the  platform  it 
enclosed  lay  lower  than  the  general  level  of  the  forest, 
and  the  air  around  and  within  it,  it  seemed  to  me,  was 
as  clear  and  genial  as  the  summer  noon.  Over  one 
side,  from  the  rocky  wall,  a  rude  and  temporary  roof 
of  pine  slabs  drooped  upon  a  barricade  of  logs,  lbrmin°r 
a  low  hut,  and  before  the  entrance  of  this,  at  the  mo 
ment  of  my  appearance,  stood  a  woman  and  a  showily- 
dressed  young  man,  both  evidently  confused  at  the 
sudden  apparition  of  the  Picker  and  Filer.  My  eyes 
had  scarce  rested  on  the  latter,  when,  from  standing 
at  his  fullest  height  with  his  rifle  raised  as  if  to  beat 
the  other  to  the  earth,  he  suddenly  resumed  hisstoop- 
ing  and  quiet  mien,  set  his  rifle  against  the  rock,  and 
came  forward  to  give  me  his  hand. 

"  My  daughter!"  he  said,  more  in  the  way  of  ex 
planation  than  introduction,  and  without  taking  fur 
ther  notice  of  the  young  man  whose  presence  seemed 
so  unwelcome,  he  poured  me  a  draught  from  the  keg 
he  had  brought,  pointed  to  the  water  falling  close  at 
my  hand,  and  threw  himself  at  his  length  upon  the 
ground. 

The  face  and  general  appearance  of  the  young  man, 
now  seated  directly  opposite  me,  offered  no  temptation 
for  more  than  a  single  glance,  and  my  whole  attention 
I  was  soon  absorbed   by  the  daughter  of  my  singular 
I  host,   who,   crossing  from   the  platform   to   the   hut, 
•  divided   her  attention   between  a  haunch  of  venison 
j  roasting  before  a  burning  log  of  hickory,  and  the  ar 
rangement  of  a  few  most  primitive  implements  for  our 
coming  supper.     She  was  slight,  like  her  father,  in 
form,  and  as  far  as  1  had  been  able  to  distinguish  his 
i  blackened  features,  resembled  him  in  the  general  out- 
j  line.     But  in  the  place  of  his  thin   and  determined 
mouth,   her   lips  were   round   and   voluptuous,    and 
!  though  her  eye  looked  as  if  it  might  \vake,   it  ex- 
I  pressed,  even  in  the  presence  of  her  moody  father,  a 
drowsy  and  soft  indolence,  common  enough  to  the 
I  Asiatics,  but  seldom  seen  in  America.     Her  dress  was 
I  coarse  and  careless,  but  she  was  beautiful  with  every 
{  possible  disadvantage,  and,  whether  married  or  not, 
evidently  soon  to  become  a  mother. 

The  venison  was  placed  before  us  on  the  rock,  and 
the  young  man,  uninvited,  and  with  rather  an  air  of 
bravado,  cut  himself  a  steak  from  the  haunch  and 
broiled  it  on  the  hickory  coals,  while  the  daughter  kept 
as  ne*r  him  as  her  attention  to  her  father's  wants  would 
permit,  but  neither  joined  us  in  eating,  nor  encouraged 
my  attempts  at  conversation.  The  Picker  and  Filer 
ate  in  silence,  leaving  me  to  be  my  own  carver,  nnd 
finishing  his  repast  by  a  deep  draught  from  the  keg 
which  had  been  the  means  of  our  acquaintance,  he 
sprang  upon  his  feet  and  disappeared. 

"  The  wind  has  changed,"  said  the  daughter,  look 
ing  up  at  the  smoke,  "and  he  has  gone  to  the  western 
edge  to  start  a  new  fire.  It's  a  full  half  mile,  and  he'll 
be  gone  an  hour." 

This  was  said  with  a  look  at  me  which  was  any 
thing  but  equivocal.  I  was  de  trop.  1  took  up  the 
rifle  of  the  Picker  aud  Filer,  forgetting  that  there  was 


150 


THE  PICKER  AND  FILER. 


probably  nothing  to  shoot  in  a  burning  wood,  and  re 
marking  that  I  would  have  a  look  for  a  deer,  jumped 
up  the  water-fall  side,  and  was  immediately  hidden  by 
the  rocks. 

I  had  no  conception  of  the  scene  that  lay  around 
me.  The  natural  cave  or  hollow  of  rock  in  which  the 
hut  lay  embosomed,  was  the  centre  of  an  area  of  per 
haps  an  acre,  which  had  been  felled  in  the  heart  of  the 
wood  before  it  was  set  an  fire.  The  forest  encircled 
it  with  blazing  columns,  whose  capitals  were  ap- 

Sarently  lost  in  the  sky,  and  curtains  of  smoke  and 
ame,  which  flew  as  if  lashed  into  ribands  by  a  whirl 
wind.     The  grandeur,  the  violence,  the  intense  bright 
ness  of  the  spectacle,  outran  all  imagination.     The 
pines,  on  fire  to  the   peak,   and  straight  as  arrows, 
seemed  to  resemble,  at  one  moment  the  conflagration 
of  an  eastern   city,  with  innumerable  minarets  aban 
doned  to  the  devouring  element.     At  the  next  moment, 
the   wind,  changing   its   direction,   swept   out   every 
vestige  of  smoke,  and  extinguished  every  tongue  of 
flame,  and  the  tall  trees,  in  clear  and  flameless  igni 
tion,  standing  parallel  in  thousands,  resembled  some 
blinding    temple   of   the    genii,    whose   columns   of 
miraculous  rubies,  sparkling  audibly,  outshone  the  I 
day.     By  single  glances,  my  eye  penetrated  into  aisles  j 
of  blazing  pillars,  extending  far  into  the  forest,  and  the  j 
next  instant,  like  a  tremendous  surge  alive  with  ser-  j 
pents  of  fire,  the  smoke  and  flame  swept  through  it,  I 
and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  some  glorious  structure  had  ! 
been  consumed  in  the  passing  of  a  thought.     For  a 
minute,  again,  all  would  be  still  except  the  crackling 
of  the  fibres  of  the  wood,  and  with  the  first  stir  of  the  I 
wind,  like  a  shower  of  flashing  gems,  the  bright  coals  ! 
rained  down  through  the  forest,  and  for  a  moment  the 
earth  glowed  under  the  trees  as  if  its  whole  crust  were 
alive  with  one  bright  ignition. 

With  the  pungency  of  the  smoke  and  heat,  and  the 
variety  and  bewilderment  of  the  spectacle,  I  found  my  I 
eyes  and  brain  growing  giddy.  The  brook  ran  cool 
below,  and  the  heat  had  dried  the  leaves  in  the  small 
clearing,  and  with  the  abandonment  of  a  man  overcome 
with  the  sultriness  of  summer,  I  lay  down  on  the 
rivulet's  bank,  and  dipped  my  head  and  bathed  my 
eyes  in  the  running  water.  Close  to  its  surface  there 
was  not  a  particle  of  smoke  in  the  air,  and,  exceeding 
ly  refreshed  with  its  temperate  coolness,  1  lay  for  some 
time  in  luxurious  ease,  trying  in  vain  to  fancy  the 
winter  that  howled  without.  Frost  and  cold  were 
never  more  difficult  to  realize  in  midsummer,  though 
within  a  hundred  rods,  probably,  a  sleeping  man  would 
freeze  to  death  in  an  hour. 

14 1  have  a  better  bed  for  you  in  the  shanty,"  said  the 
Picker  and  Filer,  who  had  approached  unheard  in  the 
noise  of  the  fires,  and  suddenly  stood  over  me. 

He  took  up  his  rifle,  which  I  had  laid  against  a 
prostrate  log,  and  looked  anxiously  toward  the  descent 
to  the  hut. 

"I  am  liltle  inclined  for  sleep,"  I  answered,  "  and 
perhaps  you  will  give  me  an  hour  of  conversation  here. 
The  scene  is  new  to  me" — 

"  I  have  another  guest  to  dispose  of,"  he  answered, 
"  and   we  shall  be  more  out  of  the  smoke  near  the  ' 
shanty." 

I  was  not  surprised,  as  I  jumped  upon  the  platform,  : 
to  find  him  angrily  separating  his  daughter  and  the  j 
stranger.  The  girl  entered  the  hut,  and  with  a  de 
cisive  gesture,  he  pointed  the  young  man  to  a  "shake-  I 
down"  of  straw  in  the  remotest  corner  of  the  rocky  j 
enclosure. 

"With  your  leave,  old  gentleman,"  said  the  in-  ' 
truder,  after  glancing  at  his  intended  place  of  repose, 
"  I'll  find  a  crib  for  myself."  And  springing  up  the 
craggy  rock  opposite  the  door  of  the  shanty  he  gather 
ed  a  slight  heap  of  brush,  and  threw  it  into  a  hollow 
left  in  the  earth  by  a  tree,  which,  though  full  grown 
and  green,  had  been  borne  to  the  earth  and  partly 


uprooted  by  the  falling  across  it  of  an  overblown  and 
gigantic  pine.  The  earili  and  stones  had  followed  the 
uptorn  mass,  forming  a  solid  upright  wall,  from  which, 
like  struggling  fingers,  stretching  back  in  agony  to 
the  ground  from  which  they  had  parted,  a  few  rent 
and  naked  roots  pointed  into  the  cavity.  The  sequel 
will  show  why  I  am  so  particular  in  this  description. 

"  When  peace  was  declared  between  England  and 
this  country,"  said  the  Picker  and  Filer  (after  an 
hour's  conversation,  which  had  led  insensibly  to  his 
own  history),  I  was  in  command  of  a  privateer.  Not 
choosing  to  become  a  pirate,  by  continuing  the  cruise, 
I  was  set  ashore  in  the  West  Indies  by  a  crew  in  open 
mutiny.  My  property  was  all  on  board,  and  I  was 
left  a  beggar.  I  had  one  child,  a  daughter,  whose 
mother  died  in  giving  her  birth. 

"  Having  left  a  sufficient  sum  for  her  education  in 
the  hands  of  a  brother  of  my  own,  under  whose  roof 
she  had  passed  the  first  years  of  her  life,  I  determined 
to  retrieve  my  fortunes  before  she  or  my  friends  should 
be  made  acquainted  with  my  disaster. 

"  Ten  years  passed  over,  and  I  was  still  a  wanderer 
md  a  beggar. 

"  I  determined  to  see  my  child,  and  came  back, 
ike  one  from  the  dead,  to  my  brother's  door.  He  had 
brgotten  me,  and  abused  his  trust.  My  daughter, 
then  seventeen,  and  such  as  you  see  her  here,  was  the 
drudge  in  the  family  of  a  stranger — ignorant  and  friend 
less.  My  heart  turned  against  mankind  with  this  last 
drop  in  a  bitter  cup,  and,  unfitted  for  quiet  life,  I  look 
ed  around  for  some  channel  of  desperate  adventure. 
But  my  daughter  was  the  perpetual  obstacle.  What 
to  do  with  her  ?  She  had  neither  the  manners  nor 
the  education  of  a  lady,  and  to  leave  her  a  servant  was 
impossible.  I  started  with  her  for  the  west,  with  the 
vague  design  of  joining  some  tribe  of  Indians,  and 
chance  and  want  have  thrown  me  into  the  only  mode 
of  life  on  earth  that  could  now  be  palatable  to  me." 

"  Is  it  not  lonely,"  I  asked,  "  after  your  stirring  ad 
ventures  ?" 

"  Lonely !  If  you  knew  the  delight  with  which  I 
live  in  the  wilderness,  with  a  circle  of  fire  to  shut  out 
the  world  !  The  labor  is  hard  it  is  true,  but  I  need  it, 
to  sleep  and  forget.  There  is  no  way  else  in  which  I 
could  seclude  my  daughter.  Till  lately,  she  has  been 
coiiteMak,  too.  We  live  a  month  together  in  one 
place-«ijHfccentre  like  this  of  a  burning  wood.  I  can 
bear  rfHfep,  but  I  love  a  high  temperature — the 
cliiji^^l^le  tropics — and  I  have  it  here.  For  weeks 
I  forget  that  it  is  winter,  tending  my  fires  and  living 
on  the  game  I  have  stored  up.  There  is  a  hollow  or 
a  brook — a  bed  or  a  cave,  in  every  wood,  where  the 
cool  air,  as  here,  sinks  to  the  bottom,  and  there  I  can 
put  up  my  shanty,  secure  from  all  intrusion — but  such 
as  I  bring  upon  myself." 

The  look  he  gave  to  the  uprooted  ash  and  the 
sleeper  beneath  it,  made  an  apology  for  this  last  clause 
unnecessary.  He  thought  not  of  me. 

"  Some  months  since,"  continued  the  Picker  and 
Filer,  in  a  voice  husky  with  suppressed  feeling,  "  I 
met  the  villain  who  sleeps  yonder,  accidentally,  as  I 
met  you.  He  is  the  owner  of  this  land.  After 
engaging  to  clear  and  burn  it,  I  invited  him,  as  I 
did  yourself,  from  a  momentary  fever  for  company 
which  sometimes  comes  over  the  solitary,  to  go  with 
me  to  the  fallow  I  was  clearing.  He  loitered  in  the 
neighborhood  awhile,  under  pretext  of  hunting,  and 
twice  on  my  return  from  the  village,  I  found  that  my 
daughter  had  seen  him.  Time  has  betrayed  the 
wrong  he  inflicted  on  me. 

The  voice  of  the  agitated  father  sank  almost  to  a 
whisper  as  he  pronounced  the  last  few  words,  and, 
rising  from  the  rock  on  which  we  were  sitting,  he 
paced  for  a  few  minutes  up  and  down  the  platform  in 
silence. 

The  reader  must  fill  up  from  his  own  imagination 


KATE  CREDIFORD. 


151 


the  drama  of  which  this  is  but  the  outline,  for  the 
Picker  and  Piler  was  not  a  man  to  be  questioned,  and 
I  can  tell  but  what  I  saw  and  heard.  In  the  narration 
of  his  story  he  seemed  but  recapitulating  the  promi 
nent  events  for  his  own  self-converse,  rather  than  at 
tempting  to  tell  a  tale  to  me,  and  it  was  hurried  over 
as  brokenly  and  briefly  as  I  have  put  it  down.  .Isat  in 
a  listening  attitude  after  he  concluded,  but  he  seemed 
to  have  unburthened  his  bosom  sufficiently,  and  his 
lips  were  closed  with  stern  compression. 

"  You  forget,"  he  said,  after  pacing  awhile,  "that  I 
offered  j-ou  a  place  to  sleep.  The  night  wears  late. 
Stretch  yourself  on  that  straw,  with  your  cloak  over 
you.  Good  night!" 

I  lay  down  and  looked  up  at  the  smoke  rolling 
heavily  into  the  sky  till  I  slept. 

I  awoke,  feeling  chilled,  for  the  rock  sheltered  me 
from  the  rays  of  the  fire.  I  stepped  out  from  the  ; 
hollow.  The  fires  were  pale  with  the  gray  of  the  j 
morning,  and  the  sky  was  visible  through  the  smoke.  ' 
I  looked  around  for  a  place  to  warm  myself.  The  : 
hickory  log  had  smouldered  out,  but  a  fire  h;id  been  j 
kindled  under  the  overblown  pine,  and  its  pitchy  heart 
was  now  flowing  with  the  steady  brilliancy  of  a  torch.  > 
I  took  up  one  of  its  broken  branches,  cracked  it  on  my  j 
knee,  and  stirring  up  the  coals  below,  soon  sent  up  a  j 
merry  blaze,  which  enveloped  the  whole  trunk. 

Turning  my  back  to  the  increasing  heat.  I  started, 
for,  creeping  toward  me,  with  a  look  of  eagerness  for 
which  I  was  at  a  loss  to  account,  came  the  Picker  and 
Piler. 

"  Twice  doomed  !"  he  muttered  between  his  teeth,  ;j 
"  but  not  by  me  !" 

He  threw  down  a  handful  of  pitch  pine  knots,  laid  jj 
his  axe  against  a  burning  tree,  and  with  a  branch  of    ; 
hemlock,  swept  off  the  flame  from  the  spot  where  the  j 
fire  was  eating  through,  as  if  to  see  how  nearly  it  was 
divided. 

I  began  to  think  him  insane,  for  I  could  get  no  j 
answer  to  my  questions,  and  when  lie  spoke,  it  was  ; 
half  audible,  and  with  his  eyes  turned  from  me  fixedly. 
I  looked  in  the  same  direction,  but  could  see  nothing 
remarkable.     The  seducer  slept  soundly  beneath  his 
matted  wall,  and  the  rude  door  of  the  shanty  was  be 
hind  us.     Leaving  him  to  see  phantoms  in  the  air,  as 
I  thought,  I  turned  my  eyes  to  the  drips  of  the  water 
fall,  and  was  absorbed  in  memories  of  my  own,  when  ! 
I  saw  the  girl  steal  from  the  shanty,  and   with  one 
bound  overleap  the  rocky  barrier  of  the  platform.     1 
laid  my  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  my  host,  and  pointed 
after  her,  as  with  stealthy  pace  looking   back   occa- ij 
sionally  to  the  hut,  where  she  evidently  thought  her 
father  slept,  she  crept  round  toward  her  lover. 

"He  dies!"  cried  the   infuriated   man;  but  as  he  j 
jumped  from  me  to  seize  his  axe,  the  girl  crouched 
out  of  sight,  and  my  own  first  thought  was  to  awake  ; 
the  sleeper.     I  made  two  bounds  and  looked  back,  for 
I  heard  no  footstep. 

"Stand  clear!"  shouted  a  voice  of  almost  super 
natural  shrillness  !  and  as  I  caught  sight  of  the  Picker 
and  Piler  standing  enveloped  in  smoke  upon  the  burn 
ing  tree,  with  his  axe  high  in  the  air,  the  truth  flash 
ed  on  me. 

Down  came  the  axe  into  the  very  heart  of  the  pitchy 
flame,  and  trembling  with  the  tremendous  smoke,  the 
trunk  slowly  bent  upward  from  the  fire. 

The  Picker  and  Piler  sprang  clear,  the  overborne 
ash  creaked  and  heaved,  and  with  a  sick  giddiness  in  | 
my  eyes,  I  look  at  the  unwarned  sleeper. 

One   half  of  the  dissevered   pine  fell  to  the  earth, 
and  the  shock  startled  him  from  his  sleep.     A  whole 
age  seemed  to  me  elapsing  while  the  other  rose  with  I 
the  slow  lift  of  the  ash.     As  it  slid  heavily  away,  the 
vigorous  tree  righted,   like   a   giant  springing  to  his 
feet.     I  saw  the  root  pin  the  hand  of  the  seducer  to  . 
the  earth — a  struggle — a  contortion  and  the  leafless  i 


and  waving  top  of  the  recovered  and  upright  tree 
rocked  with  its  effort,  and  a  long,  sharp  cry  had  gone 
out  echoing  through  the  woods,  and  was  still.  I  felt 
my  brain  reel. 

Blanched  to  a  livid  paleness,  the  girl  moved  about 
in  the  sickly  daylight,  when  I  recovered  ;  but  the 
Picker  and  Piler,  with  a  clearer  brow  than  I  had  yet 
seen  him  wear,  was  kindling  fires  beneath  the  remnants 
of  the  pine. 


KATE   CREDIFORD, 

I  FOUND  myself  looking  with  some  interest  at  the 
back  of  a  lady's  head.  The  theatre  was  crowded,  and 
I  had  come  in  late,  and  the  object  of  my  curiosity, 
whoever  she  might  be,  was  listening  very  attentively  to 
the  play. — She  did  not  move.  I  had  time  to  build  a 
life-time  romance  about  her  before  I  had  seen  a  feature 
of  her  face.  But  her  ears  were  small  and  of  an  ex 
quisite  oval,  and  she  had  that  rarest  beauty  of  woman 
— the  hair  arched  and  joined  to  the  white  neck  with 
the  same  finish  as  on  the  temples.  Nature  often 
slights  this  part  of  her  masterpiece. 

The  curtain  dropped,  and  I  stretched  eagerly  for 
ward  to  catch  a  glimse  of  the  profile. — But  no  !  she 
sat  next  one  of  the  slender  pilasters,  and  with  her  head 
leaned  against  it,  remained  immovable. 

I  left  the  box,  and  with  some  difficulty  made  my 
way  into  nhc  crowded  pit.  Elbowing,  apologizing, 
persevering,  I  at  last  gained  a  point  where  I  knew  I 
could  see  my  incognita  at  the  most  advantage.  I 
turned — pshaw  ! — how  was  it  possible  I  had  not  recog 
nised  her?  i 

Kate  Crediford  ! 

There  was  no  getting  out  again,  for  a  while  at  least, 
without  giving  oiience  to  the  crowd  I  had  jostled  so 
unceremoniously.  I  sat  down — vexed — and  commen 
ced  a  desperate  study  of  the  figure  of  Shakspere  on 
the  drop-curtain. 

Of  course  I  had  been  a  lover  of  Miss  Crediford's, 
or  I  could  not  have  turned  with  indifference  from  the 
handsomest  woman  in  the  theatre.  She  was  very 
beautiful — there  was  no  disputing.  But  we  love  wo 
men  a  little  for  what  we  do  know  of  them,  and  a  great 
deal  more  for  what  we  do  not.  I  had  love-read  Kate 
Crediford  to  the  last  leaf.  We  parted  as  easily  as  a 
reader  and  a  book.  Flirtation  is  a  circulating  library, 
in  which  we  seldom  ask  twice  for  the  same  volume, 
and  I  gave  up  Kate  to  the  next  reader,  feeling  no 
property  even  in  the  marks  1  had  made  in  her  perusal. 
A  little  quarrel  sufficed  as  an  excuse  for  the  closing  of 
the  book,  and  both  of  us  studiously  avoided  a  recon 
ciliation. 

As  I  sat  in  the  pit,  I  remembered  suddenly  a  mole 
on  her  left  cheek,  and  I  turned  toward  her  with  the 
simple  curiosity  to  knew  whether  it  was  visible  at  that 
distance.  Kate  looked  sad.  She  still  leaned  immove- 
able  against  the  slight  column,  and  her  dark  eyes,  it 
struck  me,  were  moist.  Her  mouth,  with  this  pecu 
liar  expression  upon  her  countenance,  was  certainly 
inexpressibly  sweet— the  turned-down  corners  ending 
in  dimples,  which  in  that  particular  place,  I  have  al 
ways  observed,  are  like  wells  of  unfathomable  melan 
choly.  Poor  Kate  !  what  was  the  matter  with  her? 

As  I  turned  back  to  my  dull  study  of  the  curtain,  a 
little  pettish  with  myself  for  the  interest  with  which  I 
had  looked  at  an  old  flame,  I  detected  half  a  sigh 
under  my  white  waistcoat ;  but  instantly  persuading 
myself  that  it  was  a  disposition  to  cough,  coughed,  and 
began  to  hum  "suoni  la  tromba."  The  curtain  rose 
and  the  play  went  on. 


152 


KATE  CREDIFORD. 


It  was  odd  that  I  never  had  seen  Kate  in  that  humor 
before.  I  did  not  think  she  could  be  sad.  Kate 
Crediford  sad !  Why,  she  was  the  most  volatile,  light- 
hearted,  care-for-nothing  coquette  that  ever  held  up 
her  fingers  to  be  kissed.  I  wonder,  has  any  one  really 
annoyed  you,  my  poor  Kate  !  thought  I.  Could  I, 
by  chance,  be  of  any  service  to  you — for.  after  all,  I 
owe  you  something!  I  looked  at  her  again. 

Strange  that  I  had  ever  looked  at  that  face  without 
emotion !     The  vigils  of  an  ever-wakeful,  ever-passion-  J 
ate,  yet  ever-tearful  and  melancholy  spirit,  seemed  set,  j 
and   kept  under  those  heavy  and  motionless  eyelids.  | 
And  she,  as  I  saw  her  now,  was  the  very  model  and  j 
semblance  of  the  character  that  I  had  all  my  life  been 
vainly  seeking  !     This  was  the  creature  I  had  sighed 
for  when  turning  away  from  the  too  mirthful  tender 
ness  of  Kate  Crediford  !     There  was  something  new, 
or   something   for   the   moment  miswritten,    in   that 
familiar  countenance. 

I  made  my  way  out  of  the  pit  with  some  difficulty, 
and  returned  to  sit  near  her.  After  a  few  minutes,  a 
gentleman  in  the  next  box  rose  and  left  the  seat  vacant 
on  the  other  side  of  the  pilaster  against  which  she 
leaned.  I  went  around  while  the  orchestra  \Vere  play 
ing  a  loud  march,  and,  without  being  observed  by  the 
thoughtful  beauty,  seated  myself  in  the  vacant  place. 

Why  did  my  eyes  flush  and  moisten,  as  I  looked  i 
upon  the  small  white   hand   lying  on  the  cushioned 
barrier  between  us  !     I  knew  every  vein  of  it,  like  the 
strings  of  my  own  heart. — I  had  held  it  spread  out  in  | 
my  own,  and  followed  its  delicate  blue  traceries  with  > 
a  rose-stem,  for  hours  .and  hours,  while  imploring,  and  ' 
reproaching,    and   reasoning   over   love's   lights   and  j 
shadows.     I  knew  the  feel  of  every  one  of  those  ex-  [ 
quisite  fingers — those  rolled  up  rose-leaves,  with  nails  j 
like  pieces   cut  from   the  lip  of  a   shell  !     Oh,   the 
promises  I  had  kissed  into  oaths  on  that  little  chef- 
d'oeuvre  of  nature's  tinted  alabaster!  the  psalms  and 
sermons  I  had  sat  out  holding  it,  in  her  father's  pew  ! 
the  moons  I  had  tired  out  of  the  sky,  making  of  it  a 
bridge  for  our  hearts  passing  backward  and  forward  ! 
And  how  could  that  little  wretch  of  a  hand,  that  knew 
me  better  than  its  own  other  hand  (for  we  had  been 
more  together),  lie  there,  so  unconscious  of  my  pres 
ence  ?     How  could  she — Kate  Crediford — sit  next  to 
me  as  she  was  doing,  with  only  a  stuffed  partition  be 
tween  us,  and  her  head  leaning  on  one  side  of  a  pilaster, 
and  mine  on  the  other,  and  never  start,  nor  recognise, 
nor  be  at  all  aware  of  my  neighborhood  ?     She  was 
not  playing  a  part,  it  was  easy  to  see.     Oh,  I  knew 
those  little  relaxed  fingers  too  well !     Sadness,  indolent 
and  luxurious  sadness,  was  expressed  in  her  counten 
ance,  and  her  abstraction  was  unfeigned  and  contem 
plative.     Could  she  have  so  utterly  forgotten  me — 
magnetically,  that  is  to  say? — Could  the  atmosphere 
about  her,  that  would  once  have  trembled  betrayingly 
at  my  approach,  like  the  fanning  of  an  angel's  invisi 
ble  wing,  have  lost  the  sense  of  my  presence  ? 

I  tried  to  magnetize  her  hand.  I  fixed  my  eyes  on 
that  little  open  palm,  and  with  all  the  intensity  I  could 
summon,  kissed  it  mentally  in  its  rosy  centre.  I  re 
proached  the  ungrateful  little  thing  for  its  dulness  and 
forgetfulness,  and  brought  to  bear  upon  it  a  focus  of 
old  memories  of  pressures  and  caresses,  to  which  a 
stone  would  scarce  have  the  heart  to  be  insensible. 

But  I  belie  myself  in  writing  this  with  a  smile.  I 
watched  those  unmoving  fingers  with  a  heart.  I  could 
not  see  the  face,  nor  read  the  thought,  of  the  woman 
who  had  once  loved  me,  and  who  sat  near  me,  now,  so 
unconsciously — but  if  a  memory  had  stirred,  if  a  pulse 
had  quickened  its  beat,  those  finely-strung  fingers  I 
well  know  would  have  trembled  responsively.  Had 
she  forgotten  me  altogether  ?  Is  that  possible  ?  Can 
a  woman  close  the  leaves  of  her  heart  over  a  once-loved 
and  deeply-written  name,  like  the  waves  over  a  vessel's 
track — like  the  air  over  the  division  of  a  bird's  flight  ? 


I  had  intended  to  speak  presently  to  Miss  Crediford, 
but  every  moment  the  restraint  became  greater.  I  felt 
no  more  privileged  to  speak  to  her  than  the  stranger 
who  had  left  the  seat  I  occupied.  I  drew  back,  for 
fear  of  encroaching  on  her  room,  or  disturbing  the 
folds  of  her  shawl.  I  dared  not  speak  to  her.  And, 
while  I  was  arguing  the  matter  to  myself,  the  party 
who  were  with  her,  apparently  tired  of  the  play,  arose 
and  left  the  theatre,  Kate  following  last,  but  unspoken 
to,  and  unconscious  altogether  of  having  been  near 
any  one  whom  she  knew. 

I  went  home  and  wrote  to  her  all  night,  for  there  was 
no  sleeping  till  I  had  given  vent  to  this  new  fever  at  my 
heart.  And  in  the  morning,  I  took  the  leading  thoughts 
from  my  heap  in  incoherent  scribblings,  and  embodied 
them  more  coolly  in  a  letter  : — 

"  You  will  think,  when  you  look  at  the  signature, 
that  this  is  to  be  the  old  story.  And  you  will  be  as 
much  mistaken  as  you  are  in  believing  that  I  was  ever 
your  lover,  till  a  few  hours  ago.  I  have  declared  love 
to  you,  it  is  true.  I  have  been  happy  with  you,  and 
wretched  without  you  ;  I  have  thought  of  you,  dream 
ed  of  you,  haunted  you,  sworn  to  you,  and  devoted  to 
you  all  and  more  than  you  exacted,  of  time  and  out 
ward  service  and  adoration  ;  but  I  love  you  now  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life.  Shall  I  be  so  happy  as  to 
make  you  comprehend  this  startling  contradiction  ? 

"There  are  many  chambers  in  the  heart,  Kate;  and 
the  spirits  of  some  of  us  dwell,  most  fondly  and  secret 
ly,  in  the  chamber  of  tears — avowedly,  however,  in  the 
outer  and  ever-open  chamber  of  mirth.  Over  the 
sacred  threshold,  guarded  by  sadness,  much  that  we 
select  and  smile  upon,  and  follow  with  adulation  in 
the  common  walks  of  life,  never  passes.  We  admire 
the  gay.  They  make  our  melancholy  sweeter  by  con 
trast,  when  we  retire  within  ourselves.  We  pursue 
them.  We  take  them  to  our  hearts — to  the  outer 
vestibules  of  our  hearts — and  if  they  are  gay  only,  they 
are  content  with  the  unconsecrated  tribute  which  we 
pay  them  there.  But  the  chamber  within  is,  mean 
time,  lonely.  It  aches  with  its  desolation.  The  echo 
of  the  mirthful  admiration  without  jars  upon  its 
mournful  silence. — It  longs  for  love,  but  love  toned 
with  its  own  sadness — love  that  can  penetrate  deeper 
than  smiles  ever  came — love  that,  having  once  entered, 
can  be  locked  in  with  its  key  of  melancholy,  and 
brooded  over  with  the  long  dream  of  a  life-time.  But 
that  deep-hidden  and  unseen  chamber  of  the  heart 
may  be  long  untenanted.  And,  meantime,  the  spirit 
becomes  weary  of  mirth,  and  impatiently  quenches  the 
fire  even  upon  its  outer  altar,  and  in  the  complete 
loneliness  of  a  heart  that  has  no  inmate  or  idol,  gay 
or  tearful,  lives  mechanically  on. 

"  Do  you  guess  at  rny  meaning,  Kate  ? — Do  you 
remember  the  merriment  of  our  first  meeting  ?  Do 
you  remember  in  what  a  frolic  of  thoughtlessness  you 
first  permitted  me  to  raise  to  my  lips  those  restless 
fingers  ?  Do  you  remember  the  mock  condescension, 
the  merry  haughtinass,  the  rallying  and  feigned  in 
credulity,  with  which  you  first  received  my  successive 
steps  of  vowing  and  love-making — the  arch  look  when 
it  was  begun,  the  laugh  when  it  was  over,  the  untiring 
follies  we  kept  up,  after  vows  plighted,  and  the  future 
planned  and  sworn  to  ?  That  you  were  in  earnest,  as 
much  as  you  were  capable  of  being,  I  fully  believe. 
You  would  not  else  have  been  so  prodigal  of  the  sweet 
bestowings  of  a  maiden's  tenderness.  But  how  often 
have  I  left  you  with  the  feeling,  that  in  the  hours  I 
had  passed  with  you,  my  spirit  had  been  alone  !  How 
often  have  I  wondered  if  there  were  depths  in  my  heart, 
which  love  can  never  reach  !  How  often  mourned 
that  in  the  procession  of  love  there  was  no  place  allot 
ted  for  its  sweetest  and  dearest  followers — tears  and 
silence  !  Oh,  Kate  !  sweet  as  was  that  sun-gleam  of 
early  passion,  I  did  not  love  you !  I  tired  of  your 


FLIRTATION  AND  FOX-CHASING. 


153 


I  left  you, 


mention  to  you,  that,  in  consequence  of  eating  an  im 
prudent  quantity  of  unripe  fruit,  she  felt  ill  before  go 
ing  to  the  theatre,  and  was  obliged  to  leave  early. 
To  day  she  seems  seriously  indisposed.  I  trust  she 
will  be  well  enough  to  see  you  in  a  day  or  two  —  and 
remain,  "  Yours,  truly, 

"  SAMUEL  SMITHERS." 


smiles,  waiting  in  vain  for  your  sadness 
and  thought  of  you  no  more  ? 

"But  now  (and  you  will  be  surprised  to  know  that 
I  have  been  so  near  to  you  unperceived) — I  have  drank 
an  intoxication  from  one  glance  into  your  eyes,  which 
throws  open  to  you  every  door  of  my  heart,  subdues 
to  your  control  every  nerve  and  feeling  of  my  exis 
tence.  Last  night,  I  sat  an  hour,  tracing  again  the 
transparent  and  well-remembered  veins  upon  your 
hand,  and  oh!  how  the  language  written  in  those 
branching  and  mystic  lines  had  changed  in  meaning 
and  power. — You  were  sad.  I  saw  you  from  a  dis 
tance,  and,  with  amazement  at  an  expression  upon 
your  face  which  I  had  never  before  seen.  I  came  and 
sat  near  you.  It  was  the  look  I  had  longed  for  when 
I  knew  you,  and  when  tired  of  your  mirth.  It  was 
the  lookl  had  searched  the  world  for,  combined  with 
such  beauty  as  yours.  It  was  a  look  of  tender  and 
passionate  melancholy,  which  revealed  to  me  an  un 
suspected  chamber  in  your  heart — a  chamber  of  ttfars. 
Ah,  why  were  you  never  sad  before  ?  Why  have  we 
lost— why  have  I  lost  the  eternity's  worth  of  sweet  j 

hours  when  you  love  me  with  that  concealed  treasure  :  n ___ rf 

in  your  bosom  ?— Alas  !  that  angels  must  walk  tb  :  j  win(]ow  and  the  back  wall  I  saw  the  yards  of  a  vessel 
world,  unrecognised,  till  too  late  !  Alas,  that  I  have  I,  suddent|y  cross  the  light,  and  heard  the  next  moment 
held  in  my  arms  and  pressed  to  my  lips,  and  loosed  ^  rau\e  of  a  chain  let  go,  and  all  the  bustle  of  a 
again  with  trifling  and  weariness,  the  creature  whom 


But  I  never  called  on  Mrs.  Samuel  Smithers. 


FLIRTATION  AND  FOX-CHASING, 


"  The  only  heart  that  I  have  known  of  late,  has  been  an  easy, 
excitable  sort  of  gentleman,  quickly  roused  and  quickly  calmed 
sensitive  enough  to  confer  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  and  not  sensi 
tive  enough  to  give  a  moment's  pain.    The  heart  of  other  days  was 
a  very  different  person  indeed." — BULWEB. 

I  WAS  moping  one  day  in  solitary  confinement  in 
quarantine  at  Malta,  when,  in  a  turn  between  my  stone 


it  was  my  life's  errand,  the  thirst  and  passionate  long 
ing  of  my  nature,  to  find  and  worship  ! 

"  Oh,  Heaven !  with  what  new  value  do  I  now 
number  over  your  adorable  graces  of  person  !  How 
spiritualized  is  every  familiar  feature,  once  so  deplor- 


erchantman  coming  to  anchor.  1  had  the  privilege 
of  promenading  between  two  ring-bolts  on  the  whart 
below  the  lazaretto,  and  with  the  attraction  of  a  new 
comer  to  the  sleepy  company  of  vessels  under  the 
yellow  flag,  I  lost  no  time  in  descending  the  stone 
stairs,  and  was  immediately  joined  by  my  vigilant  sen- 


bly  misappreciated  !  —  How  compulsive  of  respectful  •'  tine]   the  <ruannan0t  whose  business  it  was  to  prevent 


_ 

adoration  is  that  flexible  waist,  that  step  of  aerial  light 
ness,  that  swan-like  motion,  which  I  once  dared  to 
praise  triflingly  and  half-mockingly,  like  the  tints  of  a 
flower  or  the  chance  beauty  of  a  bird  !  And  those 
bright  lips  !  How  did  I  ever  look  on  them,  and  not 
know  that  within  their  rosy  portal  slept  voiceless,  for 


my  contact  with  the  other  visitors  to  the  wharf.  The 
tricolor  flew  at  the  peak  of  the  stranger,  and  we  easily 
made  out  that  she  was  a  merchantman  from  Marseilles, 
subject  therefore  to  a  week's  quarantine  on  ac 
count  of  the  cholera.  I  had  myself  come  from  a 
plague  port,  Smyrna,  and  was  subjected  to  twenty 


Frenchman,  though  but  beginning  his  imprisonment 
1  was  in  a  position  comparatively  enviable. 

I  had  watched  for  an  hour  the  getting  of  the  vessel 

into   mooring   trim,  and  was  beginning   to  conclude 

that  she  had  come  without  passengers,  when  a  gentle- 

!  man  made  his  appearance  on  deck,  and  the  jolly-boat 

|  was  immediately  lowered  and  manned.     A  traveller's 

i  baggage  wasWianded  over  the  side,  the  gentleman  took 


for  long  I  pray  you  !" 

I  despatched  this  letter,  and  it  would  be  difficult  to 
embody  in  language  the  agony  I  suffered  in  waiting 
for  a  reply.  I  walked  my  room,  that  endless  morning, 
with  a  death-pang  in  every  step— so  fearful  was  I — so 
prophetically  fearful— that  I  had  forfeited  for  ever  the 
heart  I  had  once  flung  from  me. 

It  was  noon  when  a  letter  arrived.  It  was  in  a  hand 
writing  new  to  me.  But  it  was  on  tl«  subject  which 
possessed  my  existence,  and  it  was  of  final  import. 
It  follows  : — 

"  DEAR  SIR  :  My  wife  wishes  me  to  write  to  you, 
and  inform  you  of  her  marriage,  which  took  place  a 
week  or  two  since,  and  of  which  she  presumes  you 
are  not  aware.  She  remarked  to  me,  that  you  thought 
her  looking  unhappy  last  evening,  when  you  chanced 
to  see  her  at  the  play.  As  she  seemed  to  regret  not 
being  able  to  answer  your  note  herself,  I  may  perhaps 
convey  the  proper  apology  by  taking  upon  myself  to 


_  while,  the  controlling  spell  of  my  destiny — the  tear-  |  j  ,  quaran'tjne,  sjx  of  which  had  passed  ;  so  that  the 
ful  spirit  followed  and  called  in  my  dreams,  with  per 
petual  longing  ?  Strange  value  given  to  features  and 
outward  loveliness  by  qualities  within  !  Strange 
witchery  of  sadness  in  a  woman!  Oh,  there  is,  in 
mirth  and  folly,  dear  Kate,  no  air  for  love's  breathing, 
still  less  of  food  for  constancy,  or  of  holiness  to  con 
secrate  and  heighten  beauty  of  person. 

"What  can  I  say  else,  except  implore  to  be  per 
mitted  to  approach  you— to  offer  my  life  to  you— to  ji  je~.jye~!of  tiie  captain,  and,  in  obedience  to  directions 
begin,  thus  late,  after  being  known  so  long,  the  wor-  |  from  tl)e  quarantjne  officer  on  the  quarterdeck,  the 
ship  which  till  death  is  your  due  ?  Pardon  me  if  1  I  bo.u  was  puned  directly  to  the  wharf  on  which  I  stood. 
have  written  abruptly  and  wildly.  I  shall  await  your  j  Tlje  gU(tr(nano  gave  me  a  caution  to  retire  a  little,  as 
answer  in  an  agony  of  expectation.  I  do  not  willingly  ^e  stranger  was  coming  to  take  possession  of  the  next 
breathe  till  I  see  you — till  I  weep  at  your  feet  over  my  apartment  to  my  own,  and  must  land  at  the  stairs  near 
blindness  and  forgetfulness.  Adieu!  but  let  it  not  be  ^.  bu()  Before  j  imcj  taken  two  steps  backward,  I 

be^an  to  recognise  features  familar  to  me,  and  with  a 
i  turn  of  the  head  as  he  sprang  on  the  wharf  the  identity 
1  was  established  completely.     Tom  Berryman,  by  all 
I  that  was  wonderful!     I  had  not  seen  him  since  we 
]  were  suspended  from  college  together  ten  years  before. 
1  Forgetting  lazaretto  and  guardiano,  and  all  the  salt 
wate*  between  New  Haven  and  Malta,  J  rushed  up  to 
Tom  with  the  cordiality  of  other  days  (a  little  sharpen 
ed  by  abstinence  from  society),  and  we  st.ll  had  hold 
of  hands  with  a  firm  grip,  when  the  quarantine  master 
aravely  accosted  us,  and  informed  my  friend   that  he 
had   incurred  an  additional  week  by  touching  me— in 
short,  that  he  must  partake  of  the  rema.nder  of  my 
quarantine. 

Aghast  and  chap-fallen  as  Berryman  was  at  the  con 
sequences  of  our  rencontre  (for  he  had  fully  calculated 
on  getting  into  Malta  in  time  for  the  carnival),  he  was 
somewhat  reconciled  to  his  lot  by  being  permitted  to 
share  my  room  and  table  instead  of  living  his  week  in 
solitude  ;  and,  by  enriching  our  supplies  a  little  from 


154 


FLIRTATION  AND  FOX-CHASING. 


town,  sleeping  much,  and  chatting  through  the  day  in 
the  rich  sunshine  of  that  climate  of  Paradise,  we  con 
trived  to  shove  off  the  fortnight  without  any  very  in 
tolerable  tedium. 

My  friend  and  I  had  begun  our  travels  differently — 
he  taken  England  first,  which  I  proposed  visiting  last. 
It  is  of  course  the  bonne  bouche  of  travel  to  everybody, 
and  I  was  very  curious  to  know  Tom's  experiences  ; 
and,  as  I  was  soon  bound  thitherward,  anxious  to  pick 
out  of  his  descriptions  some  chart  of  the  rocks  and 
shoals  in  the  "  British  channel"  of  society. 

I  should  say,  before  quoting  my  friend,  that  he  was 
a  Kentuckian.  with  the  manner  (to  ladies)  of  mingled 
devotion  and  nonchalance  so  popular  with  the  sex, 
and  a  chivalric  quality  of  man  altogether.  His  father's 
political  influence  had  obtained  for  him  personal  letters 
of  introduction  from  the  president,  and,  with  this  ad 
vantage,  and  his  natural  air  of  fashion,  he  had  found 
no  obstacle  to  choosing  his  society  in  England ; 
choosing  the  first,  of  course,  like  a  true  republican  ! 

We  were  sitting  on  the  water-steps  with  our  feet 
immersed  up  to  the  ankles  (in  January  too),  and  in 
reply  to  some  question  of  mine  as  to  the  approacha- 
Wlity  of  noble  ladies  by  such  plebeian  lovers  as  him 
self,  Tom  told  me  the  story  which  follows.  I  take  the 
names  at  random,  of  course,  but,  in  all  else,  I  shall  try 
to  "  tell  the  tale  as  'twas  told  to  me." 

Why,  circumstances,  as  you  know,  sometimes  put 
people  in  the  attitude  of  lovers  whether  they  will  or  no ; 
and  it  is  but  civil  in  such  a  case,  to  do  what  fate  ex 
pects  of  you.  I  knew  too  much  of  the  difference  be 
tween  crockery  and  porcelain  to  enter  English  society 
with  the  remotest  idea  of  making  love  within  the  red 
book  of  the  peerage,  and  though  I've  a  story  to  tell,  I 
swear  I  never  put  a  foot  forward  till  I  thought  it  was 
knightly  devoir;  inevitable,  though  ever  so  ridiculous. 
Still,  I  must  say,  with  a  beautiful  and  unreserved 
woman  beside  one,  very  much  like  other  beautiful  and 
unreserved  woman,  a  republican  might  be  pardoned  for 
forgetting  the  invisible  wall.  "  Right  honorable"  love 
liness  has  as  much  attraction  about  it,  let  me  tell  you, 
and  is  quite  as  difficult  to  resist,  as  loveliness  that  is 
honored,  right  or  wrong,  and  a  man  must  be  brought 
up  to  it,  as  Englishmen  are,  to  see  the  heraldric  dragons 
and  griffins  in  the  air  when  a  charming  girl  is  talking 
to  him. 

"  AVhy  should  a  man,  whose  blood  is  warm  within, 
Sit  like  (her)  grandsire  cut  in  alabaster  ?" 

Eh  ?     But  to  begin  with  the  "  Tityre  tu  patula?." 

I  had  been  passing  a  fortnight  at  the  hunting  lodge 

of  that  wild  devil,  Lord ,  in  the  Scotch  Highlands, 

and  what  with  being  freely  wet  outside  every  day,  and 
freely  wet  inside  every  night,  I  had  given  my  principle 
of  life  rather  a  disgust  to  its  lodgings,  and  there  were 
some  symptoms  of  preparation  for  leave-taking.  Un 
willing  to  be  ill  in  a  bachelor's  den,  with  no  solace  j 
tenderer  than  a  dandy  lord's  tiger,  I  made  a  twilight 
flit  to  the  nearest  post-town,  and  tightening  my  life- 
screws  a  little  with  the  aid  of  the  village  apothecary, 
started  southward  the  next  morning  with  four  posters. 

I  expected  to  be  obliged  to  pull  up  atEdinboro',  but 
the  doctor's  opiates,  and  abstinence,  and  quiet  did  i 
more  for  me  than  I  had  hoped,  and  I  went  on  very  I 
comfortably  to  Carlisle.  I  arrived  at  'this  place  after 
nightfall,  and  found  the  taverns  overflowing  with  the  j 
crowds  of  a  fair,  and  no  bed  to  be  had  unless  T  could 
make  one  in  a  quartette  of  snoring  graziers.  At  the  i 
same  time  there  was  a  great  political  meeting  at  I 
Edinboro',  and  every  leg  of  a  poster  had  gone  north 
— those  I  had  brought  with  me  having  been  trans-  i 
hitched  to  a  return  chaise,  and  gone  off  while  I  was  i 
looking  for  accommodations. 

Regularly  stranded,  I  sat  down  by  the  tap-room 
fire,  and  was  mourning  my  disaster,  when  the  horn  ; 
of  the  night-coach  reached  my  ear,  and  in  the  minute  i 


of  its  rattling  up  to  the  door,  I  hastily  resolved  that  it 
was  the  least  of  two  evils,  and  booked  myself  accord 
ingly.  There  was  but  one  vacant  place,  an  outsider ! 
With  hardly  time  enough  to  resolve,  and  none  to  re 
pent,!  was  presently  rolling  over  the  dark  road,  chilled 
to  the  bone  in  the  first  five  minutes,  and  wet  through 
with  a  "  Scotch  mist"  in  the  next  half  hour.  Some 
where  about  daybreak  we  rolled  into  the  little  town 

of ,  five  miles  from  the  seat  of  the  earl  of  Trese- 

then,  to  whose  hospitalities  I  stood  invited,  and  I  went 
to  bed  in  a  most  comfortable  inn  and  slept  till  noon. 

Before  going  to  bed  I  had  written  a  note  to  be  des 
patched  to  Tresethen  castle,  and  the  earl's  carriage 
was  waiting  for  me  when  I  awoke.  I  found  myself 
better  than  I  had  expected,  and  dressing  at  once  for 
dinner,  managed  to  reach  the  castle  just  in  time  to 
hand  in  Lady  Tresethen.  Of  that  dinner  I  but  re 
member  that  I  was  the  only  guest,  and  that  the  earl 
regretted  his  daughter's  absence  from  table,  Lady 
Caroline  having  been  thrown  that  morning  from  her 
horse.  I  fainted  somewhere  about  the  second  remove, 
and  recovered  my  wits  some  days  after,  on  the  safe  side 
of  the  crisis  of  a  fever. 

I  shall  never  forget  that  first  half  hour  of  conscious 
curiosity.  An  exquisite  sense  of  bodily  repose  mingled 
with  a  vague  notion  of  recent  relief  from  pain,  made 
me  afraid  to  speak  lest  I  should  awoke  from  a  dream, 
yet,  if  not  a  dream,  what  a  delicious  reality  !  A  lady 
of  most  noble  presence,  in  a  half-mourning  dress,  sat 
by  the  sideof  a  cheerful  fire,  turning  her  large  dark  eyes 
on  me,  in  the  pauses  of  a  conversation  with  a  gray- 
headed  servant.  My  bed  was  of  the  most  sumptuous 
luxury;  the  chamber  was  hung  with  pictures  and 
draped  with  spotless  white;  the  table  covered  with 
the  costliest  elegancies  of  the  toilet :  and  in  the  gentle 
and  deferential  manner  of  the  old  liveried  menial,  and 
the  subdued  tones  of  inquiry  by  the  lady,  there  was  a 
refinement  and  tenderness  which,  with  the  keen  sus 
ceptibility  of  my  senses,  "lapt  me  in  Elysium."  I  was 
long  in  remembering  where  1  was.  The  lady  glided 
from  the  room,  the  old  servant  resumed  his  seat  by 
my  bedside,  other  servants  in  the  same  livery  came 
softly  in  on  errands  of  service,  and,  at  the  striking  of 
the  half  hour  by  a  clock  on  the  mantelpiece,  the  lady 
returned,  and  I  was  raised  to  receive  something  from 
her  hand.  As  she  came  nearer,  I  remembered  the 
Countess  Tresethen. 

Three  days  after  this  I  was  permitted  to  take  the 
irof  a  conservatory  which  opened  from  the  countess's 
boudoir.  My  old  attendant  assisted  me  to  dress,  and, 
with  another  servant,  took  me  down  in  a  fauteuil.  I 
was  in  slippers  and  robe-de-chambre,  and  presumed 
:hat  I  should  see  no  one  except  the  kind  and  noble 
Lndy  Tresethen,  but  I  had  scarce  taken  one  turn  up 
the  long  alley  of  flowering  plants,  when  the  countess 
came  toward  me  from  the  glass  door  beyond,  and  on 
her  arm  a  girl  leaned  for  support,  whose  beauty 

(Here  Tom  dabbled  his  feet  for  some  minutes  in 
he  water  in  silence.) 

God  bless  me  !  I  can  never  give  you  an  idea  of  it ! 
[t  was  a  new  revelation  of  woman  to  me;  the  opening 
of  an  eighth  seal.  In  the  minute  occupied  by  her 
approach,  my  imagination  (accelerated,  as  that  faculty 
always  is,  by  the  clairvoyance  of  sickness),  had  gone 
hrough  a  whofc  drama  of  love — fear,  adoration,  des- 
leration,  and  rejection — and  so  complete  was  it,  that 
n  after  moments  when  these  phases  of  passion  came 
ound  in  the  proper  lapse  of  days  and  weeks,  it  seemed 
o  me  that  I  had  been  through  with  them  before ;  that 
t  was  all  familiar;  that  I  had  met  and  loved  in  some 
>ther  world,  this  same  glorious  creature,  with  the 
lame  looks,  words,  and  heart-ache  ;  in  the  same  con 
servatory  of  bright  flowers,  and  faith,  myself  in  the 
;ame  pattern  of  a  brocade  dressing-gown  ! 

Heavens!  what  a  beautiful  girl  was  that  LadyCaro- 
ine  !  Her  eyes  were  of  a  light  gray,  the  rim  of  the 


FLIRTATION  AND  FOX-CHASING. 


155 


lids  perfectly  inky  with  the  darkness  of  the  long  sweep 
ing  lashes,  and  in  her  brown  hair  there  was  a  gold 
lustre  that  seemed  somehow  to  illuminate  the  curves 
of  her  small  head  like  a  halo.  Her  mouth  had  too 
much  character  for  a  perfectly  agreeable  first  impres 
sion.  It  was  nobility  and  sweetness  educated  over 
native  high  spirit  andscornfulness — the  nature  shining 
through  the  transparent  blood,  like  a  flaw  through 
enamel.  She  would  have  been,  in  other  circu instan 
ces,  a  maid  of  Saragossa  or  a  Gertrude  Von  Wart ; 
a  heroine  ;  perhaps  a  devil.  But  her  fascination  was 
resistless ! 

"  My  daughter,"  said  Lady  Tresethen  (and  in  that 
beginning  was  all  the  introduction  she  thought  neces 
sary),  "  is,  like  yourself,  an  invalid  just  escaped  from 
the  doctor  ;  you  must  congratulate  each  other.  Are 
you  strong  enough  to  lend  her  an  arm,  Mr.  Berry- 
man  ?" 

The  countess  left  us,  and  with  the  composure  of  a  | 
sister  who  had  seen  me  every  day  of  my  life,  Lady  I 
Caroline  took  my  arm  and  strolled  slowly  to  and  fro, 
questioning  me  of  my  shooting  at  the  lodge,  arid  talk-  j 
ing  to  me  of  her  late  accident,  her  eyes  sometimes  ! 
fixed  upon  her  little  embroidered  slippers,   as  they  I 
peeped  from  her  snowy  morning  dress,  and  sometimes  ! 
indolently  raised  and  brought  to  bear  on  my  flushed 
cheek  and  trembling  lips;  her  singular  serenity  opera 
ting  on  rne  as  anything  but  a  sedative  !     I  was  taken  | 
up  stairs  again,  after  an  hour's  conversation,  in  a  fair  j 
way  for  a  relapse,  and  the  doctor  put  me  under  em 
bargo  again  for  another  week,  which,  spite  of  all  the 
renewed   care   and   tenderness   of   Lady    Tresethen, 
seemed  to  me  an  eternity  !     I'll  not  bother  you  with 
what  I  felt  and  thought  all  that  time  ! 

It  was  a  brilliant  autumnal  day  when  I  got  leave  to 
make  my  second  exodus,  and  with  the  doctor's  per-  I 
mission  I  prepared  for  a  short  walk  in  the  park.     I 
declined  the  convoy  of  the  old  servant,  for  I  had  heard  , 
Lady  Caroline's  horse  gallop  away  down  the  avenue, 
and  I  wished  to  watch  her  return  unobserved.     I  had 
just  lost  sight  of  the  castle  in  the  first  bend  of  the  path, 
when  I  saw  her  quietly  walking  her  horse  under  the 
trees   at  a  short  distance,  and  the  moment  after  she 
observed  and  came  toward  me  at  an  easy  canter.     I 
had  schooled  myself  to  a  little  more  self-possession,  i 
but  I  was  not  prepared  for  such  an  apparition  of  splen 
did  beauty  as  that  woman  on  horseback.     She  rode  an 
Arabian  bay  of  the  finest  blood  ;  a  lofty,  fiery,  match 
less  creature,  with  an  expression  of  eye  and  nostril 
which  I  could  not  but  think  a  proper  Cendant  to  her 
own,  limbed  as  I  had  seldom  seen  a  horse,  and   his 
arched  neck,  and  forehead,  altogether,  proud  as  a  steed 
for  Lucifer.     She  sat  on  him  as  if  it  were  a  throne 
she  was  born   to,   and  the  flow   of  her  riding-dress 
seemed  as  much  a  part  of  him  as  his  mane.     He  ap-  : 
peared  ready  to  bound  into  the  air,  like  Pegasus,  but  j 
one  hand  calmly  stroked  his  mane,  and  her  faee  was 
as  tranquil  as  marble. 

"  Well  met !"  she  said  ;  "I  was  just  wishing  for  a 
cavalier.  What  sort  of  a  horse  would  you  like,  Mr. 
Berryman  1  Ellis!"  {speaking  to  her  groom),  "is  old 
Curtal  taken  up  from  grass  ?"' 

41  Yes,  miladi!" 

"  Curtal  is  our  invalid  horse,  and  as  you  are  not  : 
very  strong,  perhaps  his  easy  pace  will  be  best  for  you. 
Bring  him  out  directly,  Ellis.     We'll  just  walk  along 
the  road  a  little  way  ;  for  I  must  show  you  my  Ara-  ; 
bian  ;  and  we'll  not  go  back  to  ask  mamma's  permis 
sion,  for  we  shouldn't  get  it !     You  won't  mind  riding 
a  little  way,  will  you  ?" 

Of  course  I  would  have  bcstrided  a  hippos-ill'  at 
her  bidding,  and  wheu  the  groom  came  out,  leading 
a  thorough-bred  hunter,  with  apparently  a  very  elastic 
and  gentle  action,  I  forgot  the  doctor  and  mounted 
with  great  alacrity.  We  walked  our  horses  slowly 
down  the  avenue  and  out  at  the  castle  gate,  followed 


by  the  groom,  and  after  trying  a  little  quicker  pace  on 
the  public  road,  I  pronounced  old  Curtal  worthy  of 
her  ladyship's  eulogium,  and  her  own  Saladin  worthy, 
it"  horse  could  be  worthy,  of  his  burthen. 

We  had  ridden  perhaps  a  mile,  and  Lady  Caroline 
was  giving  me  a  slight  history  of  the  wonderful  feats 
of  the  old  veteran  under  me,  wheu  the  sound  of  a  horn 
made  both  horses  prick  up  their  ears,  and  on  rising 
a  little  acclivity,  we  cnught  sight  of  a  pack  of  hounds 
coming  across  the  fields  directly  toward  us,  followed 
by  some  twenty  red-coated  horsemen.  Old  Curtal 
trembled  and  showed  a  disposition  to  fret,  and  I  ob 
served  that  Lady  Caroline  dexterously  lengthened 
her  own  stirrup  and  loosened  the  belt  of  her  riding- 
dress,  and  the  next  minute  the  hounds  were  over  the 
hedge,  and  the  horsemen,  leap  after  leap,  after  them, 
and  with  every  successive  jump,  my  own  steed  reared 
and  plunged  unmanageably. 

"Indeed,  I  can  not  stand  this  !"  cried  Lady  Caro 
line,  gathering  up  her  reins,  "Ellis!  see  Mr.  Berry 
man  home  !"  and  away  went  the  flying  Arabian  over 
the  hedge  with  a  vault  that  left  me  breathless  with 
astonishment.  One  minute  I  made  the  vain  effort  to 
control  my  own  horse  and  turn  his  head  in  the  other 
direction,  but  my  strength  was  gone.  I  had  never 
leaped  a  fence  in  my  life  on  horseback,  though  a 
tolerable  rider  on  the  road  ;  but  before  I  could  think 
how  it  was  to  be  done,  or  gather  myself  together  for 
the  leap,  Curtal  was  over  the  hedge  with  me,  and 
flying  across  a  ploughed  field  like  the  wind — Saladin 
not  far  before  him.  With  a  glance  ahead  I  saw  the 
red  coats  rising  into  the  air  and  disappearing  over 
another  green  hedge,  and  though  the  field  was  crossed 
in  twenty  leaps,  I  had  time  to  feel  my  blood  run  cold 
with  the  prospect  of  describing  another  parabola  in 
the  air,  and  to  speculate  on  the  best  attitude  for  a 
projectile  on  horseback.  Over  went  Saladin  like  a 
greyhound,  but  his  mistress's  riding-cap  caught  the 
wind  at  the  highest  point  of  the  curve,  and  flew  back  ^ 

into  my  face  as  Curtal  rose  on  his  haunches,  and  over 
I  went  again,  blinded  and  giddy,  and,  with  the  cap 
held  flat  against  my  bosom  by  the  pressure  of  the  air, 
flew  once  more  at  a  tremendous  pace  onward.  My 
feet  were  now  plugged  to  the  instep  in  the  stinups, 
and  my  back,  too  weak  to  support  me  erect,  let  me 
down  to  my  horse's  mane,  and  one  by  one,  along  the 
skirt  of  a  rising  woodland,  I  could  see  the  red  coats 
dropping  slowly  behind.  Right  before  me  like  a 
meteor,  however,  streamed  back  the  loosened  tresses 
f  Lady  Caroline,  and  Curtal  kept  close  on  the  track 
of  Saladiu,  neither  losing  nor  gaining  an  inch  apparent 
ly,  and  nearer  and  nearer  sounded  the  baying  of  the 
hounds,  and  clearer  became  my  view  of  the  steady  and 
slight  waist  riding  so  fearlessly  onward.  Of  my  horse 
I  had  neither  guidance  nor  control.  He  needed  none. 
The  hounds  had  crossed  a  morass,  and  we  were  round 
ing  a  half-circle  on  an  acclivity  to  come  up  with  them, 
and  Curtal  went  at  it  too  confidently  to  be  in  error. 
Evenly  as  a  hand-gallop  on  a  green  sward  his  tremen 
dous  pace  told  off,  and  if  his  was  the  ease  of  muscular 
power,  the  graceful  speed  of  the  beautiful  creature 
moving  before  me  seemed  the  aerial  buoyancy  of  a 
bird.'  Obstructions  seemed  nothing.  That  flowing 
dress  and  streaming  hairsailed  over  rocks  and  ditches, 
and  over  them,  like  their  inseparable  shadow,  glided 
I,  and,  except  one  horseman  who  still  kept  his  ^dis 
tance  ahead,  we  seemed  alone  in  the  field.  The 
clatter  of  hoofs,  and  the  exclamations  ot  excitement 
had  ceased  behind  me,  and  though  I  was  capable  of 
no  exertion  beyond  that  of  keeping  my  seat,  I  no 
longer  feared  the  leap  nor  the  pace,  and  began  to  an 
ticipate  a  safe  termination  to  my  perilous  adventure. 
\  slight  exclamation  from  Lady  Caroline  reached  my 
ear  and  I  looked  forward.  A  small  river  was  before 
us,  and,  from  the  opposite  bank,  of  steep  clay,  the 
rider  who  had  preceded  us  was  falling  back,  his  horse's 


156 


THE  POET  AND  THE  MANDARIN. 


forefeet  high  in  the  air,  and  his  arms  already  in  the 
water.  I  tried  to  pull  my  reins.  I  shouted  to  my 
horse  in  desperation.  And  with  the  exertion,  my 
heart  seemed  to  give  way  within  me.  Giddy  and  faint 
I  abandoned  myself  to  my  fate.  I  just  saw  the  flying 
heels  of  Saladin  planted  on  the  opposite  bank  and  the 
streaming  hair  still  flying  onward,  when,  with  a  bound 
that,  it  seemed  to  me,  must  rend  every  fibre  of  the 
creature  beneath  me,  I  saw  the  water  gleam  under 
my  feet,  and  still  I  kept  on.  We  flew  over  a  fence 
into  a  stubble  field,  the  hounds  just  before  us,  and  over 
a  gate  into  the  public  highway,  which  we  followed  for 
a  dozen  bounds,  and  then,  with  a  pace  slightly  mode 
rated,  we  successively  cleared  a  low  wall  and  brought 
up,  on  our  horses'  haunches,  in  the  midst  of  an  uproar 
of  dogs,  cows,  and  scattering  poultry — the  fox  having 
been  run  down  at  last  in  the  enclosure  of  a  barn.  I 
had  just  strength  to  extricate  my  feet  from  the  stirrups, 
take  Lady  Caroline's  cap,  which  had  kept  its  place 
between  my  elbows  and  knees,  and  present  it  to  her 
as  she  sat  in  her  saddle,  and  my  legs  gave  way  under 
me.  I  was  taken  into  the  farmhouse,  and,  at  the  close 
of  a  temporary  ellipse,  I  was  sent  back  to  Tresethen 
Castle  in  a  post-chaise,  and  once  more  handed  over  to 
the  doctor  ! 

Well,  my  third  siege  of  illness  was  more  tolerable, 
for  I  received  daily,  now,  some  message  of  inquiry  or 
some  token  of  interest  from  Lady  Caroline,  though  I 
learned  from  the  countess  that  she  was  in  sad  disgrace 
for  her  inveiglement  of  my  trusting  innocence.  I  also 
received  the  cards  of  the  members  of  the  hunt,  with 
many  inquiries  complimentary  to  what  they  were 
pleased  to  consider  American  horsemanship,  and  I 
found  that  my  seizure  of  the  flying  cap  of  Lady  Caro 
line  and  presentation  of  it  to  her  ladyship  at  "the 
death,"  was  thought  to  be  worthy,  in  chivalry  of 
Bayard,  and  in  dexterity  of  Ducrow.  Indeed,  when 
let  out  again  to  the  convalescent  walk  in  the  conser 
vatory,  I  found  that  1  was  counted  a  hero  even  by  the 
stately  earl.  There  slipped  a  compliment,  too,  here 
and  there,  through  the  matronly  disapprobation  of 
Lady  Tresethen — and  all  this  was  too  pleasant  to  put 
aside  with  a  disclaimer — so  I  bid  truth  and  modesty 
hold  their  peace,  and  took  the  honor  the  gods  chose 
to  provide ! 

But  now  came  dangers  more  perilous  than  my  ride 
on  Curtal.  Lady  Caroline  was  called  upon  to  be  kind 
to  me  !  Daily  as  the  old  servant  left  me  in  the  alley 
of  japonicas,  she  appeared  from  the  glass  door  of  her 
mother's  boudoir  and  devoted  herself  to  my  comfort — 
walking  with  me,  while  I  could  walk,  in  those  fragrant 
and  balmy  avenues  of  flowers,  and  then  bringing  me 
into  her  mother's  luxurious  apartment,  where  books, 
and  music,  and  conversation  as  frank  and  untrammelled 
as  man  in  love  could  ask,  wiled  away  the  day.  Wiled 
it  away  ? — winged  it — shod  it  with  velvet  and  silence, 
for  I  never  knew  how  it  passed  !  Lady  Caroline  had 
a  mind  of  the  superiority  stamped  so  consciously  on 
her  lip.  She  anticipated  no  consequences  from  her 
kindness,  therefore  she  was  playful  and  unembarrassed. 
She  sang  to  me,  and  I  read  to  her.  Her  rides  were 
given  up,  and  Saladin  daily  went  past  the  window  to 
his  exercise,  and  with  my  most  zealous  scrutiny  I 
could  detect  in  her  face  neither  impatience  of  con 
finement  nor  regret  at  the  loss  of  weather  fitter  for 
pleasures  out  of  doors.  Spite  of  every  caution  with 
which  hope  could  be  chained  down,  I  was  flattered. 

You  smile — (Tom  said,  though  he  was  looking 
straight  into  the  water,  and  had  not  seen  my  face  for 
half  an  hour) — but,  without  the  remotest  hope  of 
taking  Lady  Caroline  to  Kentucky,  or  of  becoming 
English  on  the  splendid  dowry  of  the  heiress  of  Trese 
then,  I  still  felt  it  impossible  to  escape  from  my  lover's 
attitude — impossible  to  avoid  hoarding  up  symptoms, 
encouragements,  flatteries,  and  all  the  moonshine  of  am 
atory  anxiety.  I  was  iu  love — and  who  reasons  in  love  ? 


One  morning,  after  I  had  become  an  honorary 
patient — an  invalid  only  by  sufferance — and  was  slow 
ly  admitting  the  unwelcome  conviction  that  it  was 
time  for  me  to  be  shaping  my  adieux — the  conversa 
tion  took  rather  a  philosophical  turn.  The  starting 
point  was  a  quotation  in  a  magazine  from  Richter  : 
"  Is  not  a  man's  universe  within  his  head,  whether  a 
king's  diadem  or  a  torn  scullcap  be  without  ?" — and  I 
had  insisted  rather  strenuously  on  the  levelling  privilege 
we  enjoyed  in  the  existence  of  a  second  world  around 
us — the  world  of  revery  and  dream — wherein  the  tyran 
ny,  and  check,  and  the  arbitrary  distinctions  of  the 
world  of  fact,  were  never  felt — and  where  he,  though 
he  might  be  a  peasant,  who  had  the  consciousness  in 
his  soul  that  he  was  a  worthy  object  of  love  to  a  prin 
cess,  could  fancy  himself  beloved  and  revel  in  imagin 
ary  possession. 

"  Why,"  said  I,  turning  with  a  sudden  flush  of  self- 
confidence  to  Lady  Caroline,  "  Why  should  not  the 
passions  of  such  a  world,  the  loving  and  returning  of 
love  infancy,  have  the  privilege  of  language  ?  Why 
should  not  matches  be  made,  love  confessed,  vows  ex 
changed,  and  fidelity  sworn,  valid  within  the  realm  of 
drearn-land  only  ?  Why  should  I  not  say  to  yo%,  for 
example,  I  adore  you,  dear  lady,  and  in  my  world  of 
thought  you  shall,  if  you  so  condescend,  be  my  bride 
and  mistress ;  and  why,  if  you  responded  to  this  and 
listened  to  my  vows  of  fancy,  should  your  bridegroom 
of  the  world  of  fact  feel  his  rights  invaded  ?'' 

"  In  fancy  let  it  be  then-!"  said  Lady  Caroline,  with 
a  blush  and  a  covert  smile,  and  she  rang  the  bell  for 
luncheon. 

Well,  I  still  lingered  a  couple  of  days,  and  on  the 
last  day  of  my  stay  at  Tresethen,  I  became  sufficiently 
emboldened  to  take  Lady  Caroline's  hand  behind  the 
fountain  of  the  conservatory,  and  to  press  it  to  my  lips 
with  a  daring  wish  that  its  warm  pulses  belonged  to 
the  world  of  fancy. 

She  withdrew  it  very  kindly,  and  (I  thought)  sadly, 
and  begged  me  to  go  to  the  boudoir  and  bring  her  a 
volume  of  Byron  that  lay  on  her  work-table. 

I  brought  it,  and  she  turned  over  the  leaves  a  mo 
ment,  and,  with  her  pencil,  marked  two  lines  and  gave 
me  the  book,  bidding  me  an  abrupt  good  morning. 
I  stood  a  few  minutes  with  my  heart  beating  and  my 
brain  faint,  but  finally  summoned  courage  to  read  : — 

"  I  can  not  lose  a  world  for  thee — 
But  would  not  lose  thee  for  the  world  I" 

I   left  Tresethen  the  next  morning,  and 

"Hold  on,  Tom  !"  cried  I — "  there  comes  the  boat 
with  our  dinner  from  Valletta,  and  we'll  have  your 
sorrows  over  our  Burgundy." 

"  Sorrows  !"  exclaimed  Tom,  "  I  was  going  to  tell 
you  of  the  fun  I  had  at  her  wedding  !" 

"  Lord  preserve  us  !" 

"Bigamy — wasn't  it? — after  our  little  nuptials  in 
dream-land  !  She  told  her  husband  all  about  it  at  the 
wedding  breakfast,  and  his  lordship  (she  marrie'd  the 

Marquis  of )  begged  to  know  the  extent  of  my 

prerogatives.  I  was  sorry  to  confess  that  they  did  not 
interfere  very  particularly  with  his  .'" 


THE  POET  AND  THE  MANDARIN, 

THE  moon  shone  like  glorified  and  floating  dew  on 
the  bosom  of  the  tranquil  Pei-ho,  and  the  heart  of  the 
young  poet  Le-pih  was  like  a  cup  running  over  with 
wine.  It  was  no  abatement  of  his  exulting  fulness 
that  he  was  as  yet  the  sole  possessor  of  the  secret  of 
his  own  genius.  Conscious  of  exquisite  susceptibility 
to  beauty,  fragrance  and  music  (the  three -'graces  of 


THE  POET  AND  THE  MANDARIN. 


157 


the  Chinese),  he  was  more  intent  upon  enjoying  his 
gifts  than  upon  the  awakening  of  envy  for  their  posses 
sion — the  latter  being  (lie  second  leaf  in  the  book  of 
genius,  and  only  turned  over  by  the  finger  of  satiety. 
Thoughtless  of  the  acquisition  of  fame  as  the  youth 
ful  poet  may  be,  however,  he  is  always  ready  to  an 
ticipate  its  fruits,  and  Le-pih  committed  but  the  poet's 
error,  when,  having  the  gem  in  his  bosom  which 
could  buy  the  favor  of  the  world,  he  took  the  favor 
for  granted  without  producing  the  gem. 

Kwonfootse  had  returned  a  conqueror,  from  the  wars 
with  the  Hwong-kin,  and  this  night,  on  which  the 
moon  shone  so  gloriously,  was  the  hour  of  his  triumph, 
for  the  Emperor  Tang  had  condescended  to  honor 
with  his  presence,  a  gala  given  by  the  victorious  gene 
ral  at  his  gardens  on  the  Pei-ho.  Softened  by  his 
exulting  feelings  (for  though  a  brave  soldier,  he  was 
as  haughty  as  Liuykong  the  thunder-god,  or  Hwuyloo 
the  monarch  of  fire),  the  warlike  mandarin  threw  open 
his  gardens  on  this  joyful  night,  not  only  to  those  who 
wore  in  their  caps  the  gold  ball  significant  of  patrician 
birth,  but  to  all  whose  dress  and  mien  warranted  their 
appearance  in  the  presence  of  the  emperor. 

Like  the  realms  of  the  blest  shone  the  gardens  of 
Kwonfootse.  Occupying  the  whole  valley  of  the 
Pei-ho,  at  a  spot  where  it  curved  like  the  twisted 
cavity  of  a  shell,  the  sky  seemed  to  shut  in  the  grounds 
like  the  cover  of  a  vase,  and  the  stars  seemed  bui  the 
garden-lights  overhead.  From  one  edge  of  the  vase 
to  the  other — from  hill-top  to  hill-top—extended  a 
broad  avenue,  a  pagoda  at  either  extremity  glittering 
with  gold  and  scarlet,  the  sides  flaming  with  colored 
lamps  and  flaunting  with  gay  streamers  of  barbarian 
stuffs,  and  the  moonlit  river  cutting  it  in  the  centre,  the 
whole  vista,  at  the  first  glance,  resembling  a  girdle  of 
precious  stones  with  a  fastening  of  opal.  Off  from 
this  central  division  radiated  in  all  directions  alleys  of 
camphor  and  cinnamon  trees,  lighted  with  amorous 
dimness,  and  leading  away  to  bowers  upon  (he  hill 
side,  and  from  every  quarter  resounded  music,  and  in 
every  nook  was  seen  feasting  and  merriment. 

In  disguise,  the  emperor  and  imperial  family  mingled 
in  the  crowd,  and  no  one  save  the  host  and  his  daugh 
ters  knew  what  part  of  the  gardens  was  honored  with 
their  presence.  There  was,  however,  a  retreat  in  the 
grounds,  sacred  to  the  privileged  few,  and  here,  when 
fatigued  or  desirous  of  refreshment,  the  royal  person 
ages  laid  aside  disguise  and  were  surrounded  with 
the  deferential  honors  of  the  court.  It  was  so  con 
trived  that  the  access  was  unobserved  by  the  people, 
and  there  was,  therefore,  no  feeling  of  exclusion  to 
qualify  the  hilarity  of  the  entertainment,  Kwonfootse, 
with  all  his  pride,  looking  carefully  to  his  popularity. 
At  the  foot  of  each  descent,  upon  the  matted  banks 
of  the  river,  floated  gilded  boats  with  lamps  burning  in 
their  prows,  and  gayly-dressed  boatmen  offering  con 
veyance  across  to  all  who  required  it;  but  thew  were 
also,  unobserved  by  the  crowd,  boats  unlighted  and 
undecorated  holding  off  from  the  shore,  which,  at  a 
sign  given  by  the  initiated,  silently  approached  a  mar 
ble  stair  without  the  line  of  the  blazing  avenue,  and  tak 
ing  their  freight  on  board,  sxviftly  pulled  up  the  moonlit 
river,  to  a  landing  concealed  by  the  shoulder  of  the  hill. 
No  path  led  from  the  gardens  hither,  and  from  no  point 
of  view  could  be  overlooked  the  more  brilliant  scene 
of  imperial  revel. 

It  was  verging  toward  midnight  when  the  unknown 
poet,  with  brain  floating  in  a  celestial  giddiness  of  delight, 
stood  on  the  brink  of  the  gleaming  river.  The  boats 
plied  to  and  fro  with  their  freights  of  fair  damsels  and 
gayly-dressed  youths,  the  many-colored  lamps  throw 
ing  a  rainbow  profusion  of  tints  on  the  water,  and 
many  a  voice  addressed  him  with  merry  invitation,  for 
Le-pih's  beauty,  so  famous  now  in  history,  was  of  no 
forbiddujg  stateliness,  and  his  motions,  like  his  coun- 
were  as  frankly  joyous  as  the  gambols  of  a 


young  leopard.     Nol  inclined  to  boisterous  gayety  at 

the  moment,  Le-pih  stepped  between  the  lamp-boaring 

trees  of  the  avenue,  and  folding  his  arms  in  his  silken 

vest,  stood  gazing  in  revery  on  the  dancing  waters. 

After  a  few  moments,  one  of  the  dark  boats  on  which 

he  had   unconsciously   fixed   his   gaze  drew  silently 

toward  him,  and  as  the  cushioned  stern  was  brought 

j  round  to  the  bank,  the  boatman  made  a  reverence  to 

|  his  knees  and  sat  waiting  the  poet's  pleasure. 

Like  all   men   born  to   good   fortune,  Le-pih  was 

prompt  to  follow  the  first  beckoningsof  adventure,  and 

asking  no  questions,  he  quietly  embarked,  and  with  a 

quick  dip  of  the  oars  the  boat  shot  from  the  shore  and 

II  took  the  descending  current.     Almost  in  the  next  in- 

||  slant  she  neared  again  to  the  curving  and  willow-fringed 

i  margin  of  the  stream,  and   lights  glimmered  through 

the  branches,  and  sweet,  low  music  became  audible, 

and  by  rapid  degrees,  a  scene  burst  on  his  eye,  which 

j  i  the  first  glimpse  into  the  gate  of  paradise  (a  subsequent 

I  agreeable  surprise,  let  us  presume)  could  scarcely  have 
|   exceeded. 

Without  an  exchange  of  a  syllable  between  the 
!  boatman  and  his  freight,  the  stern  was  set  against  a 
carpeted  stair  at  the  edge  of  the  river,  and  Le-pih  dis- 
;  embarked  with  a  bound,  and  stood  upon  a  spacious 
j  area  Iving  in  a  lap  of  the  hill,  the  entire  surface  carpeted 
j  smoothly  with  Persian  stuffs,  and  dotted  here  and  there 
j  with  striped  tents  piched  with  jx)les  of  silver.  Gar- 
j  lands  of  flowers  hung  in  festoons  against  the  brilliant- 
;  colored  cloths,  and  in  the  centre  of  each  lent  stood  a 
|  low  tablet  surrounded  with  couches  and  laden  with 

II  meats  and  wine.     The  guests,  for  whom  this  portion 
of  the  entertainment  w;is  provided,   were  apparently 
assembled  at  a  spot  farther  on,  from  which  proceeded 
the  delicious  music  heard  by  the  poet  in  approaching; 
and,  first  entering  one  of  the  abandoned   tents  for  a 
goblet  of  wine,  Le-pih  followed  to  the  scene  of  attrac 
tion. 

Under  a  canopy  of  gold  cloth  held  by  six  bearers, 
stood  the  imperial  chair  upon  a  raised  platform — not 
occupied,  however,  the  august  Tang  reclining  more  at 
his  ease,  a  little  out  of  the  circle,  upon  cushions 
canopied  by  the  moonlight.  Around  upon  the  steps 
j  of  the  platform  and  near  by,  were  grouped  the  noble 
j  ladies  of  the  court  and  the  roy;il  princesses  (Tang 
living  much  in  the  female  apartments  and  his  daugh 
ters  numbering  several  score),  and  all,  at  the  moment 
j  of  Le-pih's  joining  the  assemblage,  turning  to  observe 
a  damsel  with  a  lute,  to  whose  performance  the  low 
sweet  music  of  the  band  had  been  a  prelude.  The 
first  touch  of  the  strings  betrayed  a  trembling  hand, 
and  the  poet's  sympathies  were  stirred,  though  from 
her  bent  posture  and  her  distant  position  he  had  not 
yet  seen  the  features  of  the  player.  As  the  tremulous 
notes  grew  firmer,  and  the  lute  began  to  give  out  a 
flowing  harmony,  Le-pih  approached,  and  at  the  same 
time,  the  listening  groups  of  ladies  began  to  whisper 
and  move  away,  and  of  those  who  remained,  none 
seemed  to  listen  with  pleasure  except  Kwonfootse  and 
the  emperor.  The  latter,  indeed,  rivalled  the  intruding 
bard  in  his  interest,  rolling  over  upon  the  cushions 
and  resting  on  the  other  imperial  elbow  in  close  at 
tention. 

Gaining  confidence  evidently  from  the  neglect  of 
her  auditory,  or,  as  is  natuial  to  women,  less  afraid  of 
the  judgment  of  the  other  sex,  who  were  her  only 
listeners,  the  fair  Taya  (the  youngest  daughter  of 
Kwonfootse),  now  joined  her  voice  to  her  instrument, 
and  sang  with  a  sweetness  that  dropped  like  a  plum 
met  to  the  soul  of  Le-pih.  He  fell  to  his  knee  upon 
a  heap  of  cushions  and  leaned  eagerly  forward.  As 
she  became  afterward  one  of  his  most  passionate 
themes,  we  are  enabled  to  reconjure  the  features  that 
were  presented  to  his  admiring  wonder.  The  envy 
of  the  princesses  was  sufficient  proof  that  Taya  was  of 
rare  beauty  ;  she  had  that  wonderful  perfection  of 


158 


THE  POET  AND  THE  MANDARIN. 


feature  to  which  envy  pays  its  bitterest  tribute,  which 
is  apologized  for  if  not  found  in  the  poet's  ideal,  which 
we  thirst  after  in  pictures  and  marble,  of  which  loveli 
ness  and  expression  are  but  lesser  degrees — fainter 
shadowings.  She  was  adorably  beautiful.  The  outer 
corners  of  her  long  almond-shaped  eyes,  the  dipping 
crescent  of  her  forehead,  the  pencil  of  her  eyebrow 
and  the  indented  corners  of  her  mouth — all  these 
turned  downward  ;  and  this  peculiarity  which,  in  faces 
of  a  less  elevated  character,  indicates  a  temper  morose 
and  repulsive,  in  Taya's  expressed  the  very  soul  of 
gentle  and  lofty  melancholy.  There  was  something 
infantine  about  her  mouth,  the  teeth  were  so  small 
and  regular,  and  their  dazzling  whiteness,  shining  be 
tween  lips  of  the  brilliant  color  of  a  cherry  freshly 
torn  apart,  was  in  startling  contrast  with  the  dark 
lustre  of  her  eyes.  Le-pih's  poetry  makes  constant 
allusion  to  those  small  and  snowy  teeth,  and  the  turn 
ed-down  corners  of  the  lips  and  eyes  of  his  incompar 
able  mistress. 

Taya's  song  was  a  fragment  of  that  celebrated 
Chinese  romance  from  which  Moore  has  borrowed  so 
largely  in  his  loves  of  the  angels,  and  it  chanced  to 
be  particularly  appropriate  to  her  deserted  position 
(she  was  alone  now  with  her  three  listeners),  dwelling  as 
it  did  upon  the  loneliness  of  a  disguised  Peri,  wander 
ing  in  exile  upon  earth.  The  lute  fell  from  her  hands 
when  she  ceased,  and  while  the  emperor  applauded, 
and  Kwonfootse  looked  on  her  with  paternal  pride, 
Le-pih  modestly  advanced  to  the  fallen  instrument, 
and  with  a  low  obeisance  to  the  emperor  and  a  hesita 
ting  apology  to  Taya,  struck  a  prelude  in  the  same 
air,  and  broke  forth  into  an  impulsive  expression  of 
his  feelings  in  verse.  It  would  be  quite  impossible  to 
give  a  translation  of  this  famous  effusion  with  its 
oriental  load  of  imagery,  but  in  modifying  it  to  the 
spirit  ofour  language  (giving  little  more  than  its  thread 
of  thought),  the  reader  may  see  glimpses  of  (he  ma 
terial  from  which  the  great  Irish  lyrist  spun  his  woof 
of  sweet  fable.  Fixing  his  keen  eyes  upon  the  bright 
lips  just  closed,  Le-pih  sang  : — 

"  When  first  from  heaven's  immortal  throngs 

The  earth-doomed  angels  downward  came, 
And  mourning  their  enraptured  songs, 

Walked  sadly  in  our  mortal  frame  ; 
To  those,  whose  lyres  of  loftier  string 

Had  taught  the  myriad  lips  of  heaven, 
The  song  that  they  for  ever  sing, 

A  wondrous  lyre,  'tis  said,  was  given. 
'  And  go,'  the  seraph  warder  said, 

As  from  the  diamond  gates  they  flew, 
'  And  wake  the  songs  ye  here  have  led 
In  earthly  numbers,  pure  and  new  ! 
And  yours  shall  be  the  hallowed  power 

To  win  the  lost  to  heaven  again, 
And  when  earth's  clouds  shall  darkest  lower 

Your  lyre  shall  breathe  its  holiest  strain  ! 
Yet,  chastened  by  this  inward  fire, 

Your  lot  shall  be  to  walk  alone, 
Save  when,  perchance,  with  echoing  lyre, 

You  touch  a  spirit  like  your  own  ; 
And  whatsoe'er  the  guise  your  wear, 

To  him,  'tis  given  to  know  you  there.'  " 

The  song  over,  Le-pih  sat  with  his  hands  folded 
across  the  instrument  and  his  eyes  cast  down,  and 
Taya  gazed  on  him  with  wondering  looks,  yet  slowly, 
and  as  if  unconsciously,  she  took  from  her  breast  a 
rose,  and  with  a  half-stolen  glance  at  her  father,  threw 
it  upon  the  lute.  But  frowningly  Kwonfootse  rose 
from  his  seat  and  approached  the  poet. 

"  Who  are  you?"  he  demanded  angrily,  as  the  bard 
placed  the  rose  reverently  in  his  bosom. 

»  Le-pih!" 

With  another  obeisance  to  the  emperor,  and  a  deeper 
one  to  the  fair  Taya,  he  turned,  after  this  concise  an 
swer,  upon  his  heel,  lifting  his  cap  to  his  head,  which, 
to  the  rage  of  Kwonfootse,  bore  not  even  the  gold  ball 
of  aristocracy. 


"  Bind  him  for  the  bastinado  !"  cried  the  infuriated 
mandarin  to  the  bearers  of  the  canopy. 

The  six  soldiers  dropped  their  poles  to  the  ground, 
but  the  emperor's  voice  arrested  them. 

"  He  shall  have  no  violence  but  from  you,  fair 
Taya,"  said  the  softened  monarch  ;  "  call  to  him  by 
the  name  he  has  just  pronounced,  for  I  would  hear 
that  lute  again !" 

"Le-pih!  Le-pih!"  cried  instantly  the  musical 
voice  of  the  fair  girl. 

Th«  poet  turned  and  listened,  incredulous  of  his 
own  ears. 

"  Le-pih!   Le-pih!"  she  repeated,  in  a  soft  tone. 

Half-hesitating,  half-bounding,  as  if  still  scarce  be 
lieving  he  had  heard  aright,  Le-pih  flew  to  her  feet, 
and  dropped  to  one  knee  upon  the  cushion  before  her, 
his  breast  heaving  and  his  eyes  flashing  with  eager 
|  wonder.  Taya's  courage  was  at  an  end,  and  she  sat 
|  with  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

"  Give  him  the  Jute,  Kwonfootse  !"  said  the  em 
peror,  swinging  himself  on  the  raised  chair  with  an 
i  abandonment  of  the  imperial  avoirdupois,  which  set 
|  ringing  violently  the  hundred  bells  suspended  in  the 
!  golden  fringes. 

"  Let  not  the  crow  venture  again  into  the  nest  of 
the  eagle,"  muttered  the  mandarin  between  his  teeth 
as  he  handed  the  instrument  to  the  poet. 

The  sound  of  the  bells  brought  in  the  women  and 
courtiers  from  every  quarter  of  the  privileged  area, 
and,  preluding  upon  the  strings  to  gather  his  scattered 
senses,  while  they  were  seating  themselves  around 
him,  Le-pih  at  last  fixed  his  gaze  upon  the  lips  of 
Taya,  and  commenced  his  song  to  an  irregular  harmo 
ny  well  adapted  to  extempore  verse.  We  have  tried 
|  in  vain  to  put  this  celebrated  song  of  compliment  into 
English  stanzas.  It  commenced  with  a  description 
of  Taya's  beauty,  and  an  enumeration  of  things  she 
resembled,  dwelling  most  upon  the  blue  lily,  which 
seems  to  have  been  Le-pih's  favorite  flower.  The 
burthen  of  the  conclusion,  however,  is  the  new  value 
everything  assumed  in  her  presence.  "Of  the  light 
in  this  garden,"  he  says,  "there  is  one  beam  worth  all 
the  glory  of  the  moon,  for  it  sleeps  on  the  eye  of  Taya. 
Of  the  air  about  me  there  is  one  breath  which  my  soul 
drinks  like  wine — it  is  from  the  lips  of  Taya.  Taya 
looks  on  a  flower,  and  that  flower  seems  to  me,  with 
its  pure  eye,  to  gaze  after  her  for  ever.  Taya's  jacket 
of  blue  silk  is  my  passion.  If  angels  visit  me  in  my 
dreams,  let  them  be  dressed  like  Taya.  I  love  the 
broken  spangle  in  her  slipper  better  than  the  first  star 
of  evening.  Bring  me,  till  I  die,  inner  leaves  from 
the  water-lily,  since  white  and  fragrant  like  them  are 
the  teeth  of  Taya.  Call  me,  should  I  sleep,  when 
rises  the  crescent  moon,  for  the  blue  sky  in  its  bend 
curves  like  the  drooped  eye  of  Taya,"  &c.,  &c. 

"  By  the  immortal  Fo  !"  cried  the  emperor,  raising 
himself  bolt  upright  in  his  chair,  as  the  poet  ceased, 
"you  shall  be  the  bard  of  Tang  !  Those  are  my  sen 
timents  better  expressed  !  The  lute,  in  your  hands, 
is  my  heart  turned  inside  out !  Lend  me  your  gold 
chain,  Kwonfootse,  and,  Taya!  come  hither  and  put 
it  on  his  neck  !" 

Taya  glided  to  the  emperor,  but  Le-pih  rose  to  his 
feet,  with  a  slight  flush  on  his  forehead,  and  stood 
erect  and  motionless. 

"  Let  it  please  your  imperial  majesty,"  he  said, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  "  to  bestow  upon  me  some 
gift  less  binding  than  a  chain." 

"CarbuncleofBudha!  What  would  theyoutJi  have!" 
exclaimed  Tang  in  astonishment.  "  Is  not  the  gold 
chain  of  a  mandarin  good  enough  for  his  acceptance  ?" 

"My  poor  song,"  replied  Le-pih,  modestly  casting 
down  his  eyes,  "  is  sufficiently  repaid  by  your  majesty's 
praises.  The  chain  of  the  mandarin  would  gall  the 
neck  of  the  poet.  Yet — if  I  might  have  a"  reward 
more  valuable — " 


THE  POET  AND  THE  MANDARIN. 


159 


"  In  Fo's  name  what  is  it  ?"  said  the  embarrassed  | 
emperor. 

Kwonfootse  laid  his  hand  on  his  cimeter,  and  his 
daughter  blushed  and  trembled. 

"The  broken  spangle  on  the  slipper  of  Taya  !"  said 
Le-pih,  turning  half  indifferently  away. 

Loud  laughed  the  ladies  of  the  court,  and  Kwon 
footse  walked  from  the  bard  with  a  look  of  contempt, 
but  the  emperor  read  more  truly  the  proud  and  deli 
cate  spirit  tiiat  dictated  the  reply  ;  and  in  that  moment 
probably  commenced  the  friendship  with  which,  to  the 
end  of  his  peaceful  reign,  Tang  distinguished  the  most 
gifted  poet  of  his  time. 

The  lovely  daughter  of  the  mandarin  was  not  behind 
the  emperor  in  her  interpretation  of  the  character  of 
Le-pih,  and  as  she  stepped  forward  to  put  the  detach 
ed  spangle  into  his  hand,  she  bent  on  him  a  look  full 
of  earnest  curiosity  and  admiration. 

"What  others  give  me,"  he  murmured  in  a  low 
voice,  pressing  the  worthless  trifle  to  his  lips,  "  makes 
me  their  slave;  but  what  Taya  gives  me  is  a  link  that 
draws  her  to  my  bosom." 

Kwonfootse  probably  thought  that  Le-pih's  audi 
ence  had  lasted  long  enough,  for  at  this  moment  the 
sky  seemed  bursting  into  flame  with  a  sudden  tumult 
of  fireworks,  and  in  the  confusion  that  immediately 
succeeded,  the  poet  made  his  way  unquestioned  to 
the  bank  of  the  river,  and  was  reconveyed  to  the  spot 
of  his  first  embarkation,  in  the  same  silent  mariner  with 
which  he  had  approached  the  privileged  area. 

During  the  following  month,  Le-pih  seemed  much 
in  request  at  the  imperial  palace,  but,  to  the  surprise 
of  his  friends,  the  keeping  of  "  worshipful  society" 
was  not  followed  by  any  change  in  his  merry  manners, 
nor  apparently  by  any  improvement  in  his  worldly 
condition.  His  mother  still  sold  mats  in  the  public 
market,  and  Le-pili  still  rode,  every  few  days,  to  the 
marsh,  for  his  panniers  of  rushes,  and  to  all  comers, 
among  his  old  acquaintances,  his  lute  and  song  were 
as  ready  and  gratuitous  as  ever. 

All  this  time,  however, the  fairTaya  was  consuming 
with  a  passionate  melancholy  which  made  startling 
ravages  in  her  health,  and  the  proud  mandarin,  whose 
affection  for  his  children  was  equal  to  his  pride,  in  vain 
shut  his  eyes  to  the  cause,  and  eat  up  his  heart  with 
mortification.  When  thefull  moon  came  round  again,  j 
reminding  him  of  the  scenes  the  last  moon  had  shone  ;; 
upon,  Kwonfootse  seemed  suddenly  lightened  of  his 
care,  and  his  superb  gardens  on  the  Pei-ho  were  sud 
denly  alive  with  preparations  for  another  festival.  Kept 
in  close  confinement,  poor  Taya  fed  on  her  sorrow, 
indifferent  to  the  rumors  of  marriage  which  could 
concern  only  her  sisters;  and  the  other  demoiselles  ' 
Kwonfootse  tried  in  vain,  with  fluttering  hearts,  to  pry 
into  their  father's  secret.  A  marriage  it  certainly  was 
to  be,  for  the  lanterns  were  painted  of  the  color  of 
peach-blossoms — but  whose  marriage  ?  , 

It  was  an  intoxicating  summer's  morning,  and  the 
sun  was  busy  calling  the  dew  back  to  heaven,  and  the 
birds  wild  with  entreating  it  to  stay  (so  Le-pih  de 
scribes  it),  when  down  the  narrow  street  in  which  the 
poet's   mother  piled   her  vocation,  there  came  a  gay  J' 
procession  of  mounted  servants  with  a  led  horse  richly 
caparisoned,  in  the  centre.     The  one  who  rode  before  ' 
held  on  his  pommel  a  velvet  cushion,  and  upon  it  lay  ! 
the  cap  of  a  noble,  with  its  gold  ball  shining  in  the  sun. 
Out  flew  the  neighbors  as  the  clattering  hoofs  came  . 
on,  and  roused  by  the  cries  and  the  barking  of  dogs, 
forth   came  the   mother  of  Le-pih,  followed  by  the 
poet  himself,  but  leading  his  horse  by  the  bridle,  for  i 
he  had  just  thrown  on  his  panniers,  and  was  bound 
out  of  the  city  to  cut  his  bundle  of  rushes.     The  poet 
gazed  on  the  pageant  with  the  amused  curiosity  of  j 
others,  wondering  what  it  could  mean,  abroad  at  so  j 
early    an  hour;  but,  holding  back   his  sorry  beast  to 
let  the  prancing  horsemen  have  all  the  room  they  re- 


quired,  he  was  startled  by  a  reverential  salute  from 
the  bearer  of  the  velvet  cushion,  who,  drawing  up  his 
followers  in  front  of  the  poet's  house,  dismounted  and 
requested  to  speak  with  him  in  private. 

Tying  his  horse  to  the  door-post,  Le-pih  led  the 
way  into  the  small  room,  where  sat  his  mother  braid 
ing  her  mats  to  a  cheerful  song  of  her  son's  making, 
and  here  the  messenger  informed  the  bard,  with  much 
circumstance  and  ceremony,  that  in  consequence  of 
the  pressing  suit  of  Kwonfootse,  the  emperor  had  been 
pleased  to  grant  to  the  gifted  Le-pih,  the  rank  ex 
pressed  by  the  cap  borne  upon  the  velvet  cushion,  and 
that  as  a  noble  of  the  celestial  empire,  he  was  now  a 
match  for  the  incomparable  Taya.  Futhermore  the 
condescending  Kwonfootse  had  secretly  arranged  the 
ceremonial  for  the  bridal,  and  Le-pih  was  commanded 
to  mount  the  led  horse  and  come  up  with  his  cap  and 
gold  ball  to  be  made  forthwith  supremely  happy. 

An  indefinable  expression  stole  over  the  features  of 
the  poet  as  he  took  up  the  cap,  and  placing  it  on  his 
head,  stood  gayly  before  his  mother.  The  old  dame 
looked  at  him  a  moment,  and  the  tears  started  to  her 
eves.  Instantly  Le-pih  plucked  it  off  and  flung  it  on 
the  waste  heap  at  her  side,  throwing  himself  on  his 
knees  before  her  in  the  same  breath,  and  begging  her 
forgiveness  for  his  silly  jest. 

"Take  back  your  bauble  to  Kwonfootse!"  he  said, 
rising  proudly  to  his  feet,  "and  tell  him  that  the  em 
peror,  to  whom  I  know  how  to  excuse  myself,  can 
easily  make  a  poet  into  a  noble,  but  he  can  not  make 
a  noble  into  a  poet.  The  male  bird  does  not  borrow 
its  brighter  plumage  from  its  mate,  and  she  who  mar 
ries  Le-pih  will  braid  rushes  for  his  mother!" 

Astonished,  indeed,  were  the  neighbors,  who  had 
learned  the  errand  of  the  messenger  from  his  attendants 
without,  to  see  the  crest  fallen  man  come  fortli  again 
with  his  cap  and  cushion.  Astonished  much  more 
were  they,  ere  the  gay  cavalcade  were  well  out  of  sight, 
to  see  Le-pih  appear  with  his  merry  countenance  and 
plebeian  cap,  and.  mounting  his  old  horse,  trot  briskly 
away,  sickle  in  hand,  to  the  marshes.  The  day  passed 
in  wondering  and  gossip,  interrupted  by  the  entrance 
of  one  person  to  the  house  while  the  old  dame  was 
gone  with  her  mats  to  the  market,  but  she  returned 
duly  before  sunset,  and  went  in  as  usual  to  prepare 
supper  for  her  son. 

The  last  beams  of  day  were  on  the  tops  of  the 
pagodas  when  Le-pih  returned,  walking  beside  his 
heavy-laden  beast,  arid  singing  a  merry  song.  He 
threw  off  his  rushes  at  the  door  and  entered,  but  his 
song  was  abruptly  checked,  for  a  female  sat  on  a  low 
seat  Ity  his  mother,  stooping  over  a  half-braided  mat, 
and  the  next  moment,  the  blushing  Taya  lifted  up  her 
brimming  eyes  and  gazed  at  him  with  silent  but  plead 
ing  love. 

Now,  at  last,  the  proud  merriment  and  self  respect 
ing  confidence  of  Le-pih  were  overcome.  His  eyes 
grew  flushed  and  his  lips  trembled  without  utterance. 
With  both  his  hands  pressed  on  his  beating  heart,  he 
stood  ga/.ing  on  the  lovely  Taya. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  old  dame,  who  sat  with  folded 
hands  and  smiling  face,  looking  on  at  a  scene  she  did 
not  -quite  understand,  though  it  gave  her  pleasure, 
"  Ah  !  this  is  a  wife  for  my  boy,  sent  from  heaven  ! 
No  haughty  mandarin's  daughtershe!  no  proud  minx, 
to  fall  in  love  with  the  son  and  despise  the  mother! 
Let  them  keep  their  smari^caps  and  gift-horses  for 
those  who  can  be  bought  at  such  prices  !  My  son  is 
a  noble  by  the  gift  of  his  Maker — better  than  an  em 
peror's  gold  ball !  Come  to  your  supper,  Le-pih  ! 
Come,  my  sweet  daughter  !" 

Taya  placed  her  finger  on  her  lip,  and  Le-pih 
agreed  that  the  moment  was  not  yet  come  to  enlighten 
;  his  mother  as  to  the  quality  of  her  guest.  She  was 
,  not  long  in  ignorance,  however,  for  before  they  could 
;  seat  themselves  at  table,  there  was  a  loud  knocking  at 


160 


MEENA  DIMITY. 


the  door,  and  before  the  old  dame  could  bless  herself, 
an  officer  entered  and  arrested  the  daughter  of  K  \von- 
footse  by  name,  and  Lc-pih  and  his  mother  at  ihe 
same  time,  and  there  was  no  dismissing  the  messenger 
now.  Off  they  inarched,  amid  the  silent  consterna- 
tion  and  pity  of  the  neighbors — not  toward  the  palace 
of  justice,  however,  but  to  the  palace  of  the  emperor, 
where  his  majesty,  to  save  all  chances  of  mistake, 
chose  to  see  the  poet  wedded,  and  sit,  himself,  at  the 
bridal  feast.  Tang  had  a  romantic  heart,  fat  and 
voluptuous  as  he  was,  and  the  end  of  his  favor  to  Le- 
pih  and  Taya  was  the  end  of  his  life. 


MEENA  DIMITY ; 

OR,  WHY  MR.  BROWN  CRASH  TOOK  THE  TOUR, 

FASHION  is  arbitrary,  we  all  know.  \Vhat  it  was 
that  originally  gave  Sassafras  street  the  right  to  de 
spise  Pepperidge  street,  the  oldest  inhabitant  of  the 
village  of  Slimford  could  not  positively  say.  The 
courthouse  and  jail  were  in  Sassafras  street ;  but  the 
orthodox  church  and  female  seminary  were  in  Pep 
peridge  street.  Two  directors  of  the  Slimford  bank 
lived  in  Sassafras  street — two  in  Pepperidge  street. 
The  Dyaper  family  lived  in  Sassafras  street — the 
Dimity  family  in  Pepperidge  street ;  and  the  fathers 
of  the  Dyaper  girls  and  the  Dimity  girls  were  worth 
about  the  same  money,  and  had  both  made  it  in  the 
lumber  line.  There  was  no  difference  to  speak  of  in 
their  respective  mode  of  Jiving — none  in  the  educa 
tion  of  the  girls — none  in  the  family  gravestones  or 
church-pews.  Yet,  deny  it  who  liked,  ihe  Dyapers 
were  the  aristocracy  of  Slimford. 

It  may  be  a  prejudice,  but  I  am  inclined  to  think 
there  is  always  something  in  a  nose.  (I  am  about  to 
mention  a  trifle,  but  trifles  are  the  beginning  of  most 
things,  and  I  would  account  for  the  pride  paramount 
of  the  Dyapers,  if  it  is  any  way  possible.)  The  most 
stylish  of  the  Miss  Dyapers— Harriet  Dyaper — had  a 
nose  like  his  grace  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  Nei 
ther  her  father  nor  mother  had  such  a  feature;  but 
there  was  a  foreign  umbrella  in  the  family  with  ex 
actly  the  same  shaped  nose  on  the  ivory  handle.  Old 
Dyaper  had  once  kept  a  tavern,  and  he  had  taken  this 
umbrella  from  a  stranger  for  a  night's  lodging.  But 
that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  To  the  nose  of  Har 
riet  Dyaper,  resistlessly  and  instinctively,  the  Dimity 
girls  had  knocked  under  at  school.  There  was  au 
thority  in  it ;  for  the  American  eagle  had  such  a  nose, 
and  ihe  Duke  of  Wellington  had  such  a  nose;  and 
when,  to  these  two  warlike  instances,  was  added  the 
nose  of  Harriet  Dyaper,  the  tripod  stood  firm.  Am 
I  visionary  in  believing  that  the  authority  introduced 
into  that  village  by  a  foreigner's  umbrella  (so  unac 
countable  is  fate)  gave  the  dynasty  to  the  Dyapers? 

I  have  mentioned  but  two  families — one  in  each  of 
the  two  principal  streets  of  Slimford.  Having  a  little 
story  to  tell,  I  can  not  afford  to  distract  my  narrative 
with  unnecessary  "asides;"  and  I  must  not  only 
omit  all  description  of  the  other  Sassafrasers  and 
Pepperidgers,  but  I  must  leave  to  your  imagination 
several  Miss  Dyapers  and  several  Miss  Dimitys — Har 
riet  Dyaper  and  Meena  Dimity  being  the  two  exclu 
sive  objects  of  my  hero's  Sunday  and  evening  atten 
tions. 

For  eleven  months  in  the  year,  the  loves  of  the 
ladies  of  Slimford  were  presided  over  by  indigenous 
Cupids.  Brown  Crash  and  the  other  boys  of  the  vil 
lage  had  the  Dyapers  and  the  Dimitys  for  that  respect 
ive  period  to  themselves.  The  remaining  month, 
when  their  sun  of  favor  was  eclipsed,  was  during  the 


falling  of  the  leaf,  when  the  "drummers"  came  up  to 
dun.  The  townish  clerks  of  the  dry  goods  merchants 
were  too  much  for  the  provincials.  Brown  Cru.Mi 
knocked  under  and  sulked,  owing,  as  he  said,  to  the 
melancholy  depression  accompanying  the  tall  of*  the 
deciduous  vegetation.  But  I  have  not  yet  introduced 
you  to  my  hero. 

Brown  Crash  was  the  Slimford  stage-agent.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  retired  watch-maker,  and  had  been 
laughed  at  in  his  boyhood  for  what  they  called  his 
"airs."  He  loved,  even  as  a  lad,  to  be  at  the  tavern 
when  the  stage  came  in,  and  help  out  the  ladies. 
With  instinctive  leisureliness  he  pulled  off  his  cap 
as  soon  after  the  "whoa-hup"  as  was  necessary  (and 
no  sooner),  and  asked  the  ladies  if  they  would  "alight 
and  take  dinner,"  with  a  seductive  smile  which  began, 
as  the  landlord  said,  "  to  pay."  Hence  his  promotion. 
At  sixteen  he  was  nominated  stage-agent,  and  thence 
forward  was  the  most  conspicuous  man  in  the  village; 
for  "  man"  he  was,  if  speech  and  gait  go  for  any 
thing. 

But  we  must  minister  a  moment  to  the  reader's 
inner  sense  ;  for  we  do  not  write  altogether  for  Slim- 
ford  comprehension.  Brown  Crash  had  something 
in  his  composition  "above  the  vulgar."  If  men's 
qualities  were  mixed  like  salads,  and  I  were  giving  a 
'recipe  for  Brown  Crashes,"  in  Mrs.  Glass's  style,  1 
hould  say  his  two  principal  ingredients  were  a  dic 
tionary  and  a  dunghill  cock — for  his  language  was  as 
ornate  as  his  style  of  ambulation  was  deliberate 
and  imposing.  What  Brown  Crash  would  have  been, 
born  Right  Honorable,  I  leave  (with  the  smaller  Dy- 
pers  and  Dimitys)  to  the  reader's  fancy.  My  object 
is  to  show  what  he  was,  minus  patrician  nurture  and 
valuation.  Words,  with  Brown  Crash,  were  suscep 
tible  of  being  dirtied  by  use.  He  liked  a  clean  tow 
el — he  preferred  an  unused  phrase.  But  here  stopped 
his  peculiarities.  Below  the  epidermis  he  was  like 
other  men,  subject  to  like  tastes  and  passions.  And 
if  he  expressed  his  loves  and  hates  with  grandiloquent 
imagery,  they  were  the  honest  loves  and  hates  of  a 
week-day  world — no  finer  nor  flimsier  for  their  be 
decked  plumage. 

To  use  his  own  phrase,  Brown  frequented  but  two 
ladies  in  Slimford — Miss  Harriet  Dyaper  and  Miss 
Meena  Dimity.  The  first  we  have  described  in 
describing  her  nose,  for  her  remainder  was  compara 
tively  inconsiderable.  The  latter  was  "a  Jove,"  and 
of  course  had  nothing  peculiar  about  her.  She  was 
a  lamp — nothing  till  lighted.  She  was  a  mantle — 
nothing,  except  as  worn  by  the  owner.  She  was  a 
mirror — blank  and  unconscious  till  something  came 
to  be  reflected.  She  was  anything,  loved — unloved, 
nothing!  And  this  (it  is  our  opinion  after  half  a 
life)  is  the  most  delicious  and  adorable  variety  of 
woman  that  has  been  spared  to  us  from  the  museum 
of  specimen  angels.  (A  remark  of  Brown  Crash's, 
by  the  way,  of  which  he  may  as  well  have  the  credit.) 

Now  Mr.  Crash  had  an  ambitious  weakness  for  the 
best  society,  and  he  liked  to  appear  intimate  with  the 
Dyapers.  But  in  Meena  Dimity  there  was  a  secret 
charm  which  made  him  wish  she  was  an  ever-to-be- 
handed-out  lady-stage-passenger.  He  could  have 
given  her  a  hand,  and  brought  in  her  umbrella  and 
bandbox,  all  day  Jong.  In  his  hours  of  pride  he 
thought  of  the  Dyapers — in  his  hours  of  affection  of 
Meena  Dimity.  But  the  Dyapers  looked  down  upon 
the  Dimitys;  and  to  play  his  card  delicately  between 
Harriet  and  Meena,  took  all  the  diplomacy  of  Brown 
Crash.  The  unconscious  Meena  would  walk  up 
Sassafras  street  when  she  had  his  arm,  and  the  scorn 
ful  Harriet  would  be  there  with  her  nose  over  the 
front  gate  to  sneer  at  them.  He  managed  as  well  as 
he  could.  He  went  on  light  evenings  to  the  Dya 
pers — on  dark  evenings  to  the  Dimitys.  He  took 
town-walks  with  the  'Dyapers — country-walks  with 


MEENA  DIMITY. 


161 


the  Dimitys.  But  his  acquaintance  with  the  Djapers 
hung  by  the  eyelids.  Harriet  liked  him  :  for  he  WRS 
the  only  beau  in  Slimford  whose  manners  were  not 
belittled  beside  her  nose.  But  her  acquaintance  with 
him  was  a  condescension,  and  he  well  knew  that  he 
could  not  "hold  her  by  the  nose"  if  she  were  offend 
ed.  Oh  no !  Though  their  respective  progenitors 
were  of  no  very  unequal  rank — though  a  horologist 
and  a  "  boss  lumberman"  might  abstractly  be  equals — 
the  Dyapers  had  the  power!  Yes — they  could  lift 
him  to  themselves,  or  dash  him  down  to  the  Dimitys; 
and  all  Slimford  would  agree  in  the  latter  case  that 
he  was  a  "slab"  and  a  "small  potato  !" 

But  a  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  Brown  Crash's 
dream  !  The  drummers  were  lording  it  in  Slimford, 
and  Brown,  reduced  to  Meena  Dimity  (for  he  was  too 
proud  to  play  second  fiddle  to  a  town  dandy),  was 
walking  with  her  on  a  dark  night  past  the  Dyapers. 
The  Dyapers  were  hanging  over  the  gate  unluckily, 
and  their  Pearl-street  admirers  sitting  on  the  top  rail 
of  the  fence. 

"  Who  is  it  ?"  said  a  strange  voice. 

The  reply,  sent  upward  from  a  scornfully  pro 
jecting  under  lip,  rebounded  in  echoes  from  the  tense 
nose  of  Miss  Dyaper. 

"A  Mr.  Crash,  and  a  girl  from  the  back  street !" 

It  was  enough.     A  hot  spot  on  his  cheek,  a  warm  | 
rim  round  his  eyes,  a   pimply  pricking   in  his  skin,  I 
and  it  was  all  over !     His  vow  was  made.     He  coldly  j 
bid  Meena  good  night  at  her  father's  door,  and  went  | 
home  and  counted  his  money.     And  from  that  hour, 
without  regard  to  sex,  he  secretly  accepted  shillings 
from  gratified  travellers,  and  "stood  treat"  no  more. 


Saratoga  was  crowded  with  the  dispersed  nuclei  of 
the  metropolises.  Fashion,  wealth,  and  beauty,  were 
there.  Brown  Crash  was  there,  on  his  return  from  a 
tour  to  Niagara  and  the  lakes. 

44  Brown  Crash,  Esq.,"  was  one  of  the  notabilities 
of  Congress  Hall.  Here  and  there  a  dandy  "  could 
not  quite  make  him  out;"  but  there  was  evidently 
something  uncommon  about  him.  The  ladies  thought  II 
him  "of  the  old  school  of  politeness,"  and  the  pol-  j  * 
iticians  thought  he  had  the  air  of  one  used  to  influ 
ence  in  his  county.  His  language  was  certainly  very 
choice  and  peculiar,  and  his  gait  was  conscious  dig 
nity  itself.  He  must  have  been  carefully  educated  ; 
yet  his  manners  were  popular,  and  he  was  particularly 
courteous  on  a  first  introduction.  The  elegance  and 
ease  with  which  he  helped  the  ladies  out  of  their 
carriages  were  particularly  remarked,  and  a  shrewd 
observer  said  of  him,  that  "  that  point  of  high  breed 
ing  was  only  acquired  by  daily  habit.  He  must  have 
been  brought  up  where"  there  were  carriages  and  la 
dies."  A  member  of  congress,  who  expected  to  run 
for  governor,  inquired  his  county,  and  took  wine 
with  him.  His  name  was  mentioned  by  the  letter- 
writers  from  the  springs.  Brown  Crash  was  in  his 
perihelion ! 

The  season  leaned  to  its  close,  and  the  following  ! 
paragraph  appeared  in  the  New  York  American  :— 

"  Fashionable  Intelligence. — The  company  at  the 
Springs  is  breaking  up.  We  understand  that  the 
Vice-President  and  Brown  Crash,  Esq.,  have  already 
left  for  their  respective  residences.  The  latter  gen 
tleman,  it  is  understood,  has  formed  a  matrimonial 
engagement  with  a  family  of  wealth  and  distinction 
from  the  south.  We  trust  that  these  interesting 
bonds,  binding  together  the  leading  families  of  the 
far-divided  extremities  of  our  country,  may  tend  to 


Meena  Dimity.  "  If  that  was  the  effect  of  fashion 
and  distinction  on  the  heart,  Mr.  Crash  was  welcome 
to  his  honors!  Let  him  marry  Miss  Dyaper,  and 
they  wished  him  much  joy  of  her  nose;  but  they 
would  never  believe  that  he  had  not  ruthlessly  broken 
the  heart  of  Meena  Dimity,  and  he  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself,  if  there  was  any  shame  in  such 
a  dandy." 

But  the  milliners,  though  powerful  people  in  their 
way,  could  little  affect  the  momentum  of  Brown 
Crash's  glories.  The  paragraph  from  the  "Ameri 
can"  had  been  copied  into  the  "  Slimford  Advertiser," 
and  the  eyes  of  Sassafras  street  and  Pepperidge  street 
were  alike  opened.  They  had  undervalued  their  in 
digenous  "prophet."  They  had  misinterpreted  and 
misread  the  stamp  of  his  superiority.  He  had  been 
obliged  to  go  from  them  to  be  recognised.  But  he 
was  returned.  He  was  there  to  have  reparation 
made — justice  done.  And  now,  what  office  would  he 
like,  from  Assessor  to  Pathmaster,  and  would  he  be 
good  enough  to  name  it  before  the  next  town-meet 
ing.  Brown  Crash  was  king  of  Slimford! 

And  Harriet  Dyaper!  The  scorn  from  her  lip  had 
gone,  like  the  blue  from  a  radish!  Notes  for  "  B. 
Crash, Esq., "showered  from  Sassafras  street — bouquets 
from  old  Dyaper's  front  yard  glided  to  him,  per  black 
boy — no  end  to  the  endearing  attentions,  undisguised 
and  unequivocal.  Brown  Crash  and  Harriet  Dyaper 
were  engaged,  if  having  the  front  parlor  entirely  given 
up  to  them  of  an  evening  meant  anything — if  his 
being  expected  every  night  to  tea  meant  anything — 
if  his  devoted  (though  she  thought  rather  cold)  at 
tentions  meant  anything.  .  ; 
They  did  n't  mean  anything  !  They  all  did  n't 
mean  anything  !  What  does  the  orthodox  minister 
do,  the  third  Sunday  after  Brown  Crash's  return,  but 
read  the  banns  of  matrimony  between  that  faithless 
man  and  Meena  Dimity  ! 

But  this  was  not  to  be  endured.  Harriet  Dyaper 
had  a  cousin  who  was  a  "  strapper."  He  was  boss  of 
a  sawmill  in  the  next  county,  aud  he  must  be  sent  for. 

He  was  sent  for. 


strengthen  the  tenacity  of  the  great  American  Union !" 

*  *      '         *  »  *  * 

It  was  not  surprising  that  the  class  in  Slimford  who 

knew    everything — the    milliners,    to-wit— moralized 

somewhat   bitterly  on   Mr.   Crash's  devotion  to  the 

Dyapers  after  his  return,  and  his  consequent  slight  to 


The  fisht  was  over.  Boss  Dyaper  had  undertaken 
to  flog  Brown  Crash,  but  it  was  a  drawn  battle — for 
the  combatants  had  been  pulled  apart  by  their  coat- 
tails.  They  stepped  into  the  barroom  and  stood  re 
covering  their  breath.  The  people  of  Slimford 
crowded  in,  and  wanted  to  have  the  matter  talked 
over.  Boss  Dyaper  bolted  out  his  grievance. 

"Gentlemen!"  said  Brown  Crash,  with  one  of  his 
irresistible  come-to-dinner  smiles,  "  I  am  culpable, 
perhaps,  in  the  minutiae  of  this  business — justifiable, 
I  trust  you  will  say,  in  the  general  scope  and  tendency. 
You,  all  of  you,  probably,  had  mothers,  and  some  of 
you  have  wives  and  sisters;  and  your 'silver  cord' 
naturally  sympathizes  with  a  worsted  woman.  But, 
gentlemen,  you  are  republicans!  You,  all  of  you, 
are  the  rulers  of  a  country  very  large  indeed  ;  and 
you  are  not  limited  in  your  views  to  one  woman,  nor 
to  a  thousand  women — to  one  mile,  nor  to  a  thousand 
miles."  You  generalize!  you  go  for  magnificent  prin 
ciples,  gentlemen !  You  scorn  high-and-mightiuess, 
and  supercilious  aristocracy  !" 

"Hurra  for  Mr.  Crash!"  cried  a  stagedriver  from 
the  outside. 

44  Well,  gentleman  !  In  what  I  have  done,  I  have 
deserved  well  of  a  republican  country!  True — it  has 
been  my  misfortune  to  roll  my  Juggernaut  of  prin 
ciple  over  the  sensibilities  of  that  gentleman's  re- 


spectable  female  relative.  But,  gentlemen,  she  of 
fended,  remedilessly  and  grossly,  one  of  the  sovereign 
people !  She  scorned  one  of  earth's  fairest  daughters, 
who  lives  in  a  back  street !  Gentlemen,  you  know 
that  pride  tripped  up  Lucifer !  Shall  a  tiptop  angel  fall 
for  it,  and  a  young  woman  who  is  nothing  particular 


162 


THE  POWER  OF  AN  "INJURED  LOOK/ 


be  left  scornfully  standing?  Shall  Miss  Dyaper  have 
more  privileges  than  Lucifer  ?  I  appreciate  your  in 
dignant  negative ! 

"But,  gentlemen,  I  am  free  to  confess,  I  had  also 
my  republican  private  end.  You  know  my  early  his 
tory.  You  have  witnessed  my  struggles  to  be  respect 
ed  by  my  honorable  contemporaries.  If  it  be  my 
weakness  to  be  sensitive  to  the  finger  of  scorn,  be  it 
so.  You  will  know  how  to  pardon  me.  But  I  will 
be  brief.  At  a  particular  crisis  of  my  acquaintance 
with  Miss  Dyaper,  I  found  it  expedient  to  transfer  my 
untrammelled  tendernesses  to  Pcpperidge  street.  My 
heart  had  long  been  in  Pepperidge  street.  But, 
gentlemen,  to  have  done  it  without  removing  from 
before  my  eyes  the  contumelious  finger  of  the  scorn 
of  Sassafras  street,  was  beyond  my  capabilities  of  en 
durance.  Injustice  to  my  present  '  future,'  gentle 
men,  I  felt  that  I  must  remove  '  sour  grapes'  from  my 
escutcheon — that  I  must  soar  to  a  point,  whence, 
swooping  proudly  to  Meena  Dimity,  I  should  pass 
the  Dyapers  in  descending  ! 

(Cheers  and  murmurs.) 

"Gentlemen  and  friends!  This  world  is  all  a  fleet 
ing  show.  The  bell  has  rung,  and  1  keep  you  from 
your  suppers.  Briefly.  I  found  the  means  to  travel 
and  test  the  ring  of  my  metal  among  unprejudiced 
strangers.  I  wished  to  achieve  distinction  and  return 
to  my  birthplace ;  but  for  what  ?  Do  me  justice, 
gentlemen.  Not  to  lord  it  in  Sassafras  street.  Not 
to  carry  off  a  Dyaper  with  triumphant  elation! 
Not  to  pounce  on  your  aristocratic  No.  1,  and 
link  my  destiny  with  the  disdainful  Dyapers!  No! 
But  to  choose  where  I  liked,  and  have  the  credit 
of  liking  it !  To  have  Slimford  believe  that  if  I 
pre. erred  their  No.  2,  it  was  because  I  liked  it  bet 
ter  than  No.  1.  Gentlemen,  I  am  a  republican!  1 
may  find  my  congenial  spirit  among  the  wealthy — I 
may  find  it  among  the  humble.  But  I  want  the  lib 
erty  to  choose.  And  I  have  achieved  it,  I  trust  you 
will  permit  me  to  say.  Having  been  honored  by  the 
dignitaries  of  a  metropolis — having  consorted  with  a 
candidate  for  gubernatorial  distinction — having  been 
recorded  in  a  public  journal  as  a  companion  of  the 
Vice-President  of  this  free  and  happy  country — you 
will  believe  me  when  I  declare  that  I  prefer  Pepper 
idge  street  to  Sassafras — you  will  credit  my  sincerity, 
when,  having  been  approved  by  the  Dyapers'  betters, 
I  give  them  the  go-by  for  the  Dimitys  !  Gentlemen, 
I  have  done." 

The  reader  will  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  Mr. 
Brown  Crash  is  now  a  prominent  member  of  the 
legislature,  and  an  excessive  aristocrat — Pepperidge 
street  and  very  democratic  speeches  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding. 


THE  POWER  OF  AN  "INJURED  LOOK,1' 


CHAPTER  I. 

I  HAD  a  sort  of  candle-light  acquaintance  with  Mr. 
Philip  McRueit  when  we  were  in  college.  I  mean  to 
say  that  I  had  a  daylight  repugnance  to  him,  and  never 
walked  with  him,  or  talked  with  him,  or  rode  with 
him,  or  sat  with  him;  and,  indeed,  seldom  saw  him — 
expect  as  one  of  a  club  oyster-party  of  six.  He  was 
a  short,  sharp,  satirical  man  (nicknamed  "  my  cruet" 
by  his  cronies — rather  descriptively  !)  but  as  plausible 
and  as  vindictive  as  Mephistopheles  before  and  after 
the  ruin  of  a  soul.  In  some  other  state  of  existence 


I  had  probably  known  and  suffered  by  Phil.  McRueit 
— for  I  knew  him  like  the  sleeve  of  an  old  coat,  the 
first  day  I  laid  eyes  on  him  ;  though  other  people 
seemed  to  have  no  such  instinct.  Oh,  we  were  not 
new  acquaintances — from  whatever  star  he  had  been 
transported,  for  his  sins,  to  this  planet  of  dirt.  I  think 
he  was  of  the  same  opinion,  himself.  He  chose  be 
tween  open  warfare  and  conciliation  in  the  first  five 
minutes — after  seeing  me  as  a  stranger — chose  the 
latter. 

Six  or  seven  years  after  leaving  college,  I  was  fol 
lowing  my  candle  up  to  bed  rather  musingly,  one  night 
at  the  Astor,  and  on  turning  a  corner,  I  was  obliged  to 
walk  round  a  short  gentleman  who  stood  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs  in  an  attitude  of  fixed  contemplation.  As 
1  weathered  the  top  of  his  hat  rather  closely,  I  caught 
the  direction  of  his  eye,  and  saw  that  he  was  regard 
ing,  very  fixedly,  a  pair  of  rather  dusty  kid  slippers, 
which  had  been  set  outside  the  door,  probably  for 
cleaning,  by  the  occupant  of  the  chamber  opposite. 
As  the  gentleman  did  not  move,  I  turned  on  the  half 
landing  of  the  next  flight  of  stairs,  and  looked  back, 
breaking  in,  by  my  sudden  pause,  upon  his  fit  of  ab 
straction.  It  was  McRueit.  and  on  recognising  me, 
he  immediately  beckoned  me  to  his  side. 

"Does  it  strike  you,"  said  he,  "  that  there  is  any 
thing  peculiar  in  that  pair  of  shoes  ?" 

"  No — except  that  they  certify  to  two  very  small 
feet  on  the  other  side  of  the  door." 

"Not  merely  'small,'  my  dear  fellow!  Do  you 
see  where  the  pressure  has  been  in  those  slender  shoes, 
how  straight  the  inside  line,  how  arched  the  instep, 
how  confidingly  flat  the  pressure  downward  of  the 
little  great  toe  !  It's  a  woman  of  sweet  and  relying 
character  who  wore  that  shoe  to-day,  and  I  must  know 
her.  More,  sir,  I  must  marry  her  !  Ah,  you  laugh 
— but  I  will  !  There's  a  magnetism  in  that  pair  of 
shoes  addressed  to  me  only.  Beg  your  pardon — good 
night — I'll  go  down  stairs  and  find  out  her  number — 
'74!'  I'll  be  well  acquainted  with  '74'  by  this  time 
to-morrow  !" 

For  the  unconscious  young  lady  asleep  in  that  room, 
I  lay  awake  half  the  night,  troubled  with  foreboding 
pity.  I  knew  the  man  so  well,  I  was  so  certain  that 
he  would  leave  nothing  possible  undone  to  carry  out 
this  whimsical  purpose!  1  knew  that  from  that  mo 
ment  was  levelled,  point-blank,  at  the  lady,  whoever 
she  might  be  (if  single)  a  battery  of  devilish  and  per 
tinacious  ingenuity,  which  would  carry  most  any 
small  fort  of  a  heart,  most  any  way  barricaded  and 
defended.  He  was  well  off;  he  was  well-looking 
enough;  he  was  deep  and  crafty.  But  if  he  did  win 
her,  she  was  gone!  gone,  I  knew,  from  happiness, 
like  a  stone  from  a  sling.  Hs  was  a  tyrant — subtle 
in  his  cruelties  to  all  people  dependant  on  him — and 
her  life  would  be  one  of  refined  torture,  neglect,  be 
trayal,  and  tears. 

A  fit  of  intermittent  disgust  for  strangers,  to  which 
all  persons  living  in  hotels  are  more  or  less  liable, 
confined  my  travels,  for  some  days  after  this  rencontre, 
to  the  silence-and-slop  thorough-fare  of  the  back 
stairs,  "  Coming  to  rny  feed"  of  society  one  rainy 
morning,  I  went  into  the  drawing-room  after  breakfast, 
and  was  not  surprised  to  see  McRueit  in  a  posture  of 
absorbed  attention  beside  a  lady.  His  stick  stood  on 
the  floor,  and  with  his  left  cheek  rested  on  the  gold 
head,  he  was  gazing  into  her  face,  and  evidently  keep 
ing  her  perfectly  at  her  ease  as  to  the  wants  and  gaps 
of  conversation,  as  he  knew  how  to  do — for  he  was  the 
readiest  man  with  his  brick  and  mortar  whom  I  ever 
had  encountered. 

"  Who  is  that  lady?"  Tasked  of  an  omni-acquainted 
old  bachelor  friend  of  mine. 

"  Miss  Jonthee  Twitt — and  what  can  be  the  secret 
of  that  rather  exclusive  gentleman's  attention  to  her, 
1  can  not  fancy." 


THE  POWER  OF  AN  "INJURED  LOOK.' 


163 


I  pulled  a  newspaper  from  my  pocket,  and  seating  M  carried  on  the  war  strenuously.     Perfectly  certain  as  I 


myself  in  one  of  the  deep  windows,  commenced  rather 
a  compassionate  study  of  MissTwitt — intending  fully, 
if  I  should  find  her  interesting,  to  save  her  from  the 
clutches  of  my  detestable  classmate. 

She  was  a  slight,  hollow-chested,  consumptive- 
looking  girl,  with  a  cast  of  features  that  any  casual 
observer  would  be  certain  to  describe  as  "interesting." 
With  the  first  two  minutes'  gaze  upon  her,  my  sym 
pathies  were  active  enough  for  a  crusade  against  a 
whole  army  of  connubial  tyrants.  I  suddenly  paused, 
however.  Something  McRueit  said  made  a  change 


was  that  "  the  whirligig  of  time"  would  "  bring  about 
the  revenges"  of  Mrs.  McRueit,  I  began  to  feel  a 
meantime  pity  for  her,  and  had  myself  presented  duly 
by  McRueil  the  next  morning  after  breakfast. 

It  was  a  tepid,  flaccid,  revery-colored  August  morn 
ing,  and  the  sole  thought  of  the  universe  seemed  to 
be  to  sit  down.  The  devotees  to  gayety  and  mineral 
water  dawdled  out  to  the  porticoes,  and  some  sat  on 
chairs  under  the  trees,  and  the  dandies  lay  on  the 
grass,  and  the  old  ladies  on  the  steps  and  the  settees, 
and  here  and  there,  a  man  on  the  balustrade,  and,  in 


in  the  lady's  countenance.     She  sat  just  as  still ;  she  !j  the  large  swing,  vis-d-vis,  sat  McRueit  and  the  widow 

did  not  move  her  head  from  its  negligent  posture;  her   I  Wanmaker,  chattering  in  an  undertone  quite  inaudi- 

eyebrows  did  not  contract;  her  lips  did  not  stir;  but 

the    dull,   sickly-colored    lids  descended   calmly  and 

fixedly  till  they  hid  from  sight  the  upper  edges  of  the 

pupils!  and  by  this  slight  but  infallible  sign  I  knew 

— but  the  story  will  tell  what  I  knew.     Napoleon  was 

nearly,  but   not  quite  right,  when  he  said  that  there 

was  no  reliance  to  be  placed  on  peculiarities  of  feature 

or  expression. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Ix  August  of  that  same  year,  I  followed  the  world 
to  Saratoga.  In  my  first  reconnoitre  of  the  drawing- 
room  of  Congress  Hall,  I  caught  the  eye  of  Mr.  Mc 
Rueit,  and  received  from  him  a  cordial  salutation. 
As  I  put  my  head  right,  upon  its  pivot,  after  an  easy  ! 
nod  to  my  familiar  aversion,  my  eyes  fell  upon  Miss  j 
Jonfhee  Twitt — that  was — for  I  had  seen,  in  the 
newspapers  of  two  months  before,  that  the  resolve 
(born  of  the  dusty  slipper  outside  her  door),  had  been 
brought  about,  and  she  was  now  on  the  irrevocable 
side  of  a  honeymoon  sixty  days  old. 

Her  ei/elid  was  down  upon  the  pupil — motionless, 
concentrated,  and  vigilant  as  a  couched  panther — and 
from  beneath  the  hem  of  her  dress  curved  out  the 
high  arched  instep  of  a  foot  pointed  with  desperate  I 
tension  to  the  carpet ;  the  little  great  toe  (whose  rely-  j 
ing  pressure  on  the  soiled  slipper  Mr.  McRueit  had 
been  captivated  by),  now  rigid  with  as  strong  a  pur 
pose  as  spiritual  homeopathy  could  concentrate  in  so  j 
small  a  tenement. 


ble.  Mrs.  McRueit  sat  on  a  bench,  with  her  back 
against  one  of  the  high-shouldered  pine  trees  in  the 
court-yard,  and  I  had  called  McRueit.  out  of  his  swing 
to  present  me.  But  he  returned  immediately  to  the 
widow. 

I  thought  it  would  be  alleviative  and  good-natured 
to  give  Mrs.  McRueit  an  insight  to  the  harmlessness 
of  Mrs.  Wanmaker,  and  I  had  done  so  very  nearly  to 
my  satisfaction,  when  I  discovered  that  the  slighted 
wife  did  not  care  sixpence  about  the  fact,  and  that, 
unlike  Hamlet,  she  only  knew  seems.  The  more  I 
developed  the  innocent  object  of  the  widow's  outlay 
of  smiles  and  confidentialities,  the  more  Mrs.  McRueit 
placed  herself  in  a  posture  to  be  remarked  by  the 
loungers  in  the  court-yard  and  the  dawdlers  on  the 
portico,  and  the  more  she  deepened  a  certain  look — 
j  you  must  imagine  it  for  the  present,  dear  reader.  It 
j  would  take  a  razor's  edge  of  analysis,  and  a  Flemish 
|  paint-pot  and  patience,  to  carve  that  injured  look  into 
language,  or  paint  it  truthfully  to  the  eye  !  Juries 
would  hang  husbands,  and  recording  angels  "ruthless 
ly  overcharge,"  upon  the  unsupported  evidence  of 
such  a  look.  She  looked  as  if  her  heart  must  have 
suffocated  with  forbearance  long  before  she  began  to 
look  so.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  forgiven  and  wept, 
and  was  ready  to  forgive  and  weep  again.  She  looked 
as  if  she  would  give  her  life  if  she  could  conceal  "her 
feelings,"  and  as  if  she  was  nerving  soul,  and  heart, 
and  eyelids,  and  lachrymatory  glands — all  to  agony — 
to  prevent  bursting  into  tears  with  her  unutterable 
anguish  !  It  was  the  most  unresisting,  unresentful, 
patient,  sweet  miserableness!  A  lamb's  willingness 
to  "furnish  forth  another  meal"  of  chops  and  sweet- 


I  thought  I  would  make  Mr.  and  |j  bread,  was  testy  to  such  meek  endurance  !     She  was 


Mrs.  McRueit  the  subject  of  quiet  study  while  I  re 
mained  at  Saratoga. 

But  I  have  not  mentioned  the  immediate  cause  of 
Mrs.  McRueit's  resentment.  Her  bridegroom  was 
walking  up  and  down  the  room  with  a  certain  Mrs. 
Wanmaker,  a  widow,  who  was  a  better  woman  than 
she  looked  to  be,  as  I  chanced  to  know,  but  as  nobody 
could  know  without  the  intimate  acquaintance  with 
Mrs.  Wanmaker  upon  which  I  base  this  temark. 
With  beauty  of  the  most  voluptuous  cast,  and  a 
passion  for  admiration  which  induced  her  to  throw 
out  every  possible  lure  to  men  any  way  worth  her 
time  as  victims,  Mrs.  Wanmaker's  blood  was  as 
"  cold  as  the  flow  of  Iser,"  and  her  propriety,  in  fact, 
wholly  impregnable.  I  had  been  myself  "tried  on" 
by  the  widow  Wanmaker,  and  twenty  caravan-marches 
might  have  been  made  across  the  Desert  of  Sahara, 
while  the  conviction  I  have  just  stated  was  "  getting 
through  my  hair."  It  was  not  wonderful,  therefore, 
that  both  the  bride  and  her  (usually)  most  penetratious 
bridegroom,  had  sailed  over  the  widow's  shallows,  un 
conscious  of  soundings.  She  was  a  "deep"  woman, 
too — but  in  the  love  line. 

I  thought  McRueit  singularly  off  his  guard,  if  it 
were  only  for  "  appearances."  He  monopolized  the 
widow  effectually,  and  she  thought  it  worth  her  while 
to  let  the  world  think  him  (a  bridegroom  and  a  rising 
young  politician),  mad  for  her,  and,  truth  to  s;»y,  they 


evidently  a  martyr,  a  victim,  a  crushed  flower,  a  "  poor 
thing  !"  But  she  did,  now  and  then — unseen  by  any 
body  but  me — give  a  glance  from  that  truncated  orb 
of  a  pupil  of  hers,  over  the  top  of  her  handkerchief, 
that,  if  incarnated,  would  have  made  a  hole  in  the  hide 
of  a  rhinoceros !  It  was  triumph,  venom,  implacabili 
ty — such  as  I  had  never  before  seen  expressed  in  hu 
man  glances. 

There  are  many  persons  with  but  one  idea,  and  that 
a  good  one.  Mrs.  McRueit,  I  presume,  was  inca 
pable  of  appreciating  my  interest  in  her.  At  any  rate 
she  played  the  same  game  with  me  as  with  other 
people,  and  managed  her  affairs  altogether  with  per 
fect. unity.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  endeavored  to  hear 
from  her  tongue  what  I  read  in  the  lowering  pupil  of 
her  eye.  She  spoke  of  McRueit  with  evident  re 
luctance,  but  always  with  discretion — never  blaming 
him,  nor  leaving  any  opening  that  should  betray  re 
sentment,  or  turn  the  current  of  sympathy  from  her 
self.  The  result  was  immediate.  The  women  in  the 
house  began  to  look  black  upon  McRueit.  The  men 
"sent  him  to  Coventry"  more  unwillingly,  for  he  was 
amusing  and  popular — but  "to  Coventry"  he  went! 
And  at  last  the  widow  Wanmaker  became  aware  that 
she  was  wasting  her  time  on  a  man  whose  attentions 
were  not  wanted  elsewhere — and  she  (the  unkindest 
cut  of  all)  found  reasons  for  looking  another  way  when 
he  approached  her.  He  had  became  aware,  during 


164 


THE  POWER  OF  AN  "INJURED  LOOK." 


this  process,  what  was  "  in  the  wind,"  but  he  knew 
too  much  to  stay  in  the  public  eye  when  it  was  in 
flamed.  With  his  brows  lowering,  and  his  face 
gloomy  with  feelings  I  could  easily  interpret,  he  took 
the  early  coach  on  the  third  morning  after  my  intro 
duction  to  Mrs.  McRueit,  and  departed,  probably  for 
a  discipline  trip,  to  some  place  where  sympathy  with 
his  wife  would  be  less  dangerous. 


CHAPTER  IH. 

I  THINK,  that  within  the  next  two  or  three  years,  I 
heard  McRueit's  name  mentioned  several  times,  or 
saw  it  in  the  papers,  connected  with  strong  political 
movements.  I  had  no  very  definite  idea  of  where  he 
was  residing,  however.  Business  called  me  to  a 
western  county,  and  on  the  road  I  fell  into  the  com 
pany  of  a  great  political  schemer  and  partisan — one 
of  those  joints  (of  the  feline  political  body),  the  next 
remove  from  the  "  cat's  paw."  Finding  that  I  cared 
not  a  straw  for  politics,  and  that  we  were  going  to  the 
same  town,  he  undertook  the  blandishment  of  an  over 
flow  of  confidence  upon  me,  probably  with  the  remote 
possibility  that  he  might  have  occasion  to  use  me.  I 
gave  in  to  it  so  far  as  courteously  to  receive  all  his 
secrets,  and  we  arrived  at  our  destination  excellent 
friends. 

The  town  was  in  a  ferment  with  the  coming  election 
of  a  member  for  the  legislature,  and  the  hotel  being 
very  crowded,  Mr.  Develin  (rny  fellow-traveller)  and 
myself  were  put  into  a  double-bedded  room.  Busy 
with  my  own  affairs,  I  saw  but  little  of  him,  and  he 
seemed  quite  too  much  occupied  for  conversation,  till 
the  third  night  after  our  arrival.  Lying  in  bed  wiih 
the  moonlight  streaming  into  the  room,  he  began  to 
give  me  some  account  of  the  campaign,  preparing  for, 
around  us,  and  presently  mentioned  the  name  of 
McRueit — (the  name,  by  the  way,  that  I  had  seen 
upon  the  placards,  without  caring  particularly  to  in 
quire  whether  or  not  it  was  "  mine  ancient"  aversion). 

"  They  are  not  aware,"  snid  Mr.  Develin,  after 
talking  on  the  subject  awhile,  "  that  this  petty  election, 
is,  in  fact,  the  grain  of  sand  that  is  to  turn  the  presi 
dential  scale.  If  McRueit  should  be  elected  (as  I 
am  sorry  to  say  there  seems  every  chance  he  will  be), 
Van  Buren's  doom  is  sealed.  I  have  come  a  little 
too  late  here.  I  should  have  had  time  to  know  some 
thing  more  of  this  man  McRueit — " 

"  Perhaps  I  can  give  you  some  idea  of  him,"  inter 
rupted  I,  "  for  he  has  chanced  to  be  more  in  my  way 
than  I  would  have  bargained  for.  But  what  do  you 
wish  to  know  particularly?"  (I  spoke,  as  the  reader 
will  see,  in  the  unsuspecting  innocence  of  my  heart.) 

"Oh — anything — anything  !  Tell  me  all  you  know 
of  him  !" 

Mr.  Develin's  vividness  rather  surprised  me,  for  he 
raised  himself  on  his  elbow  in  bed — but  I  went  on  and 
narrated  very  much  what  I  have  put  down  for  the 
reader  in  the  two  preceding  chapters. 

"How  do  you  spell  Mrs.  Wanmaker's  name?" 
asked  my  imbedded  vis-d-vis,  as  I  stopped  and  turned 
over  to  go  to  sleep. 

I  spelt  it  for  him. 

He  jumped  out  of  bed,  dressed  himself  and  left  the 
room.  Will  the  reader  permit  me  to  follow  him,  like 
Asmodeus,  giving  with  Asmodean  brevity  the  knowl 
edge  I  afterward  gained  of  his  use  of  my  involuntary 
revelation  ? 

Mr.  Develin  roused  the  active  member  of  the  Van 
Buren  committee  from  his  slumber,  and  in  an  hour 
had  the  printers  of  their  party  paper  at  work  upon  a 
placard.  A  large  meeting  was  to  be  held  the  next 


day  in  the  town-hall,  during  which  both  candidate*,  it 
was  supposed,  would  address  the  people.  Ladies 
were  to  occupy  the  galleries.  The  hour  came  round. 
Mrs.  McRueit's  carriage  drove  into  the  village  a  few 
minutes  before  eleven,  and  as  she  stopped  at  a  shop 
for  a  moment,  a  letter  was  handed  her  by  a  boy.  She 
sat  still  and  read  it.  She  was  alone.  Her  face  turned 
livid  with  paleness  after  its  first  flush,  and  forgetting 
her  errand  at  the  shop,  she  drove  on  to  the  town-hall. 
She  took  her  seat  in  a  prominent  part  of  the  gallery. 
The  preliminaries  were  gone  through  with,  and  her 
husband  rose  to  speak.  He  was  a  plausible  orator, 
an  eloquent  man.  But  there  was  a  sentiment  circula 
ting  in  the  audience — something  whispered  from  man 
to  man — that  strangely  took  off  the  attention  of  the 
audience.  He  could  not,  as  he  had  never  before  found 
difficulty  in  doing,  keep  their  eyes  upon  his  lips. 
Every  one  was  gazing  on  his  wife  !  And  there  she 
sat — with  her  INJURED  LOOK  ! — pale,  sad,  apparently 
striving  to  listen  and  conceal  her  mental  suffering.  It 
was  as  convincing  to  the  audience  of  the  truth  of  the 
j  insinuation  that  was  passing  from  mouth  to  mouth — 
as  convincing  as  would  have  been  a  revelation  from 
Heaven.  McRueit  followed  the  many  upturned  eyes 
at  last,  and  saw  that  they  were  bent  on  his  wife,  and 
that — once  more — after  years  of  conciliation,  she  wore 
THAT  INJURED  LOOK  !  His  heart  failed  him.  He 
evidently  comprehended  that  the  spirit  that  had  driven 
him  from  Saratoga,  years  before — popular  sympathy 
with  women — had  overtaken  him  and  was  plotting 
against  him  once  more.  His  speech  began  to  lose 
its  concentration.  He  talked  wide.  The  increasing 
noise  overpowered  him,  and  he  descended  at  last  from 
the  platform  in  the  midst  of  a  universal  hiss.  The 
other  candidate  rose  and  spoke;  and  at  the  close  of 
his  speech  the  meeting  broke  up,  and  as  they  dis 
persed,  their  eyes  were  met  at  every  corner  with  a 
large  placard,  in  which  •' injured  wife."  kl  unfaithful 
husband,"  "widow  W — n — k — r,"  were  the  words  in 
prominent  capitals.  The  election  came  on  the  next 
day,  and  Mr.  McRueit  being  signally  defeated,  Mr. 
Van  Buren's  election  to  the  Presidency  (if  Mr.  Develin 
knew  anything)  was  made  certain — brought  about  by 
a  woman's  INJURED  LOOK. 

My  business  in  the  county  was  the  purchase  of  land, 
and  for  a  year  or  two  afterward,  I  was  a  great  deal 
there.  Feeling  that  I  had  unintentionally  furnished 
a  weapon  to  his  enemies,  I  did  penance  by  cultivating 
McRueit.  I  went  often  to  his  house:  He  was  at 
first  a  good  deal  broken  up  by  the  sudden  check  to 
his  ambition,  but  he  rallied  with  a  change  in  his 
character  for  which  I  was  not  prepared.  He  gave  up 
all  antagonism  toward  his  wife.  He  assumed  a  new 
manner  to  her.  She  had  been  skilfully  managed  be 
fore — but  he  took  her  now  confidingly  behind  his 
shield.  He  felt  overmastered  by  the  key  she  had  to 
popular  sympathy,  and  he  determined  wisely  to  make 
it  turn  in  his  favor.  By  assiduity,  by  tenderness, 
childlikeness,  he  succeeded  in  completely  convincing 
her  that  he  had  but  one  out-of-doors  wish — that  of 
embellishing  her  existence  by  his  success.  The  effort 
on  her  was  marvellous.  She  recovered  her  health, 
gradually  changed  to  a  joyous  and  earnest  promoter 
of  her  husband's  interests,  and  they  were  soon  a  mark 
ed  model  in  the  county  for  conjugal  devotion.  The 
popular  impression  soon  gained  ground  that  Mr.  Mc 
Rueit  had  been  shamefully  wronged  by  the  previous 
prejudice  against  his  character  as  a  husband.  The 
tide  that  had  already  turned,  soon  swelled  to  a  flood, 
and  Mr.  McRueit  now — but  Mr.  McRueit  is  too  power 
ful  a  person  in  the  present  government  to  follow  any 
farther.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  he  might  return  to  Mrs. 
Wanmaker  and  his  old  courses  if  he  liked — for  his 
wife's  INJURED  LOOK  is  entirely  fattened  out  of  possi 
bility  by  her  happiness.  She  weighs  two  hundred,  and 
could  no  more  look  injured  than  Sir  John  Falstaff. 


BEWARE  OF  DOGS  AND  WALTZING. 


165 


BEWARE  OF  DOGS  AND  WALTZING, 

THE  birds  that  flew  over  County  Surrey  on  the 
twelfth  of  June,  1835,  looked  down  upon  a  scene  of 
which  many  a  "lord  of  creation,"  travelling  only  by 
the  roads,  might  well  have  envied  them  the  seeing. 
For,  ever  so  merry  let  it  be  within  the  lordly  parks  of 
England,  the  trees  that  look  over  the  ring  fence  upon 
the  world  without,  keep  their  countenance — aristocrats 
that  they  are!  Round  and  round  Beckton  Park  you 
might  have  travelled  that  sunny  day,  and  often  within 
arrow-shot  of  its  hidden  and  fairy  lawn,  and  never 
suspected,  but  by  the  magnetic  tremor  in  your  veins, 
that  beautiful  women  were  dancing  near  by,  and  "  mar 
vellous  proper  men,"  more  or  less  enamored,  looking 
on — every  pink  and  blue  girdle  a  noose  for  a  heart, 
of  course,  and  every  gay  waistcoat  a  victim  venturing 
near  the  trap  (though  this  last  is  mentioned  entirely 
on  my  own  responsibility). 

But  what  have  we  to  do  with  the  unhappy  exiles 
without  this  pretty  paradise !  You  are  an  invited 
guest,  dear  reader.  Pray  walk  in  ! 

Did  you  ask  about  the  Becktons?  The  Becktons 
are  people  blessed  with  money  and  a  very  charming 
acquaintance.  That  is  enough  to  know  about  them. 
Yet  stay  !  Sir  Thomas  was  knighted  for  his  behavior 
at  some  great  crisis  in  India  (for  he  made  his  fortune 
in  India)— and  Lady  Beckton  is  no  great  beauty,  but 
she  has  the  mania  of  getting  handsome  people  together, 
and  making  them  happier  than  belongs  properly  to 
handsome  people's  destiny.  And  this,  I  think,  must 
suffice  for  a  first  introduction. 

The  lawn,  as  you  see,  has  the  long  portico  of  the 
house  on  one  side  of  it,  a  bend  of  the  river  on  two 
other  sides,  and  a  thick  shrubbery  on  the  fourth. 
The  dancing-floor  is  in  the  centre,  inlaid  at  the  level 
of  the  smooth  sward,  and  it  is  just  now  vibrating  to 
the  measured  step  of  the  mazurka — beautifully  danced, 
we  must  say ! 

And  now  let  me  point  out  to  you  the  persons  most 
concerned  in  this  gossip  of  mine. 

First,  the  ladies. 

Miss  Blakeney — (and  she  was  never  called  anything 
but  Miss  Blakeney — never  Kate,  or  Kitty,  or  Kathleen,  j 
I    mean,    though    her   name    was   Catherine) — Miss  ! 
Blakeney    is   that   very    stylish,    very   striking,   very  \ 
magnificent  girl,  I  think  I  may  say,  with  the   white 
chip  hat  and  black  feather.     Nobody  but  Miss  Blake 
ney  could  venture  to  wear  just  the  dress  she  is  sport-  j 
ing,  but  she  must  dash,  though  she  is  in  half-mourn 
ing,  and,  faith!  there  is  nothing  out  of  keeping,  artisti 
cally  speaking,  after  all.     A  white  dress  embroidered 
with  black   flowers,  dazzling  white  shoulders  turned 
over  with  black  lace,  white  neck  and  forehead  (brilliant 
ly  white),  waved  over  and  kissed  by  luxuriant  black  j 
ringlets  (brilliantly   black).     And  very  white  temples  i 
with  very  black  eyes,  and  very  white  eyelids  with  long  i 
black  lashes,  and,  since   those  dazzling  white  teeth 
were  without  a  contrast,  there  hung  upon  her  neck  a  [ 
black  cross  of  ebony — and  now  we  have  pul   her  in 
black  and  white,  where  she  will  "  stay  put."     Scripta 
verba  inanent,  saith  the  cautionary  proverb. 

Here  and  there,  you  observe,  there  is  a  small  Per-  ! 
sian  carpet  spread  on  I  he  sward  for  those  who  like  to  \ 
lounge  and  look  at  the  dancers,  and  though  a  score  of  ! 
people,  at  least,  are  availing  themselves  of  this  oriental 
luxury,  no  one  looks  so  modestly  pretty,  half-couched 
on   the   richly-colored   woof,   as  that  simply  dressed  ; 
blonde,  with  a  straw   hat   in  her  lap,  and   her  light 
auburn  curls  taking  their  saucy  will  of  her  blue-veined 
neck  and  shoulders.     That  lady's  plain  name  is  Mabel 
Brown,  and,  like  yourself,  many  persons  have  wished 
to  change  it  for  her.     She  is  half-married,  indeed,  to 
several  persons  here  present,  for  there  is  one  consenting 
party.     Mais  rautre  ne  veut  pas,  as  a  French  novelist 


laments,  it  stating  a  similar  dilemma.  Meantime,  Miss 
Brown  is  the  adopted  sister  of  the  black  and  white  Miss 
Blakeney. 

One  more  exercise  of  my  function  of  cicerone  ! 

Lying  upon  the  bank  of  the  river,  with  his  shoulder 

against  that  fine  oak,  and  apparently  deeply  absorbed 

in  the  fate  of  the  acorn-cups  which  he  throws  into  the 

current,  you  may  survey  the  elegant  person  of  Mr. 

Lindsay  Maud — a  gentleman  whom  I  wish  you  to  take 

for  rather  more  than  his  outer  seeming,  since  he  will 

show  you  at  the  first  turn  of  his  head,  that  he  cares 

nothing   for  your   opinion,   though   entitled,   as   the 

'  diplomatists  phrase  it,  to  your  "high  consideration." 

!|  Mr.  Maud  is  twenty-five,  more  or  less — six  feet,  or 

!   thereabouts.      He  has  the   sanguineous   tint,  rather 

'odd  for  so   phlegmatic  a  person   as  he  seems.     His 

!   nose 'is  un  petit  pcu  retrousse,  his  lips  full,  and  his 

;   smile  easy  and  ready.     His  eyes  are  like  the  surface 

: I  of  a  very  deep  well.     Curling  brown  hair,  broad  and 

calm  forehead,  merry   chin  with  a  dimple  in  it,  and 

mouth   expressive  of  great  good   humor,   and   quite 

enough  of  fastidiousness.     If  this  is  not  your  beau 

ideal,  I  am  very  sorry — but  experience  went  to  show 

that  Lindsay  Maud  was  a  very  agreeable  man,  and 

pleased  generally  where  he  undertook  it. 

And  now,  if  you  please,  having  done  the  honors,  I 
will  take  up  the  story  en  simple  conteur. 

The  sky  was  beginning  to  blush  about  the  sun's 
going  to  bed,  and  the  dancers  and  archers  were  pair 
ing  off,  couple  by  couple,  to  stroll  and  cool  in  the  dim 
shrubberies  of  Beckton  Park.  It  was  an  hour  to 
breakfast,  so  called,  for  breakfast  was  to  be  served  in 
the  darker  edge  of  the  twilight.  With  the  afore-" 
named  oak-tree  between  him  and  the  gay  company, 
Mr.  Lindsay  Maud  beguiled  his  hunger  (for  hungry 
he  was),  by  reading  a  volume  of  that  very  clever  novel, 
"  Le  Pere  Goriot,"  and,  chapter  by  chapter,  he 
"  cocked  up  his  ear,"  as  the  story-books  say,  hoping 
to  hear  the  cheerful  bell  of  the  tower  announce  the 
serving  of  the  soup  and  champagne. 

"Well,  Sir  Knight  Faineant !"  said  Lady  Beckton, 
stepping  in  suddenly  between  his  feet  and  the  river 
brink,  "  since  when  have  you  turned  woman-hater, 
and  enrolled  among  the  unavailables  ?  Here  have  you 
lain  all  day  in  the  shade,  with  scores  of  nice  girls 
dancing  on  the  other  side  of  your  hermit  tree,  nnd  not 
a  sign  of  life — not  a  look  even  to  see  whether  my 
party,  got  up  with  so  much  pains,  flourished  or  lan 
guished!  I'll  cross  you  out  of  my  little  book,  recreant!" 
Maud  was  by  this  time  on  his  feet,  and  he  penitent 
ly  and  respectfully  kissed  the  fingers  threateningly 
held  up  to  him — for  the  unpardonable  sin  in  a  single 
man  is  to  appear  unamused,  let  alone  failing  to  amuse 
others — at  a  party  sworn  to  be  agreeable. 

"  1  have  but  half  an  apology,"  he  said,  "  that  of 
knowing  that  your  parties  go  swimmingly  off,  whether 
I  pull  an  oar  or  no  ;  but  I  deserve  not  the  less  to  be 
crossed  out  of  your  book.  Something  ails  me.  lam 
growing  old,  or  my  curiosity  has  burnt  out,  or  I  am 
touched  with  some  fatal  lethargy.  Upon  my  word  1 
would  as  lief  listen  to  a  Latin  sermon  as  chat  for  the 
next  half  hour  with  the  prettiest  girl  at  Beckton  ! 
There's  no  inducement,  my  dear  Lady  Beckton  ! 
I'm  not  a  marrying  man,  you  know,  and  flirtation — 
flirtation  is  such  tiresome  repetition — endless  reading 
of  prefaces,  and  never  coming  to  the  agreeable  first 
chapter.  But  I'll  obey  orders.  Which  is  the  destitute 
woman  ?  You  shall  see  how  I  will  redeem  my  dam 
aged  reputation  !" 

But  Lady  Beckton,  who  seldom  refused  an  offer 
from  a  beau  to  make  himself  useful  at  her  parties, 
seemed  hardly  to  listen  to  Maud's  justification.  She 
placed  her  arm  in  his,  and  led  him  across  the  bfidge 
which  spanned  the  river  a  little  above,  and  they  were 
presently  out  of  hearing  in  one  of  the  cool  and  shaded 
avenues  of  the  park. 


166 


BEWARE  OF  DOGS  AND  WALTZING. 


"A  penny  for  your  thought!"  said  Maud,  after 
walking  at  her  side  a  few  minutes  in  silence. 

"  It  is  a  thought,  certainly,  in  which  pennies  are 
concerned,"  replied  Lady  Beckton,  "  and  that  is  why 
I  find  any  trouble  in  giving  expression  to  it.  It  is 
difficult  enough  to  talk  with  gentlemen  about  love,  but 
that  is  easy  to  talking  about  money." 

"Yet  they  make  a  pretty  tandem,  money  on  the 
lead !" 

"Oh!  are  you  there  ?"  exclaimed  Lady  Beckton, 
with  a  laugh  ;  "  I  was  beginning  too  far  back,  al 
together  !  My  dear  Lindsay,  see  how  much  better  I 
thought  of  you  than  you  deserved  !  I  was  turning 
over  in  my  mind  with  great  trepidation  and  embarrass 
ment  how  I  should  venture  to  talk  to  you  about  a  money  - 
and-Iove  match!" 

"  Indeed !   for  what  happy  man  ?" 

"  Toi  metne,  mon  ami!" 

"  Heavens!  you  quite  take  away  my  breath!  Spare 
yourself  the  overture,  my  dear  Lady  Beckton !  I 
agree  !  I  am  quite  ready — sold  from  this  hour  if  you 
can  produce  a  purchaser,  and  possession  giveti  im 
mediately  !" 

"Now  you  go  too  fast;  for  I  have  not  time  to  banter, 
and  I  wish  to  see  my  way  in  earnest  before  1  leave  you. 
Listen  to  me.  I  xvas  talking  you  over  with  Beckton 
this  morning.  I'll  not  trouble  you  with  the  discus 
sion — it  would  make  you  vain,  perhaps.  But  we  ar 
rived  at  this  :  Miss  Blakeney  would  be  a  very  good 
match  for  you,  and  if  you  are  inclined  to  make  a  dem 
onstration  that  way,  why,  we  will  do  what  we  can  to 
make  it  plain  sailing.  Stay  with  us  a  week,  for  in 
stance,  and  we  will  keep  the  Blakeneys.  It's  a  sweet 
month  for  pairing,  and  you  are  an  expeditious  love- 
maker,  I  know.  Is  it  agreed  ?" 

"  You  are  quite  serious!" 

"  Quite!" 

"  I'll  go  back  with  you  to  the  bridge,  kindest  of 
friends,  and  return  and  ramble  here  till  the  bell  rings, 
by  myself.  I'll  find  you  at  table,  by-and-by,  and  ex 
press  my  gratitude  at  least.  Will  that  be  time  enough 
for  an  answer  ?" 

"Yes — but  no  ceremony  with  me!  Stay  and 
ponder  where  you  are  !  Au  rewir  .'  I  must  see  after 
my  breakfast !" 

And  away  tripped  the  kind-hearted  Lady  Beckton. 

Maud  resumed  his  walk.  He  was  rather  taken 
aback.  He  knew  Miss  Blakeney  but  as  a  waltzing 
partner,  yet  that  should  be  but  little  matter ;  for  he 
had  long  ago  made  up  his  mind  that,  if  he  did  not 
marry  rich,  he  could  not  marry  at  all. 

Maud  was  poor — that  is  to  say,  he  had  all  that  an 
angel  would  suppose  necessary  in  this  hungry  and  cold 
world — assurance  of  food  and  clothing — in  other  words, 
three  hundred  a  year.  He  had  had  his  unripe  time 
like  other  youths,  in  which  he  was  ready  to  marry  for 
love  and  no  money  ;  but  his  timid  advances  at  that 
soft  period  had  not  been  responsibly  met  by  his  first 
course  of  sweethearts,  and  he  had  congratulated  him 
self  and  put  a  price  on  his  heart  accordingly.  Mean 
time,  he  thought,  the  world  is  a  very  entertaining 
place,  and  the  belonging  to  nobody  in  particular,  has 
its  little  advantages. 

And  very  gayly  sped  on  the  second  epoch  of  Mr. 
Lindsay  Maud's  history.  He  lived  in  a  country  where, 
to  shine  in  a  profession,  requires  the  "  audace,  patience 
et  volontc  dc  quoi  renverser  le  mondc,"  and  having  turn 
ed  his  ambition  well  about,  like  a  strange  coin  that 
might  perhaps  have  passed  current  in  other  times,  he 
laid  it  away  with  romance  and  chivalry,  and  other 
things  suited  only  to  the  cabinets  of  the  curious.  He 
was  well  born.  He  was  well  bred.  He  was  a  fair 
candidate  for  the  honors  of  a  "gay  man  about  town" 
— that  untaxed  exempt — that  gues't  by  privilege — that 
irresponsible  denizen  of  high  life,  possessed  of  every 
luxury  on  earth  except  matrimony  and  the  pleasures 


]  of  payment.     And,  for  a  year  or  two,  this  was  very 

delightful.     He  had  a  half  dozen  of  those  charming 

female  friendships  which,  like  other  ephemera  in  this 

changing  world,  must  die  or  turn  into  something  else 

at  the  close  of  a  season,  and,  if  this  makes  the  feelings 

very  hard,  it  makes  the  manners  very  soft ;  and  Maud 

was  content  with  the  compensation.     If  he  felt,  now 

j  and  then,  that  he  was  idling  life  away, he  looked  about 

j  him  and  found  countenance  at  least ;  for  all  his  friends 

j  were  as  idle,  and  there  was  an  analogy  to  his  condi- 

jj  tion  in  nature  (if  need  were  to  find  one),  for  the  but- 

!  terfly  had  his  destiny  like  the  bee.  and  was  neither 

pitied  nor  reproached  that  he  was  not  a  honey-rnaker. 

But  Maud  was  now  in  a  third  lustrum  of  his  exist- 

I  ence,  and  it  was  tinted  somewhat  differently  from  the 

rose-colored    epochs   precedent.       The    twilight   of 

satisfied    curiosity   had   fallen   imperceptibly    around 

.  him.     The  inner  veils  of  society  had  one  by  one  lifted, 

and  there  could   be  nothing  new  for  his  eye  in  the 

i  world  to  which  he  belonged. 

A  gay  party,  which  was  once  to  him  as  full  of  un- 

attru'ned  objects  as  the  festal  mysteries  of  Eleusinia  to 

i  a  rustic  worshipper  of  Ceres,  was  now  as  readable  at 

a  glance  as  the  stripes  of  a  backgammon-board.     He 

j  knew  every  man's  pretensions  and  chances,  every  wo- 

'  man's  expectations  and  defences.     Not  a  damsel  whose 

J  defects  he  had  not  discovered,  whose  mind  he  had  not 

sounded,  whosedowry  he  did  not  know.     Not  a  beauty, 

i   married  or  single,  whose  nightly  game  in  society  he 

i   could  not  perfectly  foretell;  not  an  affection  unoccupied 

]  of  which  he  could  not  put  you  down  the  cost  of  en- 

ji  gaging  it  in  your  favor,  the  chances  of  constancy,  the 

M  dangers  of  following  or  abandoning.     He  had  no  stake 

j  I  in  society,   meantime,   yet  society   itself  was  all  his 

j  world.     He  had  no  ambitions  to  further  by  its  aid. 

And  until  now,  he  had   looked   on   matrimony  as  a 

'  closed  door — for  he  had  neither  property,  nor  profes- 

\  sion  likely  to  secure  it,  and  circumstances  like  these, 

in   the  rank    in  which  he  moved,  are  comprehended 

I  among  the  "  any  impediments."     To  have  his  own 

way,  Maud  would  have  accepted  no  invitations  except 

to  dine  with  the  beaux  esprits,  and  he  would  have  con- 

!  centrated   the  remainder  of  his  leisure  and  attentions 

j  upon  one  agreeable  woman  (at  a  time) — two  selfish- 

'  nesses  very  attractive  to  a  blase,  but   not  permitted  to 

[  any  member  of  society  short  of  a  duke  or  a  Croesus. 

And  now,  with  a  new  leaf  turning  over  in  his  dull 
|  book  of  life — a  morning  of  a  new  day  breaking  on 
I  his  increasing  night — Lindsay  Maud  tightly  screwed 
;  his  arms  across  his  breast,  and  paced  the  darkening 
avenue  of   Beckton  Park.     The   difference   between 
i  figuring   as   a  fortune-hunter,   and   having   a  fortune 
i  hunted   for  him   by  others,  he   perfectly  understood. 
I  In    old  and   aristocratic   societies,  where  wealth  is  at 
j  the  same  time  so  much   more  coveted  and  so  much 
more  difficult  to  win,  the  eyes  of  "  envy,  malice,  and 
all  uncharitableness,"  are  alike  an  omnipresent  argus, 
j  in  their  watch  over  the  avenues  to  its  acquisition.     No 
i  step,  the  slightest,  the  least  suspicious,  is  ever  taken 
I  toward  the  hand  of  an   heiress,  or  the  attainment  of 
I  an  inheritance,  without  awakening  and  counter-work 
ing  of  these  busy  monsters;  and,  fora  society-man, 
better  to  be  a  gambler  or  seducer,  better  to  have  all 
the   fashionable  vices  ticketed  on  his  name,  than  to 
stand  qfficlied  as  a  fortune-hunter.     If  to  have  a  for 
tune  cleverly  put  within  reach  by  a  powerful  friend, 
however,   be  a  proportionate   beatitude,  blessed  was 
Maud.     So  thought  he,  at  least,  as  the  merry  bell  of 
Beckton  tower  sent  its  summons  through  the  woods, 
|  and  his  revery  gave  place  to  thoughts  of  something 
more  substantial. 

And  thus  far,  oh  adorable  reader !  (for  I  see  what 

unfathomable  eyes  are  looking  over  my  shoulder)  thus 

far,  like  an  artist  making  a  sketch,  of  which  one  part 

j  is  to  be  finished,  I  have  dwelt  a  little  on  the  touches 

I  of  my  pencil.     But,  by  those  same  unfathomable  eyes 


BEWARE  OF  DOGS  AND  WALTZING. 


167 


I  know  (for  in  those  depths  dwell  imagination),  that 
if  the  remainder  be  done  ever  so  lightly  in  outline, 
even  then  there  will  be  more  than  was  needed  for  the 
comprehension  of  the  story.  Thy  ready  and  bound 
less  fancy,  sweet  lady,  would  supply  it  all.  Given, 
the  characters  and  scene,  what  fair  creature  who  has 
loved,  could  fail  to  picture  forth  the  sequel  and  its 
more  minute  surroundings,  with  rapidity  and  truth 
daguerreotypical? 

Sketcliily,  then,  touch  we  the  unfinished  denouement 
of  our  story. 

The  long  saloon  was  already  in  glittering  progress 
wken  Maud  entered.  The  servants  in  their  blue  and 
white  liveries  were  gliding  rapidly  about  with  the  ter 
restrial  nutriment  for  eyes  celestial — to-wit,  wines  and 
oysters. 

Half  blinded  with  the  glare  of  the  numberless 
lights,  he  stood  a  moment  at  the  door. 

"  Lady  Beckton's  compliments,  and  she  has  re 
served  a  seat  for  you!"  said  a  footman  approaching 
him. 

He  glanced  at  the  head  of  the  table.  The  vacant 
chair  was  near  Lady  Beckton  and  opposite  Miss  Blake- 
ney.  "  Is  a  vis-a-vis  better  for  love-making  than  a 
seat  at  the  lady's  ear  ?"  thought  Maud.  But  Lady 


better  grace,  however,  coming  from  simple  Miss 
Blakeney.  From  the  future  Mrs.  Lindsay  Maud,  he 
could  have  wished  those  pretty  inveiglements  very 
much  reduced  and  modified. 

At  his  side,  the  while,  sweet  Mabel  Brown  carried 

on  with   him  a  conversation,  which  to  the   high  tone 

i  of  merriment  opposite,  was  like  the  intermitted  mur- 

I  mur  of  a  brook   heard  in  the  pauses  of  merry  instru- 

j  ments.     At   the  same  time   that  nothing   brilliant  or 

gay  seemed  to  escape  her  notice,  she  toned  her  own 

j  voice  and  flow  of  thought  so  winningly  below  the  ex- 

I  citernent  around  her,  that  Maud,  who  was  sensible  of 

every  indication  of  superiority,  could  not  but  pay  her 

i  a  silent  tribute  of  admiration.     "  If  this  were  but  the 

I  heiress !"  he  ejaculated  inwardly.     But  Mabel  Brown 

I  was  a  dependant. 

Coffee  was  served. 

The  door  at  the  end  of  the  long  saloon  was  sud 
denly  thrown  open,  and  as  every  eye  turned  to  gaze 
into  the  blazing  ballroom,  a  march  with  the  full  power 
of  the  band  burst  upon  the  ear. 

The  diplomatist  who  had  been  sitting  at  the  side 
of  Miss  Blakeney  was  a  German,  and  a  waltzer  comme 
il  y  en  a  peu.  At  the  bidding  of  Lady  Beckton,  he 
put  his  arm  around  the  waist  of  the  heiress,  and  bore 


Beckton's  tactics  were  to  spare  his  ear  and  dazzle  his  her  away  to  the  delicious  music  of  Strauss,  and,  by 
eye,  without  reference  especially  to  the  corresponding  jj  general  consent,  the  entire  floor  was  loft  to  this  pair 
impressions  on  the  eyes  and  ear  of  the  lady.  And  jj  for  a  dozen  circles.  Miss  Blakeney  was  passionately 
she  had  the  secondary  object  of  avoiding  any  betrayal  |,  fond  of  waltzing,  and  built  for  it,  like  a  Baltimore 


of  her  designs  till  they  were  too  far  matured  to  be  de 
feated  by  publicity. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  Mr.  Maud,"  said  the  sweet 
voice  of  Mabel  Brown  as  he  drew  his  chair  to  the 
table,  "what  is  the  secret  of  Lady  Beckton's  putting 
you  next  me  so  pertinaciously  ?" 

"A  greater  regard  for   my  happiness  than  yours, 

B-obably,"   said   Maud;   "but   why  'pertinaciously?' 
as  there  been  a  skirmish  for  this  particular  chair?" 
"  No   skirmish,   but  three   attempts  at  seizure   by 
three  of  my  admirers." 

If  they  admire  you  more   than  I,  they  are  fitter 


clipper  for  running  close  to  the  wind.  If  she  had  a 
fault  that  her  friends  were  afraid  to  jog  her  memory 
about,  it  was  the  wearing  her  dresses  a  flounce  too 
short.  Her  feet  and  ankles  were  Fenella's  own,  while 
[  her  figure  and  breezy  motion  would  have  stolen  En- 
dymion  from  Diana.  She  waltzed  too  well  for  a 
lady — all  but  well  enough  for  a  premiere  danseuse  de 
Vopera.  Lady  Beckton  was  a  shrewd  woman,  but 
she  made  a  mistake  in  crying  "  encore  /"  when  this 
single  couple  stopped  from  their  admired  pas  de  deux. 
She  thought  Maud  was  just  the  man  to  be  captivated 
by  that  display.  But  the  future  Mrs.  Lindsay  Maud 


companions  for  a  telc-a-tete  than  a  crowded   party,"]    must  not  have  ankles  for  general  admiration.     Oh,  no  ! 
said  Maud.     "  I  am  as  near  a  lover  as  I  can   be,  and   j       Maud  wished  to  efface  the  feeling  this  exhibition 


had  caused  by  sharing  in  the  excitement. 

"  Miss  Brown,"  hue  said,  as  two  or  three  couples 
went  off,  "permit  me  the  happiness  of  one  turn!1' 
and,  scarce  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  raised  his  arm 
to  encircle  her  waist. 

Mabel  took  his  hands,  and  playfully  laid  them 
across  each  other  on  his  own  breast  in  an  attitude  of 
resignation. 

"I  never  waltz,"  she  said.  "But  don't  think  me 
a  prude!  I  don't  consider  it  wrong  in  those  who 
think  it  right." 

"But  with  this  music  tugging  at  your  heels!"  said 
Maud,  who  did  not  care  to  express  how  much  he  ad 
mired  the  delicacy  of  her  distinction. 

"Ah,  with  a  husband  or  a  brother,  I  should  think 
one  could  scarce  resist  bounding  away;  but  I  can 
not — " 

"  Can  not  what  ? — can  not  take  me  for  either?"  in 
terrupted  Maud,  with  an  air  of  affected  malice  that 
covered  a  very  strong  desire  to  ask  the  question  in 
earnest. 

„_,  _.      She  turned  her  eyes  suddenly  upon  him  with  a  rapid 

dmit.     With  no  intention  of  becoming  respon-  |!  look  of  inquiry,  and,  slightly  coloring,  fixed   her  at- 
for  her  manners,  he  would  even  have  admired,   ;  tention  silently  on  the  waltzers. 

Lady  Beckton  came,  making  her  way  through  the 
crowd.  She  touched  Maud  on  the  arm. 

•"Hold  hook  and  line!' — is  it  not?"  she  said,  in  a 
whisper. 

After    an    instant's     hesitation,     Maud    answered, 

Yes !" — but  pages,  often,  would  not  suffice   to  ex- 
j  press  all  that  passes  through  the  mind  in  "an  instant's 
hesitation."     All  Lindsay  Maud's  prospects  and  cir 
cumstances  were  reviewed  in  that  moment ;  all  his 


be  agreeable !" 

To  this  Maud  expected  the  gay  retort  due  to  a  bag 
atelle  of  gallantry ;  but  the  pretty  Mabel  was  silent. 
The  soup  disappeared  and  the  entremets  were  served. 
Maud  was  hungry,  and  lie  had  sent  a  cutlet  and  a 
glass  of  Johnnnisberg  to  the  clamorous  quarter  be 
fore  he  ventured  to  look  toward  his  hostess. 

He  felt  her  eye  upon  him.  A  covert  smile  stole 
through  her  lips  as  they  exchanged  glances. 

"Yes  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  meaning  look. 

"Yes!" 

And  in  that  dialogue  of  two  monosyllables  Lady 
Beckton  presumed  that  the  hand  and  five  thousand  a 
year  of  Miss  Catherine  Blakeney,  were  virtually  made 
over  to  Mr.  Lindsay  Maud.  And  her  diplomacy 
made  play  to  that  end  without  farther  deliberation. 

Very  unconscious  indeed  that  she  was  under  the 
eye  of  the  man  who  had  entered  into  a  conspiracy  to 
become  her  husband,  Miss  Blakeney  sat  between  a 
guardsman  and  a  diplomatist,  carrying  on  the  war  in 
her  usual  trenchant  and  triumphant  fashion.  She 
looked  exceedingly  handsome — that  Maud  could  not 
but  admit, 
sible 

as  he  often  had  done,  her  skilful  coquetries  and  adroit 
displays  of  the  beauty  with  which  nature  had  en 
dowed  her.  She  succeeded,  Maud  thought,  in  giving 
both  of  her  admirers  the  apparent  preference  (appa 
rent  to  themselves,  that  is  to  say),  and  considering  her 
vis-a-vis  worth  a  chance  shaft  at  least,  she  honored 
that  very  attentive  gentleman  with  such  occasional 
notice,  as,  under  other  circumstances,  would  have 
been  far  from  disagreeable.  It  might  have  worn  a 


168 


THE  INLET  OF  PEACH-BLOSSOMS. 


many  steps  by  which  he  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion 
that  marriage  with  him  must  be  a  matter  of  convenance 
merely  ;  all  his  put-down  impulses  and  built-up  reso 
lutions  ;  all  his  regrets,  consolations,  and  offsets;  all 
his  better  and  worser  feelings  ;  all  his  former  loves 
(and  in  that  connexion,  strangely  enough,  Mabel 
Brown) ;  all  his  schemes,  in  short,  for  smothering  his 
pain  in  the  sacrifice  of  his  heart,  and  making  the 
most  of  the  gain  to  his  pocket,  passed  before  him  iu 
that  half  minute's  review.  But  he  said  "  Yes!" 

The  Blakeney  carriage  was  dismissed  that  night, 
with  orders  to  bring  certain  dressing-maids  and  cer 
tain  sequents  of  that  useful  race,  on  the  following 
morning  to  Beckton  Park,  and  the  three  persons  who 
composed  the  Blakeney  party,  an  old  aunt,  Miss 
Blakeney,  and  Mabel  Brown,  went  quietly  to  bed  un 
der  the  hospitable  roof  of  Lady  Beckton. 

How  describe  (and  what  need  of  it,  indeed  !)  a  week 
at  an  English  country-house,  with  all  its  age  of 
chances  for  loving  and  hating,  its  eternity  of  oppor 
tunities  for  all  that  hearts  can  have  to  regulate  in  this 
shorthand  life  of  ours?  Let  us  come  at  once  to  the 
closing  day  of  this  visit. 

Maud  lay  late  abed  on  the  day  that  the  Blakeneys 
were  to  leave  Beckton  Park.  Fixed  from  morning 
till  night  in  the  firm  resolution  at  which  he  had  ar 
rived  with  so  much  trouble  and  self-control,  he  was 
dreaming  from  night  till  morning  of  a  felicity  in 
which  Miss  Blakeney  had  little  share.  He  wished 
the  marriage  could  be  all  achieved  in  the  signing  of  a 
bond.  He  found  that  he  had  miscalculated  his  phi 
losophy  in  supposing  that  he  could  venture  to  loose 
thought  and  revery  upon  the  long-forbidden  subject 
of  marriage.  In  all  the  scenes  eternally  being  con 
jured  up  to  his  fancy — scenes  of  domestic  life — the 
bringing  of  Miss  Blakeney  into  the  picture  was  an 
after  effort.  Mabel  Brown  stole  into  it,  spite  of  him 
self — the  sweetest  and  dearest  feature  of  that  enchant 
ing  picture,  in  its  first  warm  coloring  by  the  heart. 
But,  day  by  day,  he  took  the  place  assigned  him  by 
Lady  Beckton  at  the  side  of  Miss  Blakeney,  riding, 
driving,  dining,  strolling,  with  reference  to  being  near 
her  only,  and  still  scarce  an  hour  could  pass  in  which, 
spite  of  all  effort  to  the  contrary,  he  did  not  betray 
his  passionate  interest  in  Mabel  Brown. 

He  arose  and  breakfasted.  Lady  Beckton  and  the 
young  ladies  were  bonneted  and  ready  for  a  stroll  in 
the  park  woods,  and  her  ladyship  came  and  whispered 
in  Maud's  ear,  as  he  leaned  over  his  coffee,  that  he 
must  join  them  presently,  and  that  she  had  prepared 
Miss  Blakeney  for  an  interview  with  him,  which  she 
would  arrange  as  they  rambled. 

"  Take  no  refusal  !"  were  her  parting  words  as  she 
stepped  out  upon  the  verandah. 

Maud  strolled  leisurely  toward  the  rendezvous  in 
dicated  by  Lady  Beckton.  He  required  all  the  time 
he  could  get  to  confirm  his  resolutions  and  recover 
his  usual  mainticn  of  repose.  With  his  mind  made 
up  at  last,  and  a  face  in  which  few  would  have  read 
the  heart  in  fetters  beneath,  he.  jumped  a  wicker- 
fence,  and,  by  a  cross  path,  brought  the  ladies  in 
view.  They  were  walking  separately,  but  as  his  foot 
steps  were  heard,  Lady  Beckton  slipped  her  arm  into 
Miss  Brown's,  and  commenced  apparently  a  very  ear 
nest  undertone  of  conversation.  Miss  Blakeney 
turned.  Her  face  glowed  with  exercise,  and  Maud 
confessed  to  himself  that  he  rarely  had  seen  so  beau 
tiful  a  woman. 

"You  are  come  in  time,  Mr.  Maud,"  she  said,  "for 
something  is  going  on  between  my  companions  from 
which  I  am  excluded." 

" En  revanche,  suppose  we  have  our  little  exclusive 
secret!"  said  Maud,  offering  his  arm. 

Miss  Blakeney  colored  slightly,  and  consented  to 
obey  the  slight  resistance  of  his  arm  by  which  they 
fell  behind.  A  silence  of  a  few  moments  followed, 


for  if  the  proposed  secret  were  a  proposal  of  mar 
riage,  it  had  been  too  bluntly  approached.  Maud  felt 
that  he  must  once  more  return  to  indifferent  topics, 
and  lead  on  the  delicate  subject  at  his  lips  with  more 
tact  and  preparation. 

They  rose  a  slight  elevation  in  the  walk  which  over 
looked  the  wilder  confines  of  the  park.  A  slight 
smoke  rose  from  a  clump  of  trees,  indicating  an  in 
trusion  of  gipsies  within,  and  the  next  instant,  a  deep- 
mouthed  bark  rang  out  before  them,  and  the  two  la 
dies  came  rushing  back  in  violent  terror,  assailed  at 
every  step  of  their  flight  by  a  powerful  and  infuriated 
mastiff.  Maud  ran  forward  immediately,  and  suc 
ceeded  in  driving  the  dog  back  to  the  tents;  but  on  his 
return  he  found  only  the  terrified  Mabel,  who,  lean 
ing  against  a  tree,  and  partly  recovered  from  her 
breathless  flight,  was  quietly  awaiting  him. 

"  Here  is  a  change  of  partners  as  my  heart  would 
have  it!"  thought  Maud,  as  he  drew  her  slight  arm 
within  his  own.  "The  transfer  looks  to  me  like  the 
interposition  of  my  good  angel,  and  I  accept  the 
warning!" 

And  in  words  that  needed  no  management  to  bring 
them  skilfully  on — with  the  eloquence  of  a  heart  re 
leased  from  fetters  all  but  intolerable,  and  from  a 
threatened  slavery  for  life — Lindsay  Maud  poured 
out  the  fervent  passion  of  his  heart  to  Mabel  Brown. 
The  crust  of  a  selfish  and  artificial  life  broke  up  in 
the  tumult  of  that  declaration,  and  he  found  himself 
once  more  natural  and  true  to  the  instincts  and  better 
impulses  of  his  character.  He  was  met  with  the 
trembling  response  that  such  pure  love  looks  for 
when  it  finds  utterance,  and  without  a  thought  of 
worldly  calculation,  or  a  shadow  of  a  scheme  for  their 
means  and  manner  of  life,  they  exchanged  promises 
to  which  the  subsequent  ceremony  of  marriage  was 
but  the  formal  seal. 

And  at  the  announcement  of  this  termination  to 
her  matrimonial  schemes,  Lady  Beckton  seemed 
much  more  troubled  than  Miss  Blakeney. 

But  Lady  Beckton's  disappointment  was  somewhat 
modified  when  she  discovered  that  Miss  Blakeney  had 
long  before  secretly  endowed  her  adopted  sister  Ma 
bel  with  the  half  of  her  fortune. 


THE  INLET  OF  PEACH-BLOSSOMS, 

THE  Emperor. Yuentsoong,  of  the  dynasty  Chow, 
was  the  most  magnificent  of  the  long-descended  suc 
cession  of  Chinese  sovereigns.  On  his  first  accession 
to  the  throne,  his  character  was  so  little  understood, 
that  a  conspiracy  was  set  on  foot  among  the  yellow- 
caps,  or  eunuchs,  to  put  out  his  eyes,  and  place  upon 
the  throne  the  rebel  Szema,  in  whose  warlike  hands, 
they  asserted,  the  empire  would  more  properly  main 
tain  its  ancient  glory.  The  gravity  and  reserve  which 
these  myrmidons  of  the  palace  had  construed  into 
stupidity  and  fear,  soon  assumed  another  complexion, 
however.  The  eunuchs  silently  disappeared  ;  the 
mandarins  and  princes  whom  they  had  seduced  from 
their  allegiance,  were  made  loyal  subjects  by  a  gen 
erous  pardon  ;  and  in  a  few  days  after  the  period  fixed 
upon  for  the  consummation  of  the  plot,  Yuentsoong 
set  forth  in  complete  armor  at  the  head  of  his  troops 
to  give  battle  to  the  rebel  in  the  mountains. 

In  Chinese  annals  this  first  enterprise  of  the  youth 
ful  Yuentsoong  is  recorded  with  great  pomp  and  par 
ticularity.  Szema  was  a  Tartar  prince  of  uncommon 
ability,  young  like  the  emperor,  and,  during  the  few 
last  imbecile  years  of  the  old  sovereign,  he  had  gath 
ered  strength  in  his  rebellion,  till  now  he  was  at  the 
head  of  ninety  thousand  men,  all  soldiers  of  repute 


THE  INLET  OF  PEACH-BLOSSOMS. 


169 


and  tried  valor.  The  historian  has  unfortunately 
dimmed  (he  emperor's  fame  to  European  eyes,  by  at 
tributing  his  wonderful  achievements  in  this  expe 
dition  to  his  superiority  in  arts  of  magic.  As  this  ac 
count  of  his  exploits  is  only  prefatory  to  our  tale,  we 
will  simply  give  the  reader  an  idea  of  the  style  of  the 
historian,  by  translating  literally  a  passage  or  two  of 
his  description  of  the  battle: — 

"Szema  now  took  refuge  within  a  cleft  of  the 
mountain,  and  Yuentsoong,  upon  his  swift  steed,  out 
stripping  the  body-guard  in  his  ardor,  dashed  amid 
the  paralyzed  troops  with  poised  spear,  his  eyes  fixed 
only  on  the  rebel.  There  was  a  silence  of  an  instant, 
broken  only  by  the  rattling  hoofs  of  the  intruder,  and 
then,  with  dishevelled  hair  and  waving  sword,  Szema 
uttered  a  fearful  imprecation.  In  a  moment  the  wind 
rushed,  the  air  blackened,  and  with  the  suddenness  of 
a  fallen  rock,  a  large  cloud  enveloped  the  rebel,  and 
innumerable  men  and  horses  issued  out  of  it.  Wings 
flapped  against  the  eyes  of  the  emperor's  horse,  hel 
lish  noises  screamed  in  his  ears,  and,  completely  be 
yond  control,  the  animal  turned  and  fled  back  through 
the  narrow  pnss,  bearing  his  imperial  master  safe  into 
the  heart  of  his  army. 

"Yuentsoong,  that  night,  commanded  some  of  his 
most  expert  soldiers  lo  scale  the  beetling  heights  of 
the   ravine,  bearing   upon  their  backs   the    blood  of 
swine,  sheep,  and  dogs,  with  other  impure  things,  and 
these  they  were  ordered  to  shower  upon  the  combat 
ants  at  the  sound  of  the  imperial  clarion.     On  the  fol 
lowing  morning,  Szema  came  forth  again  to  offer  bat-  j 
tie,  with   flags  displayed,  drums   beating,  and  shouts  j 
of  triumph  and  defiance.     As  on  the  day  previous,  the  j 
bold   emperor  divided,  in   his  impatience,  rank   after  j 
rank  of  his  own  soldiery,  and,  followed  closely  by  his 
body-guard,  drove  the  rebel  army  once  more  into  their 
fastness.     Szema  sat  upon  his  warhorse  as  before,  in-  I 
trenched  amid  his  officers  and  ranks  of  the  tallest  Tar-  ' 
tar  spearmen,  and  as  the  emperor  contended  hand  to  | 
hand  with  one  of  the  opposing  rebels,  the  magic  im-  j 
precation  was  again  uttered,  the  air  again  filled  with  ; 
cloudy  horsemen  and  chariots,  and  the  mountain  sha-  j 
ken   with  discordant  thunder.      Backing   his   willing  j 
steed,  the  emperor  blew  a  long  sharp  note  upon  his  j 
silver  clarion,  and  in  an  instant  the  sun  broke  through  j 
'.he  darkness,  and  the  air  seemed  filled  with  paper  men, 
lorses  of  straw,  and  phantoms  dissolving  info  smoke.  I 
Yuentsoong  and   Szema  now  stood  face  to  face,  with  j 
only  mortal  aid  and  weapons." 

The  historian  goes  on  to  record  that  the  two  armies 
suspended   hostilities  at  the  command  of  their  leaders, 
and  that  the  emperor  and  his  rebel  subject  having  en 
gaged  in  single  combat,  Yuentsoong  was  victorious,  j 
and  returned  to  his  capital  with  the  formidable  enemy,  j 
whose   life  he  had  spared,  riding   beside  him  like  a  ! 
brother.      The  conqueror's  career,  for  several  years  i 
after  this,  seems  to  have  been  a  series  of  exploits  of  ! 
personal  valor,  and  the  Tartar  prince  shared  in  all  his 
dangers  and  pleasures,  his  inseparable  friend.     It  was 
during  this  period  of   romantic   friendship  that    the 
events  occurred  which  have  made  Yuentsoong  one  of 
the  idols  of  Chinese  poetry. 

By  the  side  of  a  lake  in  a  distant  province  of  the 
empire,  stood  one  of  the  imperial  palaces  of  pleasure,  I 
seldom  visited,  and  almost  in  ruins.  Hither,  in  one 
of  his  moody  periods  of  repose  from  war,  came  the 
conqueror  Yuentsoong,  for  the  first  time  in  years  sep 
arated  from  his  faithful  Szema.  In  disguise,  and 
with  only  one  or  two  attendants,  he  established  him 
self  in  the  long  silent  halls  of  his  ancestor  Tsinche- 
mong,  and  with  his  boat  upon  the  lake,  and  his  spear 
in  the  forest,  seemed  to  find  all  the  amusement  of 
which  his  melancholy  was  susceptible.  On  a  certain 
day  in  the  latter  part  of  April,  the  emperor  had  set 
his  sail  to  a  fragrant  south  wind,  and  reclining  on  the 
cushions  of  his  bajrk,  watched  the  shore  as  it  softly 


and  silently  glided  past,  and,  the  lake  being  entirely 
encircled  by  the  imperial  forest,  he  felt  immersed  in 
what  he  believed  to  be  the  solitude  of  a  deserted  par 
adise.  After  skirting  the  fringed  sheet  of  water  in 
this  manner  for  several  hours,  he  suddenly  observed 
that  he  had  shot  through  a  streak  of  peach-blossoms 
floating  from  the  shore,  and  at  the  same  moment  he 
became  conscious  that  his  boat  was  slightly  headed 
off  by  a  current  setting  outward.  Putting  up  his 
helm,  he  returned  to  the  spot,  and  beneath  the  droop 
ing  branches  of  some  luxuriant  willows,  thus  early  in 
leaf,  he  discovered  the  mouth  of  an  inlet,  which,  but 
for  the  floating  blossoms  it  brought  to  the  lake,  would 
have  escaped  the  notice  of  the  closest  observer.  The 
emperor  now  lowered  his  sail,  unshipped  the  slender 
mast,  and  betook  him  to  the  oars,  and  as  the  current 
was  gentle,  and  the  inlet  wider  within  the  mouth,  he 
sped  rapidly  on,  through  what  appeared  to  be  but  a 
lovely  and  luxuriant  vale  of  the  forest.  Still,  those 
blushing  betrayers  of  some  flowering  spot  beyond, 
extended  like  a  rosy  clue  before  him,  and  with  im 
pulse  of  muscles  swelled  and  indurated  in  warlike  ex 
ercise,  the  swift  keel  divided  the  besprent  mirror  wind 
ing  temptingly  onward,  and,  for  a  long  hour,  the  royal 
oarsman  untiringly  threaded  this  sweet  vein  of  the 
wilderness. 

Resting  a  moment  on  his  oars  while  the  slender 
bark  still  kept  her  way,  he  turned  his  head  toward 
what  seemed  to  be  an  opening  in  the  forest  on  the 
left,  and  in  the  same  instant  (he  boat  ran,  head  on,  to 
the  shore,  the  inlet  at  this  point  almost  doubling  on 
its  course.  Beyond,  by  the  humming  of  bees,  and 
the  singing  of  birds,  there  should  be  a  spot  more  open 
than  the  tangled  wilderness  he  had  passed,  and  disen 
gaging  his  prow  from  the  alders,  he  shoved  the  boat 
again  into  the  stream,  and  pulled  round  a  high  rock, 
by  which  the  inlet  seemed  to  have  been  compelled  to 
curve  its  channel.  The  edge  of  a  bright  green  mead 
ow  now  stole  into  the  perspective,  and,  still  widening 
with  his  approach,  disclosed  a  slightly  rising  terrace 
clustered  with  shrubs,  and  studded  here  and  there 
with  vases  ;  and  farther  on,  upon  the  same  side  of  the 
stream,  a  skirting  edge  of  peach-trees,  loaded  with  the 
gay  blossoms  which  had  guided  him  hither. 

Astonished  at  these  signs  of  habitation  in  what  was 
well  understood  to  be  a  privileged  wilderness,  Yuent 
soong  kept  his  boat  in  mid-stream,  and  with  his  eyes 
vigilantly  on  the  alert,  slowly  made  headway  against 
the  current.  A  few  strokes  with  his  oars,  however, 
traced  another  curve  of  the  inlet,  and  brought  into 
view  a  grove  of  ancient  trees  scattered  over  a  gently 
ascending  lawn,  beyond  which,  hidden  by  the  river 
till  now  by  the  projecting  shoulder  of  a  mound,  lay  a 
small  pavilion  with  srilded  pillars,  glittering  like  fairy 
work  in  the  sun.  The  emperor  fastened  his  boat  to  a 
tree  leaning  over  the  water,  and  with  his  short  spear 
in  his  hand,  bounded  upon  the  shore,  and  took  his 
way  toward  the  shining  structure,  his  heart  beating 
with  a  feeling  of  wonder  and  interest  altogether  new. 
On  a  nearer  approach,  the  bases  of  the  pillars  seemed 
decayed  by  time,  and  the  gilding  weather-stained  and 
tarnished,  but  the  trellised  porticoes  on  the  southern 
aspect  were  laden  with  flowering  shrubs,  in  vases  of 
porcelain,  and  caged  birds  sang  between  the  pointed 
arches,  and  there  were  manifest  signs  of  luxurious 
taste,  elegance,  and  care. 

A  moment,  with  an  indefinable  timidity,  the  em 
peror  paused  before  stepping  from  the  green  sward 
upon  the  marble  floor  of  the  pavilion,  and  in  that 
moment  a  curtain  was  withdrawn  from  the  door,  and 
a  female,  with  step  suddenly  arrested  by  the  sight  of 
the  stranger,  stood  motionless  before  him.  Ravished 
with  her  extraordinary  beauty,  and  awe-struck  with 
the  suddenness  of  the  apparition  and  the  novelty  of 
the  adventure,  the  emperor's  tongue  cleaved  to  his 
mouth,  and  ere  he  could  summon  resolution,  even 


170 


THE  INLET  OF  PEACH-BLOSSOMS. 


for  a  gesture  of  courtesy,  the  fair  creature  had  fled 
within,  and  the  curtain  closed  the  entrance  as  before. 

Washing  to  recover  his  composure,  so  strangely 
troubled,  and  taking  it  for  granted  that  some  other  in 
mate  of  the  house  would  soon  appear,  Yuentsoong 
turned  his  steps  aside  to  the  grove,  and  with  his  head 
bowed,  and  his  spear  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  tried 
to  recall  more  vividly  the  features  of  the  vision  he 
had  seen.  He  had  walked  but  a  few  paces,  when 
there  came  toward  him  from  the  upper  skirt  of  the 
grove,  a  man  of  unusual  stature  and  erectness,  with 
white  hair,  unbraided  on  his  shoulders,  and  every  sign 
of  age  except  infirmity  of  slep  and  mien.  The  em 
peror's  habitual  dignity  had  now  rallied,  and  on  his 
first  salutation,  the  countenance  of  the  old  man  soft 
ened,  and  he  quickened  his  pace  to  meet  and  give  him 
welcome. 

"  You  are  noble?"  he  said,  with  confident  inquiry. 

Yuentsoong  colored  slightly. 

"  I  am,"  he  replied,  "  Lew-melin,  a  prince  of  the 
empire." 

"And  by  what  accident  here  ?" 

Yuentsoong  explained  the  clue  of  the  peach-blos 
soms,  and  represented  himself  as  exiled  for  a  time  to 
the  deserted  palace  upon  the  lakes. 

"  I  have  a  daughter,"  said  the  old  man,  abruptly, 
"who  has  never  looked  on  human  face,  save  mine." 

"Pardon  me!"  replied  his  visiter;  "  I  have  thought 
lessly  intruded  on  her  sight,  and  a  face  more  heavenly 
fair — " 

The  emperor  hesitated,  but  the  old  man  smiled  en 
couragingly. 

"Jt  is  time,"  he  said,  "that  I  should  provide  a 
younger  defender  for  my  bright  Teh-leen,  and  Heaven 
has  sent  you  in  the  season  of  peach-blossoms,  with 
provident  kindness.*  You  have  frankly  revealed  to 
me  your  name  and  rank.  Before  I  offer  you  the  hos 
pitality  of  my  roof,  I  must  tell  you  mine.  I  am 
Choo-tseen,  the  outlaw,  once  of  your  own  rank,  and 
the  general  of  the  Celestial  army." 

The  emperor  started,  remembering  that  this  cele 
brated  rebel  was  the  terror  of  his  father's  throne. 

"  You  have  heard  my  history,"  the  old  man  con 
tinued.  "  I  had  been,  before  my  rebellion,  in  charge 
of  the  imperial  palace  on  the  lake.  Anticipating  an 
evil  day,  I  secretly  prepared  this  retreat  for  my  fami 
ly  ;  and  when  my  soldiers  deserted  me  at  the  battle  of 
Ke-chow,  and  a  price  was  set  upon  my  head,  hither  I 
fled  with  my  women  and  children  ;  and  the  last  alive 
is  my  beautiful  Teh-leen.  With  this  brief  outline  of 
my  life,  you  are  at  liberty  to  leave  me  as  you  came, 
or  to  enter  my  house,  on  the  condition  that  you  be 
come  the  protector  of  my  child." 

The  emperor  eagerly  turned  toward  the  pavilion, 
and,  with  a  step  as  lighl  as  his  own,  the  erect  and 
stately  outlaw  hastened  to  lift  the  curtain  before  him. 
Leaving  his  guest  for  a  moment  in  the  outer  apart 
ment,  he  entered  to  an  inner  chamber  in  search  of  his 
daughter,  whom  he  brought,  panting  with  fear,  and 
blushing  with  surprise  and  delight,  to  her  future  lover 
and  protector.  A  portion  of  an  historical  tale  so  deli 
cate  as  the  description  of  the  heroine  is  not  work  for 
imitators,  however,  and  we  must  copy  strictly  the  por 
trait  of  the  matchless  Teh-leen,  as  drawn  by  Le-pih, 
the  Anacreon  of  Chinese  poetry,  and  the  contempo 
rary  and  favorite  of  Yuentsoong. 

"  Teh-leen  was  born  while  the  morning  star  shone 
upon  the  bosom  of  her  mother.  Her  eye  was  like 
the  unblemished  blue  lily,  and  its  light  like  the  white 
gem  unfractured.  The  plum-blossom  is  most  fra 
grant  when  the  cold  has  penetrated  its  stem,  and  the 
mother  of  Teh  leen  had  known  sorrow.  The  head 
of  her  child  drooped  in  thought,  like  a  violet  over 
laden  with  dew.  Bewildering  was  Teh-leen.  Her 

*  The  season  of  peach-blossoms  was  the  only  season  of 
marriage  in  ancient  China. 


mouth's  corners  were  dimpled,  yet  pensive.  The 
arch  of  her  brows  was  like  the  vein  in  the  tulip's 
heart,  and  the  lashes  shaded  the  blushes  on  her  cheek. 
With  the  delicacy  of  a  pale  rose,  her  complexion  put 
to  shame  the  floating  light  of  day.  Her  waist,  like  a 
thread  in  fineness,  seemed  ready  to  break;  yet  was  it 
straight  and  erect,  and  feared  not  the  fanning  breeze  ; 
and  her  shadowy  grace  was  as  difficult  to  delineate,  as 
the  form  of  the  white  bird  rising  from  the  ground  by 
moonlight.  The  natural  gloss  of  her  hair  resembled 
the  uncertain  sheen  of  calm  water,  yet  without  the 
false  aid  of  unguents.  The  native  intelligence  of  her 
mind  seemed  to  have  gained  strength  by  retirement, 
and  he  who  beheld  her,  thought  not  of  her  as  human. 
Of  rare  beauty,  of  rarer  intellect  was  Teh-leen,  and 
her  heart  responded  to  the  poet's  lute." 

We  have  not  space,  nor  could  we,  without  copying 
directly  from  the  admired  Le-pih,  venture  to  describe 
the  bringing  of  Teh-leen  to  court,  and  her  surprise  at 
finding  herself  the  favorite  of  the  emperor.  It  is  a 
romantic  circumstance,  besides,  which  has  had  its 
parallels  in  other  countries.  But  the  sad  sequel  to 
the  loves  of  poor  Teh-leen  is  but  recorded  in  the  cold 
page  of  history;  and  if  the  poet,  who  wound  up  the 
climax  of  her  peffections,  with  her  susceptibility  to 
his  lute,  embalmed  her  sorrows  in  verse,  he  was  prob 
ably  too  politic  to  bring  it  ever  to  light.  Pass  we  to 
these  neglected  and  unadorned  passages  of  her  history. 

Yuentsoong's  nature  was  passionately  devoted  and 
confiding;  and,  like  two  brothers  with  one  favorite 
sister,  lived  together  Teh-leen,  Szema,  and  the  emper 
or.  The  Tartar  prince,  if  his  heart  knew  a  mistress 
before  the  arrival  of  Teh-leen  at  the  palace,. owned 
afterward  no  other  than  her ;  and  fearless  of  check 
or  suspicion  from  the  noble  confidence  and  generous 
friendship  of  Yuentsoong,  he  seemed  to  live  but  for 
her  service,  and  to  have  neither  energies  nor  ambition 
except  for  the  winning  of  her  smiles.  Szema  was  of 
great  personal  beauty,  frank  when  it  did  not  serve  him 
to  be  wily,  bold  in  his  pleasures,  and  of  manners  al 
most  femininely  soft  and  voluptuous.  He  was  re 
nowned  as  a  soldier,  and,  for  Teh-leen,  he  became  a 
poet  and  master  of  the  lute  ;  and,  like  all  men  formed 
for  ensnaring  the  heart  of  women,  he  seemed  to  forget 
himself  in  the  absorbing  devotion  of  his  idolatry.  His 
friend,  the  emperor,  was  of  another  mould.  Yuent 
soong's  heart  had  three  chambers — love,  friendship, 
and  glory.  Teh-leen  was  but  a  third  in  his  existence, 
yet  he  loved  her — the  sequel  will  show  how  well!  In 
person  he  was  less  beautiful  than  majestic,  of  large 
stature,  and  with  a  brow  and  lip  naturally  stern  and 
lofty.  He  seldom  smiled,  even  upon  Teh-leen,  whom 
he  would  watch  for  hours  in  pensive  and  absorbed  de 
light ;  but  his  smile,  when  it  did  awake,  broke  over 
his  sad  countenance  like  morning.  All  men  loved  and 
honored  Yuentsoong,  and  all  men,  except  only  the 
emperor,  looked  on  Szema  with  antipathy.  To  such 
natures  as  the  former,  women  give  all  honor  and  ap 
probation  ;  but  for  such  as  the  latter,  they  reserve 
their  weakness  ! 

Wrapt  up  in  his  friend  and  mistress,  and  reserved, 
in  his  intercourse  with  his  counsellors,  Yuenrsoong 
knew  not  that,  throughout  the  imperial  city,  Szema 
was  called  "  the  kieu,"  or  robber-bird,  and  his  fair 
Teh-leen  openly  charged  with  dishonor.  Going  out 
alone  to  hunt  as  was  his  custom,  and  having  left  his 
signet  with  Szema,  to  pass  and  repass  through  the 
private  apartments  at  his  pleasure,  his  horse  fell  with 
him  unaccountably  in  the  open  field.  Somewhat 
superstitious,  and  remembering  that  good  spirits  some 
times  "knit  the  grass,"  when  other  obstacles  fail  to 
bar  our  way  into  danger,  the  emperor  drew  rein  and 
returned  to  his  palace.  It  was  an  hour  after  noon, 
and  having  dismissed  his  attendants  at  the  city  gate, 
he  entered  by  a  postern  to  the  imperial  garden,  and 
bethought  himself  of  the  concealed  couch  in  a  cool 


THE  INLET  OF  PEACH-BLOSSOMS. 


171 


grot  by  a  fountain  (a  favorite  retreat,  sacred  to  him 
self  and  Teh-leen),  where  he  fancied  it  would  be  re 
freshing  (o  sleep  away  the  sultriness  of  the  remaining 
hours  till  evening.  Sitting  down  by  the  side  of  the 
murmuring  fount,  he  bathed  his  feet,  and  left  his  slip 
pers  on  the  lip  of  the  basin  to  be  unencumbered  in 
his  repose  within,  and  so  with  unechoing  step  entered 
the  resounding  grotto.  Alas!  there  slumbered  the 
faithless  friend  with  the  guilty  Teh-leen  upon  his 
bosom  ! 

Grief  struck  through  the  noble  heart  of  the  em 
peror  like  a  sword  in  cold  blood.  With  a  word  he 
could  consign  to  torture  and  death  the  robber  of  his 


passing  among  his  soldiers  on  the  evening  previous  to 
an  engagement,  promising  to  interfere  with  what  was 
usually  his  last  duty  before  retiring  to  his  couch. 
Teh-leen  on  this  occasion  seemed  moved  by  some 
irrepressible  emotion,  and  as  he  rose  to  depart,  she  fell 
forward  upon  her  face,  and  bathed  his  feet  with  her 
tears.  Attributing  it  to  one  of  those  excesses  of  feel 
ing  to  which  all,  but  especially  hearts  ill  at  ease,  are 
liable,  the  noble  monarch  gently  raised  her,  and,  with 
repeated  efforts  at  reassurance,  committed  her  to  the 
hands  of  her  women.  His  own  heart  beat  far  from 


tranquilly,  for,  in  the  excess  of  his  pity  for  her  grief 
he   had  unguardedly  called  her  by  one  of  the  sweet 

honor,  but  there  was  agony  in  his  bosom  deeper  than  j!  names  of  their  early  days  of  love — strange  word  now 
revenge.     He  turned  silently  away,  recalled  his  horse   •  upon   his  lip — and  it  brought  back,  spite  of  memory 


and    huntsmen,    and,    outstripping    all,    plunged 
through  the  forest  till  night  gathered  around  him. 

Yuentsoong  had  been  absent  many  days  from  his 
capitol,  and  his  subjects  were  murmuring  their  fears 
for  his  safety,  when  a  messenger  arrived  to  the  coun 
sellors  informing  them  of  the  appointment  of  the 
captive  Tartar  prince  to  the  government  of  the  pro 
vince  of  Szechuen,  the  second  honor  of  the  Celestial 
empire.  A  private  order  accompanied  the  announce 
ment,  commanding  the  immediate  departure  of  Szema 


and  truth,  happiness  that  would  not  be  forgotten  ! 

It  was  past  midnight,  and  the  moon  was  riding  high 
in  heaven,  when  the  emperor,  returning  between  the 
lengthening  watch-fires,  sought  the  small  lamp  which, 
suspended  like  a  star  above  his  own  tent,  guided  him 
back  from  the  irregular  mazes  of  the  camp.  Paled 
by  the  intense  radiance  of  the  moonlight,  the  small 
globe  of  alabaster  at  length  became  apparent  to  his 
weary  eye,  and  with  one  glance  at  the  peaceful  beauty 
of  the  heavens,  he  parted  the  curtained  door  beneath 


for  the  scene  of  his  new  authority.  Inexplicable  as  !  it,  and  stood  within.  The  Chinese  historian  asserts 
was  this  riddle  to  the  multitude,  there  were  those  who  that  a  bird,  from  whose  wing  Teh-leen  had  once 
read  it  truly  by  their  knowledge  of  the  magnanimous  i!  plucked  an  arrow,  restoring  it  to  liberty  and  life,  and 
soul  of  the  emperor ;  and  among  these  was  the  crafty  j  in  grateful  attachment  to  her  destiny,  removed  the 
object  of  his  generosity.  Losing  no  time,  he  set  for-  lamp  from  the  imperial  tent,  and  suspended  it  over 

hers.  The  emperor  stood  beside  her  couch.  Startled 
at  his  inadvertent  error,  he  turned  to  retire  ;  but  the 
lifted  curtain  let  in  a  flood  of  moonlight  upon  the 
sleeping  features  of  Teh-leen,  and  like  dew-drops,  the 
undried  tears  glistened  in  her  silken  lashes.  A  lamp 
burned  faintly  in  the  inner  apartment  of  the  tent,  and 
her  attendants  slept  soundly.  His  soft  heart  gave 
way.  Taking  up  the  lamp,  he  held  it  over  his  beau 
tiful  mistress,  and  once  more  gazed  passionately  and 


ward  with  great  pomp  for  Szechuen,  and  in  their  joy 
to  see  him  no  more  in  the  palace,  the  slighted  princes 
of  the  empire  forgave  his  unmerited  advancement. 
Yuentsoong  returned  to  his  capitol  ;  but  to  the  terror 
of  his  counsellors  and  people,  his  hair  was  blanched 
white  as  the  head  of  an  old  man  !  He  was  pale  as 
well,  but  he  was  cheerful  and  kind  beyond  his  wont, 
and  to  Teh-leen  untiring  in  pensive  and  humble  at 
tentions.  He  pleaded  only  impaired  health  and  rest 
less  slumbers  as  an  apology  for  nights  of  solitude. 
Once,  Teh-leen  penetrated  to  his  lonely  chamber,  but 


unrestrainedly    on    her    unparalleled     beauty.      The 
past  —  the  early  past  —  was  alone  before  him.     He  for- 


by  the  dim  night  lamp  she  saw  that  the  scroll  over  her  j  gave   her — there,   as  she  slept,   unconscious  of   the 
window*  was  changed,  and  instead  of  the  stimulus  to      throbbing  of  his   injured,    but  noble   heart,   so   close 


changed,  and  instead  of  the  stimulus  to 
glory  which  formerly  hung   in   golden  letters   before 
his  eyes,  there  was  a  sentence  written  tremblingly  in 
black  :— 
"  The  close  wing  of  love  covers  the  death-throb  of  honor." 

Six  months  from  this  period  the  capitol  was  thrown 
into  a  tumult  with  the  intelligence  that  the  province 
of  Szeclfuen  was  in  rebellion,  and  Szema  at  the  head 
of  a  numerous  army  on  his  way  to  seize  the  throne 
of  Yuentsoong.  This  last  sting  betrayed  the  serpent 
even  to  the  forgiving  emperor,  and  tearing  the  reptile 
at  last  from  his  heart,  he  entered  with  the  spirit  of 
other  times  into  the  warlike  preparations.  The  im 
perial  army  was  in  a  few  days  on  its  march,  ,pnd  at 
Keo-yang  the  opposing  forces  met  and  prepared  for 
encounter. 

With  a  dread  of  the  popular  feeling  toward  Teh- 
leen,  Yuentsoong  had  commanded  for  her  a  close 
litter,  and  she  was  borne  after  the  imperial  standard  in 
the  centre  of  the  army.  On  the  eve  before  the  battle, 
ere  the  watch-fires  were  lit,  the  emperor  came  to 
her  tent,  set  apart  from  his  own,  and  with  the  delicate 
care  and  kind  gentleness  from  which  he  never  varied, 
inquired  how  her  wants  were  supplied,  and  bade  her, 
thus  early,  farewell  for  the  night  ;  his  own  custom  of 

*The  most  common  decorations  of  rooms,  halls,  and  tem 
ples,  in  China,  are  ornamental  scrolls  or  labels  of  colored  paper, 
or  wood,  painted  and  f*iJded,  and  hunsr  over  doors  or  windows, 
and  inscribed  with  a  line  or  couplet  conveying  some  allusion 
to  the  circumstances  of  the  inhabitant,  or  some  pious  or  phi 
losophical  axiom.  For  instance,  a  poetical  one  recorded  by 
Dr 


op 
.  Mo 


rrson  :  — 

From  the  pine  forest  the  azute  dragon  ascends 


the  milky  way," 


typical  of  the  prosperous  man  arising  to  wealth  and  honors. 


jured, 

beside  her — he  forgave  her  in  the  long  silent  abysses 
of  his  soul !  Unwilling  to  wake  her  from  her  tran 
quil  slumber,  but  promising  to  himself,  from  that  hour, 
such  sweets  of  confiding  love  as  had  well  nigh  been 
lost  to  him  for  ever,  he  imprinted  one  kiss  upon  the 
parted  lips  of  Teh-leen,  and  sought  his  couch  for 
slumber. 

Ere  daybreak  the  emperor  was  aroused  by  one  of 
his  attendants  with  news  too  important  for  delay. 
Szema,  the  rebel,  had  been  arrested  in  the  imperial 
camp,  disguised,  and  on  his  way  back  to  his  own 
forces,  and  like  wildfire,  the  information  had  spread 
among  the  soldiery,  who,  in  a  state  of  mutinous 
excitement,  were  with  difficulty  restrained  from  rush 
ing  upon  the  tent  of  Teh-leen.  At  the  door  of  bis 
tent,  Yuentsoong  found  messengers  from  the  alarmed 
princes  and  officers  of  the  different  commands,  implo 
ring  immediate  aid  arid  the  imperial  presence  to  allay 
the  excitement,  and  while  the  emperor  prepared  to 
mount  his  horse,  the  guard  arrived  with  the  Tartar 
prince,  ignominiously  tied,  and  bearing  marks  of 
rough  usage  from  his  indignant  captors. 

"Loose  him!"  cried  the  emperor,  in  a  voice  of 
thunder. 

The  cords  were  severed,  and  with  a  glance  whose 
ferocity  expressed  no  thanks,  Szema  reared  himself 
up  to  his  fullest  height,  and  looked  scornfully  around 
him.  Daylight  had  now  broke,  and  as  the  group 
stood  upon  an  eminence  in  sight  of  the  whole  army, 
shouts  began  to  ascend,  and  the  armed  multitude, 
breaking  through  all  restraint,  rolled  in  toward  the 
centre.  Attracted  by  the  commotion,  Yuentsoong 
turned  to  give  some  orders  to  those  near  him,  when 


172 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BELFRY. 


Szema  suddenly  sprang  upon  an  officer  of  the  guard 
wrenched  his  drawn  sword  from  his  grasp,  and  in  an 
instant  was  lost  to  sight  in  the  tent  of  Teh-leen.  A 
sharp  scream,  a  second  of  thought,  and  forth  again 
rushed  the  desperate  murderer,  with  his  sword  flinging 
drops  of  drops  of  blood,  and  ere  a  foot  stirred  in  the 
paralyzed  group,  the  avenging  cimeter  of  Yuentsoong 
had  cleft  him  to  the  chin. 

A  hush,  as  if  the  whole  army  was  struck  dumb  by 
a  bolt  from  heaven,  followed  this  rapid  tragedy. 
Dropping  the  polluted  sword  from  his  hand,  the 
emperor,  with  uncertain  step,  and  the  pallor  of  death 
upon  his  countenance,  entered  the  fatal  tent. 

He  came  no  more  forth  that  day.  The  army  was 
marshalled  by  the  princes,  and  the  rebels  were  routed 
with  great  slaughter;  but  Yuentsoong  never  more 
wielded  sword.  "  He  pined  to  death,"  says  the  histo 
rian,  "  with  the  wane  of  the  same  moon  that  shone 
upon  the  forgiveness  of  Teh-leen." 


THE   BELLE    OF    THE   BELFRY; 

OR,    THE    DARING   LOVER. 

A  GRFSETTE  is  something  else  beside  a  "mean  girl" 
or  a  "gray  gown,"  the  French  dictionary  to  the  contra 
ry  notwithstanding.  Bless  me  !  you  should  see  the 
griset'es  of  Rochepot !  And  if  you  wished  to  take  a 
lesson  in  political  compacts,  you  should  understand 
the  grisette  confederacy  of  Rochepot !  They  were 
working-girls,  it  is  true — dressmakers,  milliners,  shoe- 
binders,  tailoresses,  flowermakers,  embroideresses — 
and  they  never  expected  to  be  anything  more  aristo 
cratic.  And  in  that  content  lay  their  power. 

The  grisettes  of  Rochepot  were  a  good  fourth  of 
the  female  population.  They  had  their  jealousies, 
and  little  scandals,  and  heart-burnings,  and  plottings, 
and  counterplottings  (for  they  were  women)  among 
themselves.  But  they  made  common  cause  against 
the  enemy.  They  would  bear  no  disparagement. 
They  knew  exactly  what  was  due  to  them,  and  what 
was  due  to  their  superiors,  and  they  paid  and  gave 
credit  in  the  coin  of  good  manners,  as  can  not  be  done 
in  countries  of  "liberty  and  equality."  Still  there 
were  little  shades  of  difference  in  the  attention  shown 
them  by  their  employers,  and  they  worked  twice  as 
much  in  a  day  when  sewing  for  Madame  Durozel, 
who  took  her  dinner  with  them,  sans  facon  in  the 
work-room,  as  for  old  Madame  Chiquette,  who  dined 
all  alone  in  her  grand  saloon,  and  left  them  to  eat  by 
themselves  among  their  shreds  and  scissors.  But 
these  were  not  slights  which  they  seriously  resented. 
Wo  only  to  the  incautious  dame  who  dared  to  scan 
dalize  one  of  their  number,  or  dispute  her  dues,  or 
encroach  upon  her  privileges  !  They  would  make 
Rochepot  as  uncomfortable  for  her,  parbleu  !  as  a 
kettle  to  a  slow-boiled  lobster. 

But  the  prettiest  grisette  of  Rochepot  was  not  often 
permitted  to  join  her  companions  in  their  self-chap 
eroned  excursions  on  the  holydays.  Old  Dame 
Pomponney  was  the  sexton's  widow,  and  she  had  the 
care  of  the  great  clock  of  St.  Roch,  and  of  one  only 
daughter;  and  excellent  care  she  took  of  both  her 
charges.  They  lived  all  three  in  the  belfry — dame, 
clock,  and  daughter — and  it  was  a  bright  day  for 
Thenais  when  she  got  out  of  hearing  of  that  "  tick, 
tick,  tick,"  and  of  the  thumping  of  her  mother's 
cane  on  the  long  staircase,  which  always  kept  time 
with  it. 

Not  that  old  Dame  Pomponney  had  any  objection 
to  have  her  daughter  convenably  married.  She  had 
been  deceived  in  her  youth  (or  so  it  was  whispered) 


by  a  lover  above  her  condition,  and  she  vowed,  by  th* 
cross  on  her  cane,  that  her  daughter  should  have  no 
sweetheart  above  a  journeyman  mechanic.  Now  tht 
romance  of  the  grisettes  (parlons  has!)  was  to  have 
one  charming  little  flirtation  with  a  gentleman  before 
they  married  the  leather-apron — just  to  show  that, 
had  they  by  chance  been  born  ladies,  they  could  have 
played  their  part  to  the  taste  of  their  lords.  But  it 
was  at  this  game  that  Dame  Pomponney  had  burnt  her 
fingers,  and  she  had  this  one  subject  for  the  exercise 
of  her  powers  of  mortal  aversion. 

When  I  have  added  that,  four  miles  from  Roche- 
pot,  stood  the  chateau  de  Brevanne,  and  that  the  old 
Count  de  Brevanne  was  a  proud  aristocrat  of  the  an- 
cien  regime,  with  one  son,  the  younjg  Count  Felix, 
whom  he  had  educated  at  Paris,  I  think  I  have  pre 
pared  you  tolerably  for  the  little  romance  I  have  to 
tell  you. 

It  was  a  fine  Sunday  morning  that  a  mounted  hus 
sar  appeared  in  the  street  of  Rochepot.  The  grisettes 
were  all  abroad  in  their  holyday  parure,  and  the  gay 
soldier  soon  made  an  acquaintance  with  one  of  them 
at  the  door  of  the  inn,  and  informed  her  that  he  had 
been  sent  on  to  prepare  the  old  barracks  for  his  troop. 
The  hussars  were  to  be  quartered  a  month  at  Roche- 
pot.  Ah  !  what  a  joyous  bit  of  news  !  And  six  offi 
cers  beside  the  colonel!  And  the  trumpeters  were 
miracles  at  playing  quadrilles  and  waltzes  !  And  not 
a  plain  man  in  the  regiment  —  except  always  the 
speaker.  And  none,  except  the  old  colonel,  had  ever 
been  in  love  in  his  life.  But  as  this  last  fact  required 
to  be  sworn  to,  of  course  he  was  ready  to  kiss  the 
book — or,  in  the  absence  of  the  book,  the  next  most 
sacred  object  of  his  adoration. 

"  Finissez  done,  Monsieur .'"  exclaimed  his  pretty 
listener,  and  away  she  ran  to  spread  the  welcome  in 
telligence  with  its  delightful  particulars. 

The  next  day  the  troop  rode  into  Rochepot,  and 
formed  in  the  great  square  in  front  of  St.  Roch;  and 
by  the  time  the  trumpeters  had  played  themselves  red 
in  the  face,  the  hussars  were  all  appropriated,  to  a 
man — for  the  grisettes  knew  enough  of  a  marching 
regiment  to  lose  no  time.  They  all  found  leisure  to 
pity  poor  Thenais,  however,  for  there  she  stood  in 
one  of  the  high  windows  of  the  belfry,  looking  down 
on  the  gay  crowd  below,  and  they  knew  very  well 
that  old  Dame  Pomponney  had  declared  all  soldiers 
to  be  gay  deceivers,  and  forbidden  her  daughter  to 
stir  into  the  street  while  they  were  quartered  at 
Rochepot. 

Of  course  the  grisettes  managed  to  agree  as  to  each 
other's  selection  of  a  sweetheart  from  the  troop,  and 
of  course  each  hussar  thankfully  accepted  the  pair  of 
eyes  that  fell  to  him.  For,  aside  from  the  limited 
duration  of  their  stay,  soldiers  are  philosophers,  and 
know  that  "life  is  short,"  and  it  is  better  to  "  take  the 
goods  the  gods  provide."  But  "  after  everybody  was 
helped,"  as  they  say  at  a  feast,  there  appeared  another 
short  jacket  and  foraging  cap,  very  much  to  the  re 
lief  of  red-headed  Susette,  the  shoebinder,  who  had 
been  left  out  in  the  previous  allotment.  And  Susette 
made  the  amiable  accordingly,  but  to  no  purpose,  for 
the  lad  seemed  an  idiot  with  but  one  idea — looking 
for  ever  at  St.  Roch's  clock  to  know  the  time  of  day  ! 
The  grisettes  laughed  and  asked  their  sweethearts  his 
name,  but  they  significantly  pointed  to  their  foreheads 
and  whispered  something  about  poor  Robertin's  being 
a  privileged  follower  of  the  regiment  and  a  protege  of 
the  colonel. 

Well,  the  grisettes  flirted,  and  the  old  clock  of  St. 
Roch  ticked  on,  and  Susette  and  Thenais,  the  plain 
est  and  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  village,  seemed  the 
only  two  who  were  left  out  in  the  extra  dispensation 
of  lovers.  And  poor  Robertin  still  persisted  in  oc 
cupying  most  of  his  leisure  with  watching  the  time 
of  day. 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BELFRY. 


173 


It  was  on  the  Sunday  morning  after  the  arrival  of 
the   troop  that  old    Dame   Pomponney   went  up,  as 
usual,   to   do  her  Sunday's  duty  in  winding  up  the 
clock.     She  had  previously  locked  the  belfry  door  to 
be  sure  that  no  one  entered   below   while   she  was 
above  ;  but — the  Virgin  help  us  ! — on  the  top  stair, 
gazing  into  the  machinery  of  the  clock  with  absorbed 
attention,  sat  one  of  those  devils  of  hussars!  "Thief,"' 
"  vagabond,"  and   "  house-breaker,"   were   the   most 
moderate  epithets  with  which  Dame  Pomponney  ac 
companied  the  enraged   beating  of  her  stick  on  the 
resounding  platform.     She  was  almost  beside  herself  i 
with  rage.     And  Thenais  had  been  up  to  dust  the  I 
wheels  of  the  clock  !     And   how  did  she  know  that   | 
that  scelerat  of  a  trooper  was  not  there  all  the  time! 

But  the  intruder,  whose  face  had  been   concealed 
till  now,  turned  suddenly  round  and  began  to  gibber  | 
and  arin  like  a  possessed  monkey.     He  pointed  at  the  j 
clock,  imitated  the  "tick,  tick,  tick,"  laughed  till  the   ' 
big  bell  gave  out  an  echo  like  a  groan,  and  then  sud 
denly  jumped  over  the  old  dame's  stick  and  ran  down 
stairs. 

"Eh,  Sainte  Vierge!"  exclaimed  the  old  dame,  "  it's 
a  poor  idiot  after  all  !     And  he  has  stolen  up  to  see 
what  made  the  clock  tick  !     Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !     Well  ! — 
well!  lean  not  come  up  these  weary  stairs  twice  aj 
day,  and  I  must  wind  up  the  clock   before  I  go  down 
to  let  him  out.     'Tick,  tick,  tick!' — poor  lad  !    poor  |j 
lad!     They  must  have  dressed   him  up  to  make  fun; 
of  him — those  vicious  troopers  !    Well ! — well !" 

And  with  pity  in  her  heart,  Dame  Pomponney  hob-  i 
bled  down,  stair  after  stair,   to  her   chamber  in  the 
square   turret  of  the  belfry,  and  there  she  found  the 
poor  idiot  on  his  knees  before  Thenais,  and  Thenais  |j 
was  just   preparing  to  put  a  skein  of  thread  over  his  j| 
thumbs,  for  she  thought  she  might  make  him  useful 
and  amuse  him  with  the  winding  of  it  till  her  mother 
came  down.     But  as  the  thread  got  vexatiously  en 
tangled,  and  the  poor  lad  sat  as  patiently  as  a  wooden 
reel,  and  it  was  time  to  go  below  to  mass,  the  dame 
thought  she  might  as  well  leave  him  there   till  she 
came  back,  and  down  she  stumped,  locking  the  door 
very  safely  behind  her. 

Poor  Thenais  was  very  lonely  in  the  belfry,  and 
Dame  Pomponney,  who  had  a  tender  heart  where  her 
duty  was  not  involved,  rather  rejoiced  when  she  re 
turned,  to  find  an  unusual  glow  of  delight  on  her 
daughter's  cheek  ;  and  if  Thenais  could  find  so  much 
pleasure  in  the  society  of  a  poor  idiot  lad,  it  was  a 
sign,  too,  that  her  heart  was  not  gone  altogether  after 
those  abominable  troopers.  It  was  time  to  send  the 
innocent  youth  about  his  business,  however,  so  she 
gave  him  a  holyday  cake  and  led  him  down  stairs  and 
dismissed  him  with  a  pat  on  his  back  and  a  strict  in 
junction  never  to  venture  again  up  to  the  "  tick,  tick, 
tick."  But  as  she  had  had  a  lesson  as  to  the  acces 
sibility  of  her  bird's  nest,  she  determined  thenceforth 
to  lock  the  door  invariably  and  carry  the  key  in  her 
pocket. 

While  poor  Robertin  was  occupied  with  his  re 
searches  into  the  "  tick,  tick,  tick,"  never  absent  a 
day  from  the  neighborhood  of  the  tower,  the  more 
fortunate  hussars  were  planning  to  give  the  grisettes 
a  fete  champctre.  One  of  the  saints'  days  was  coming 
round,  and,  the  weather  permitting,  all  the  vehicles 
of  the  village  were  to  be  levied,  and,  with  the  troop- 
horses  in  harness,  they  were  to  drive  to  a  small  wood 
ed  valley  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  chateau  de 
Brevanne,  where  seclusion  and  a  mossy  carpet  of 
grass  were  combined  in  a  little  paradise  for  such  en 
joyment. 

The  morning  of  this  merry  day  dawned,  at  last, 
and  the  grisettes  and  their  admirers  were  stirring  be 
times,  for  they  were  to  breakfast  sur  I'herbe,  and  they 
were  not  the  people  to  turn  breakfast  into  dinner.  The 
sky  was  clear,  and  the  dew  was  not  verv  heavy  on  the 
12 


grass,  and  merrily  the  vehicles  rattled  about  the  town, 
picking  up  their  fair  freights  from  its  obscurest  cor 
ners.  But  poor  Thenais  looked  out,  a  sad  prisoner, 
from  her  high  window  in  the  belfry. 

It  was  a  half  hour  after  sunrise  and  Dame  Pompon 
ney  was  creeping  up  stairs  after  her  matins,  thanking 
Heaven  that  she  had  been  firm  in  her  refusals — at 
least  twenty  of  the  grisettes  having  gathered  about 
her,  and  pleaded  for  a  day's  freedom"  for  her  imprison 
ed  daughter.  She  rested  on  the  last  landing  but  one 
to  take  a  little  breath — but  hark  ! — a  man's  voice  talk 
ing  in  the  belfry  !  She  listened  again,  and  quietly 
slipped  her  feet  out  of  her  high-heeled  shoes.  The 
voice  was  again  audible — yet  how  could  it  be  !  She 
knew  that  no  one  could  have  passed  up  the  stair,  for 
the  key  had  been  kept  in  her  pocket  more  carefully 
than  usual,  and,  save  by  the  wings  of  one  of  her  own 
pigeons,  the  belfry  window  was  inaccessible,  she  was 
sure.  Still  the  voice  went  on  in  a  kind  of  pleading 
murmur,  and  the  dame  stole  softly  up  in  her  stock 
ings,  and  noiselessly  opened  the  door.  There  stood 
Thenais  at  the  window,  but  she  was  alone  in  the  room. 
At  the  same  instant  the  voice  was  heard  again,  and 
sure  now  that  one  of  those  desperate  hussars  had 
climbed  the  tower,  and  unable  to  control  her  rage  at 
the  audacity  of  the  attempt,  Dame  Pomponney  clutch 
ed  her  cane  and  rushed  forward  to  aim  a  blow  at  the 
military  cap  now  visible  at  the  sill  of  the  window. 
But  at  the  same  instant  the  head  of  the  intruder  was 
thrown  back,  and  the  gibbering  and  idiotic  smile  of 
poor  Robertin  checked  her  blow  in  its  descent,  and 
turned  all  her  anger  into  pity.  Poor,  silly  lad  !  he 
had  contrived  to  draw  up  the  garden  ladder  and  place 
it  upon  the  roof  of  the  stone  porch  below,  to  climb 
and  offer  a  flower  to  Thenais  !  Not  unwilling  to  have 
her  daughter's  mind  occupied  witli  some  other  thought 
than  the  forbidden  excursion,  the  dame  offered  her 
hand  to  Robertin  and  drew  him  gently  in  at  the  win 
dow.  And  as  it  was  now  market-time  she  bid  The 
nais  be  kind  to  the  poor  boy,  and  locking  the  door 
behind  her,  trudged  contentedly  off  with  her  slick  and 
basket. 

I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  record  an  act  of  filial 
disobedience  in  the  heroine  of  rny  story.  An  hour 
after,  Thenais  was  welcomed  with  acclamations  as  she 
suddenly  appeared  with  Robertin  in  the  midst  of  the 
merry  party  of  grisettes.  With  Robertin — not  as  he 
had  hitherto  been  seen,  his  cap  on  the  back  of  his 
head  and  his  under  lip  hanging  loose  like  an  idiot's — 
but  with  Robertin,  gallant,  spirited,  and  gay,  the  hand 
somest  of  hussars,  and  the  most  joyous  of  companions. 
And  ThtMiais,  spite  of  her  hasty  toilet  and  the  cloud 
of  conscious  disobedience  which  now  and  then  shaded 
her  sweet  smile,  was,  by  many  degrees,  the  belle  of 
the  hour;  and  the  palrn  of  beauty,  for  once  in  the 
world  at  least,  was  yielded  without  envy.  The  gri 
settes  dearly  love  a  bit  of  romance,  too,  and  the  cir 
cumventing  of  old  Dame  Pomponney  by  his  ruse  of 
idiocy,  and  the  safe  extrication  of  the  prettiest  girl 
of  the  village  from  that  gloomy  old  tower,  was  quite 
enough  to  make  Robertin  a  hero,  and  his  sweetheart 
Thenais  more  interesting  than  a  persecuted  princess. 

And,  seated  on  the  ground  while  their  glittering 
cavaliers  served  them  with  breakfast,  the  light-hearted 
grisettes  of  Rochepot  were  happy  enough  to  be  en 
vied  by  their  betters.  But  suddenly  the  sky  darkened, 
and  a  slight  gust  murmuring  among  the  trees,  an 
nounced  the  coming  up  of  a  summer  storm.  Sauvc 
qui  pent  !  The  soldiers  were  used  to  emergencies, 
and  they  had  packed  up  and  reloaded  their  cars  and 
were  under  way  for  shelter  almost  as  soon  as  the 
grisettes,  and  away  they  all  fled  toward  the  nearest 
grange — one  of  the  dependancies  of  the  chateau  de 
Brevanne. 

But  Robertin,  now,  had  suddenly  become  the  di 
rector  and  ruling  spirit  of  the  festivities.  The  soldiers 


174 


PASSAGES  FROM  AN  EPISTOLARY  JOURNAL. 


treated  him  with  instinctive  deference,  the  old  farmer 
of  the  grange  hurried  out  with  his  keys  and  unlocked 
the  great  storehouse,  and  disposed  of  the  horses  un 
der  shelter  ;  and  by  the  time  the  big  drops  began  to 
fall,  l he  party  were  dancing  gayly  and  securely  on  the 
dry  and  smooth  thrashing-floor,  and  the  merry  har 
mony  of  the  martial  trumpets  and  horns  rang  out  far 
and  wide  through  the  gathering  tempest. 

The  rain  began  to  come  down  very  heavily,  and  the 
clatter  of  a  horse's  feet  in  a  rapid  gallop  was  heard  in 
one  of  the  pauses  in  the  waltz.  Some  one  seeking 
shelter,  no  doubt.  On  went  the  bewitching  music 
again,  and  at  this  moment  two  or  three  couples  ceased 
waltzing,  and  the  floor  was  left  to  Robertin  and  The- 
nais,  whose  graceful  motions  drew  all  eyes  upon  them 
in  admiration.  Smiling  in  each  other's  faces,  and 
wholly  unconscious  of  any  other  presence  than  their 
own,  they  whirled  blissfully  around — but  there  was 
now  another  spectator.  The  horseman  who  had  been 
heard  to  approach,  had  silently  joined  the  party,  and 
making  a  courteous  gesture  to  signify  that  the  dan 
cing  was  not  to  be  interrupted,  he  smiled  back  the 
courtesies  of  the  pretty  grisettes — for,  aristocratic  as 
he  was,  he  was  a  polite  man  to  the  sex,  was  the  Count 
de  Brevanne. 

"Felix  !"  he  suddenly  cried  out,  in  a  tone  of  sur 
prise  and  anger. 

The  music  stopped  at  that  imperative  call,  and 
Robertin  turned  his  eyes,  astonished,  in  the  direction 
from  which  it  came. 

The  name  was  repeated  from  lip  to  lip  among  the 
grisettes,  "  Felix  !"  "  Count  Felix  de  Brevanne  !" 

But  without  deigning  another  word,  the  old  man 
pointed  with  his  riding-whip  to  the  farm-house.  The 
disguised  count  respectfully  bowed  his  head,  but  held 
Thenais  by  the  hand  and  drew  her  gently  with  him. 

"Leave  her!  disobedient  boy!"  exclaimed  the 
father. 

But  as  Count  Felix  tightened  his  hold  upon  the 
small  hand  he  held,  and  Thenais  tried  to  shrink  back 
from  the  advancing  old  man,  old  Dame  Pomponney, 
streaming  with  rain,  broke  in  unexpectedly  upon  the 
scene. 

"  Disgrace  not  your  blood,"  said  the  Count  de  Bre 
vanne  at  that  moment. 

The  offending  couple  stood  alone  in  the  centre  of 
the  floor,  and  the  dame  comprehended  that  her  daugh 
ter  was  disparaged. 

"And  who  is  disgraced  by  dancing  with  my  daugh 
ter?"  she  screamed  with  furious  gesticulation. 

The  old  noble  made  no  answer,  but  the  grisettes, 
in  an  under  tone,  murmured  the  name  of  Count 
Felix ! 

"  Is  it  he — the  changeling  !  the  son  of  a  poor  gar 
dener,  that  is  disgraced  by  the  touch  of  my  daughter?" 

A  dead  silence  followed  this  astounding  exclama 
tion.  The  old  dame  had  forgotten  herself  in  her  rage, 
and  she  looked  about  with  a  terrified  bewilderment — 
but  the  mischief  was  done.  The  old  man  stood  aghast. 
Count  Felix  clung  still  closer  to  Thenais,  but  his 
face  expressed  the  most  eager  inquisitiveness.  The 
grisettes  gathered  around  Dame  Pomponney,  and  the 
old  count,  left  standing  and  alone,  suddenly  drew  his 
cloak  about  him  and  stepped  forth  into  the  rain  ;  and 
in  another  moment  his  horse's  feet  were  heard  clat 
tering  away  in  the  direction  of  the  chateau  de  Bre 
vanne. 

We  have  but  to  tell  the  sequel. 

The  incautious  revelation  of  the  old  dame  turned 
out  to  be  true.  The  dying  infant  daughter  of  the 
Marchioness  de  Brevanne  had  been  changed  for  the 
healthy  son  of  the  count's  gardener,  to  secure  an  heir 
to  the  name  and  estates  of  the  nearly  extinct  family 
of  Brevanne.  Dame  Pomponney  had  assisted  in 
this  secret,  and  but  for  her  heart  full  of  rage  at  the 
moment,  to  which  the  old  count's  taunt  was  but  the 


last  drop,  the  secret  would  probably  have  never  been 
revealed.  Count  Felix,  who  had  played  truant  from 
his  college  at  Paris,  to  come  and  hunt  up  some  of  his 
childish  playfellows,  in  disguise,  had  remembered  and 
disclosed  himself  to  the  little  Theuais,  who  was  not 
sorry  to  recognise  him,  while  he  played  the  idiot  in 
the  belfry.  But  of  course  there  was  now  no  obstacle 
to  their  union,  and  united  they  were.  The  old  count 
pardoned  him,  and  gave  the  new  couple  a  portion  of 
his  estate,  and  they  named  their  first  child  Robertin, 
as  was  natural  enough. 


PASSAGES  FROM  AN  EPISTOLARY  JOURNAL, 


KEPT    ON   A    LATE    VISIT    TO    ENGLAND. 


Ship  Gladiator,  off  the  Isle  of  Wight, 
Evening  of  June  9th,  1839. 

THE  bullet  which  preserves  the  perpendicular  of 
my  cabin-lamp  is  at  last  still,  T  congratulate  myself; 
and  with  it  my  optic  nerve  resumes  its  proper  and 
steady  function.  The  vagrant  tumblers,  the  peripatet 
ic  teeth-brushes,  the  dancing  stools,  the  sidling  wash 
basins  and  et-ceteras,  have  returned  to-  a  quiet  life. 
The  creaking  bulk-heads  cry  no  more.  I  sit  on  a 
trunk  which  will  not  run  away  with  me,  and  pen  and 
paper  look  up  into  my  face  with  their  natural  sobriety 
and  attention.  I  have  no  apology  for  not  writing  to 
you,  except  want  of  event  since  we  parted.  There  is 
not  a  milestone  in  the  three  thousand  four  hundred 
miles  I  have  travelled.  "  Travelled  !"  said  I.  I  am 
as  unconscious  of  having  moved  from  the  wave  on 
which  you  left  me  at  Staten  Island  as  the  prisoner  in 
the  hulk.  I  have  pitched  forward  and  backward,  and 
rolled  from  my  left  cheek  to  my  right ;  but  as  to  any 
fueling  of  having  gone  onward  I  am  as  unconscious 
of  it  as  a  lobster  backing  after  the  ebb.  The  sea  is  a 
dreary  vacuity,  in  which  he,  perhaps,  who  was  ever 
well  upon  it,  can  find  material  for  thought.  But  for 
one,  1  will  sell,  at  sixpence  a  month,  all  copyhold 
upon  so  much  of  my  life  as  is  destined  "to  the  deep, 
the  blue,  the  black"  (and  whatever  else  he  calls  it)  of 
my  friend  the  song-writer. 

Yet  there  are  some  moments  recorded,  first  with  a 
sigh,  which  we  find  afterward  copied  into  memory 
with  a  smile.  Here  and  there  a  thought  has  come 
to  me  from  the  wave,  snatched  listlessly  from  the 
elements — here  and  there  a  word  has  been  said  which 
on  shore  should  have  been  wit  or  good  feeling — here 
and  there  a  good  morning,  responded  to  with  an  effort, 
has,  from  its  courtesy  or  heartiness,  left  an  impression 
which  will  make  to-morrow's  parting  phrases  more 
earnest  than  1  had  anticipated. — With  this  green  isle 
to  windward,  and  the  smell  of  earth  and  flowers  com 
ing  to  my  nostrils  once  more,  I  begin  to  feel  an  in 
terest  in  several  who  have  sailed  with  me.  Humanity, 
killed  in  me  invariably  by  salt  water,  revives,  I  think, 
with  this  breath  of  hawthorn. 

The  pilot  tells  us  that  the  Montreal,  which  sailed 
ten  days  before  us,  has  not  yet  passed  up  the  channel, 
and  that  we  have  brought  with  us  the  first  west  wind 
they  have  had  in  many  weeks.  The  sailors  do  not 
know  what  to  say  to  this,  for  we  had  four  parsons  on 
board,  and,  by  all  sea-canons,  they  are  invariable 
Jonahs.  One  of  these  gentlemen,  by  the  way,  is  an 
j  abolitionist,  on  a  begging  crusade  fora  school  devoted 
I  to  the  amalgam  of  color,  and  very  much  to  the  amuse 
ment  of  the  passengers  he  met  the  steward's  usual 
demand  for  a  fee  with  an  application  for  a  contribu 
tion  to  the  funds  of  his  society  !  Hia  expectations 


PASSAGES  FROM  AN  EPISTOLARY  JOURNAL. 


175 


from  British  sympathy  are  large,  for  he  ia  accom 
panied  by  a  lay  brother  "  used  to  keeping  accounts," 
whose  sole  errand  is  to  record  the  golden  results  of 
his  friend's  eloquence.  But  "  eight  bells"  warn  me 
to  bed  ;  so  when  I  have  recorded  the  good  qualities 
of  the  Gladiator,  which  are  many,  and  those  of  her 
captain,  which  are  more,  I  will  put  out  my  sea-lamp 
for  the  last  time,  and  get  into  my  premonitory  "six 
feet  by  two." 
******* 

The  George  Inn,  Portsmouth. — This  is  a  morning 
in  which  (under  my  circumstances)  it  would  be  diffi 
cult  not  to  be  pleased  with  the  entire  world.  A  fair 
day  in  June,  newly  from  sea,  and  with  a  journey  of 
seventy  miles  before  me  on  a  swift  coach,  through 
rural  England,  is  what  I  call  a  programme  of  a  pleas 
ant  day.  Determined  not  to  put  myself  in  the  way 
of  a  disappointment,  I  accepted,  without  the  slightest 
hesitation,  on  landing  at  the  wharf,  the  services  of  an 
elderly  gentleman  in  shabby  black,  who  proposed  to 
stand  between  me  and  all  my  annoyances  of  the 
morning.  He  was  to  get  my  baggage  through  the 
customs,  submit  for  me  to  all  the  inevitable  imposi 
tions  of  tide-waiters,  secure  my  place  in  the  coach, 
bespeak  me  a  fried  sole  and  green  peas,  and  sum  up 
his  services,  all  in  one  short  phrase  of  I.  s.  d.  So 
putting  my  temper  into  my  pocket,  and  making  up 
my  mind  to  let  roguery  take  the  wall  of  me  for  one 
day  unchallenged,  I  mounted  to  the  grassy  ramparts 
of  the  town  to  walk  off  the  small  remainder  of  sea-air 
from  my  stomach,  and  admire  everything  that  came 
in  my  way.  I  would  recommend  to  all  newly-landed 
passengers  from  the  packets  to  step  up  and  accept  of 
the  sympathy  of  the  oaks  of  the  "  king's  bastion"  in 
their  disgust  for  the  sea.  Those  sensible  trees, 
leaning  toward  the  earth,  and  throwing  out  their 
boughs  as  usual  to  the  landward,  present  to  the  sea 
ward  exposure  a  turned-up  and  gnarled  look  of  nausea 
and  disgust,  which  is  as  expressive  to  the  commonest 
observer  as  a  sick  man's  first  look  at  his  bolus.  I 
have  great  affinity  with  trees,  and  I  believe  implicitly 
that  what  is  disagreeable  to  the  tree  can  not  be  pleas 
ant  to  the  man.  The  salt  air  is  not  so  corrosive  here 
as  in  the  Mediterranean,  where  the  leaves  of  the  olive 
are  eaten  off  entirely  on  the  side  toward  the  sea ;  but 
it  is  quite  enough  to  make  a  sensible  tree  turn  up  ils 
nose,  and  in  that  attitude  stands  most  expressively 
every  oak  on  the  "  king's  bastion." 
******* 

The  first  few  miles  out  of  Portsmouth  form  one 
long  alley  of  ornamented  cottages — wood-bine  creep 
ing  and  roses  flowering  over  them  all.  If  there  were 
but  two  between  Portsmouth  and  London — two  even 
of  the  meanest  we  saw — a  traveller  from  any  other 
land  would  think  it  worth  his  while  to  describe  them 
minutely.  As  there  are  two  thousand  (more  or  less), 
they  must  pass  with  a  bare  mention.  Yet  I  b'ecame 
conscious  of  a  new  feeling  in  seeing  these  rural  para 
dises;  and  I  record  it  as  the  first  point  in  which  1  find 
myself  worse  for  having  become  a  "  dweller  in  the 
shade."  I  was  envious.  Formerly,  in  passing  a 
tasteful  retreat,  or  a  fine  manor,  I  could  say,  "  What 
a  bright  lawn  !  What  a  trim  and  fragrant  hedge  ! 
What  luxuriant  creepers  !  I  congratulate  their 
fortunate  owner !"  Now  it  is,  "  How  I  wish  I  had 
that  hedge  at  Glenmary!  How  I  envy  these  people 
their  shrubs,  trellices,  and  flowers!"  I  wonder  not 
a  little  how  the  English  emigrant  can  make  a  home 
among  our  unsightly  stumps  that  can  ever  breed  a 
forgetfulness  of  all  these  refined  ruralities. 

After  the  first  few  miles,  I  discovered  that  the  two 
windows  of  the  coach  were  very  limited  frames  for 
the  rapid  succession  of  pictures  presented  to  my  eye, 
and  changing  places  with  William,  who  was  on  the 
top  of  the  coach,  I  found  myself  between  two  tory 
politicians,  setting  forth  to  each  other  most  eloquently 


the  mal-administrations  of  the  whigs,  and  the  queen's 
mismanagement.     As  I  was  two  months  behind  the 
English  news,  I  listened  with  some  interest.     They 
made  out  to  their  own  satisfaction  that  the  queen  was 
a  silly  girl  ;  that  she  had  been  caught  in  a  decided 
fib  about  Sir  Robert  Peel's  exactions  with  respect  to 
the  household  ;  and  one  of  the  Jeremiahs,  who  seem 
ed  to  be  a  sturdy  grazier,  said  that  "  in  'igh  life  the 
queen-dowager's  'ealth  was  now  received  uniwersally 
with  three  times  three,  while  Victoria's  was  drank  in 
solemn   silence."      Her   majesty   received    no   better 
j  treatment  at  the  hands  of  a  whig  on  the  other  end  of 
the  seat ;  and  as  we  whirled  under  the  long  park  fence 
!   of  Claremont,  the  country  palace  of  Leopold  and  the 
I   Princess  Charlotte,  he  took  the  pension  of  the  Belgian 
I   king  for  the  burden  of  his  lamentation,  and,  between 
j  whig  and  tory,    England   certainly  seemed   to  be  in 

I  a  bad  way.     This  Claremont,  it  will  be  remembered 
by  the  readers  of  D'lsraeli's  novels,  is  the  original  of 
the  picture  of  the  luxurious  maison  de plaisance,  drawn 
in  the  young  duke. 

We  got  glimpses  of 'the  old  palace  at  Esher,  of 
Hampton  court,  of  Pitt's  country  seat  at  Putney,  and 
of  Jane  Porter's  cottage  at  Esher,  and  in  the  seventh 
hour  from  leaving  Portsmouth  (seventy-four  miles) 
we  found  the  vehicles  thickening,  the  omnibuses 
passing,  the  blue-coated  policemen  occurring  at  short 

I 1  intervals,  and  the  roads  delightfully  watered — symp- 
j  toms  of  suburban  London.     We  skirted  the  privileged 

1  paling  of  Hyde  Park  ;  and  I  could  see,  over  the  rails, 
|  the  flying  and  gay-colored  equipages,  the  dandy  horse- 
j  men,  the  pedestrian  ladies  followed  by  footmen  with 
,  I  their  gold  sticks,  the  fashionable  throng,  in  short, 
!  which,  separated  by  an  iron  barrier  from  all  contact 
ij  with  unsightlinesa  and  vulgarity,  struts  its  hour  in  this 
jj  green  cage  of  aristocracy. 

Around  the  triumphal  arch  opposite  the  duke  of 
Wellington's  was  assembled  a  large  crowd  of  carriages 
and  horsemen.     The  queen  was  coming  from  Buck- 
I  ingham  palace  through   the  Green    park,   and    they 
were  waiting  for  a  glimpse  of  her  majesty  on  horse- 
j  back.     The  regulator  whirled    mercilessly   on;    but 
I  far  down,  through  the  long  avenues  of  trees,  I  could 
I  see  a  movement  of  scarlet  liveries,  and  a  party  coming 
|  rapidly   toward    us  on    horseback.     We   missed   the 
|  queen  by  a  couple  of  minutes. 

It  was  just  the  hour  when  all  London  is  abroad, 
and  Piccadilly  was  one  long  cavalcade  of  splendid 
equipages  on  their  way  to  the  park.  I  remembered 
many  a  face,  and  many  a  crest;  but  either  the  faces 
had  beautified  in  my  memory,  or  three  years  had 
done  time's  pitiless  work  on  them  all.  Near  Devon 
shire  house  J  saw,  fretting  behind  the  slow-moving 
j  press  of  vehicles,  a  pair  of  magnificent  and  fiery  blood 
horses,  drawing  a  coach,  which,  though  quite  new, 
was  of  a  color  and  picked  out  with  a  peculiar  stripe 
that  was  familiar  to  my  eye.  The  next  glance  con 
vinced  me  that  the  livery  was  that  of  Lady  B.  ;  but, 
for  the  light  chariot  in  which  she  used  to  drive,  here 
was  a  stately  coach — for  the  one  tall  footman,  two — 
for  the  plain  but  elegant  harness,  a  sumptuous  and 
superb  caparison — the  whole  turn-out  on  a  scale  of 
splendor  unequalled  by  anything  around  us.  Another 
moment  decided  the  doubt— for  as  we  came  against 
the  carriage,  following,  ourselves,  an  embarrassed 
press  of  vehicles,  her  ladyship  appeared,  leaning  back 
in  the  corner  with  her  wrists  crossed,  the  same  in  the 
grace  of  her  attitude  and  the  elegance  of  her  toilet, 
but  stouter,  more  energetic,  and  graver  in  the  expres 
sion  of  her  face,  than  I  ever  remembered  to  have  seen 
her.  From  the  top  of  the  stage-coach  1  looked, 
unseen,  directly  down  upon  her,  and  probably  got,  by 
chance,  a  daylight  and  more  correct  view  of  her 
countenance  than  I  should  obtain  in  a  year  of  opera 
and  drawing-room  observation. 

Tired  and  dusty,  we  were  turned  from  hotel  to  ho- 


176 


PASSAGES  FROM  AN  EPISTOLARY  JOURNAL. 


tel,  all  full  and  overflowing  ;  and  finding  at  last  a  cor 
ner  at  Raggett's,  in  Dover  street,  we  dressed,  dined, 
and  posted  to  Woolwich.  Unexpected  and  mournful 
news  closed  our  first  day  in  England  with  tears. 

****** 

I  drove  up  to  London  the  second  day  after  our  ar 
rival,  and  having  a  little  "  Grub-street"  business,  made 
my  way  to  the  purlieus  of  publishers  in  Paternoster 
row.  If  you  could  imagine  a  paper  mine,  with  a  very 
deep-cut  shaft  laid  open  to  the  surface  of  the  earth, 
you  might  get  some  idea  of  Ivy  lane.  One  walks 
along  through  its  dim  subterranean  light,  with  no  idea 
of  breathing  the  proper  atmosphere  of  day  and  open 
air.  A  strong  smell  of  new  books  in  the  nostrils,  and 
one  long  stripe  of  blue  sky  much  farther  off"  than  usu 
al,  are  the  predominant  impressions. 

From  the  dens  of  the  publishers,  I  wormed  my  way 
through  the  crowds  of  Cheapside  and  the  Strand,  tow 
ard  that  part  of  London  which,  as  Horace  Smith  says, 
is  "open  at  the  top."  Something  in  the  way  of  a 
ship's  fender,  to  save  the  hips  and  elbows,  would  sell 
well  I  should  think  to  pedestrians  in  London.  What 
crowds,  to  be  sure  !  On  a  Sunday  in  New  York, 
when  all  the  churches  are  pouring  forth  their  congre 
gations  at  the  same  moment,  you  have  seen  a  faint 
image  of  the  Strand.  The  style  of  the  hack  cabriolets 
is  very  much  changed  since  I  was  in  London.  The 
passenger  sits  about  as  high  up  from  the  ground  as  he 
would  in  a  common  chair — the  body  of  the  vehicle 
suspended  from  the  axle  instead  of  being  placed  upon 
it,  and  the  wheels  very  high.  The  driver's  seat  would 
suit  a  sailor,  for  it  answers  to  the  ship's  tiller,  well  astern. 
He  whips  over  the  passenger's  head.  I  saw  one  or 
two  private  vehicles  built  on  this  principle,  certainly 
one  of  safety,  though  they  have  something  the  beauty 
of  a  prize  hog. 

The  new  National  Gallery  in  Trafalgar  square,  not 
finished  when  I  left  England,  opened  upon  me  as  I 
entered  Charing  Cross,  with  what  I  could  not  but  feel 
was  a  very  fine  effect,  though  critically,  its  "  pepper- 
boxity"  is  not  very  creditable  to  the  architect.  Fine 
old  Northumberland  house,  with  its  stern  lion  atop  on 
one  side,  the  beautiful  Club  house  on  the  other,  St. 
Martin's  noble  church  and  the  Gallery — with  such  a 
fine  opening  in  the  very  cor  cordium  of  London,  could 
not  fail  of  producing  a  noble  metropolitan  view. 

The  street  in  front  of  the  gallery  was  crowded  with 
carriages,  showing  a  throng  of  visiters  within  ;  and 
mounting  the  imposing  steps  (the  loftiness  of  the  ves 
tibule  dropping  plump  as  I  paid  my  shilling  entrance), 
I  found  myself  in  a  hall  whose  extending  lines  of  pil 
lars  ran  through  the  entire  length  of  the  building, 
offering  to  the  eye  a  truly  noble  perspective.  Off 
from  this  hall,  to  the  right  and  left,  lay  the  galleries 
of  antique  and  modern  paintings,  and  the  latter  were 
crowded  with  the  fair  and  fashionable  mistresses  of  the 
equipages  without.  You  will  not  care  to  be  bothered 
with  criticisms  on  pictures,  and  mine  was  a  cursory 
glance — but  a  delicious,  full-length  portrait  of  a  noble 
lady  by  Grant,  whose  talent  is  now  making  some  noise 
in  London,  a  glorious  painting  of  Van  Amburgh 
among  his  lions  by  Edwin  Landseer,  and  a  portrait  of 
Miss  Pardoe  in  a  Turkish  costume,  with  her  pretty 
feet  coiled  under  her  on  a  Persian  carpet,  by  Pickers- 
gill,  are  among  those  I  remember.  I  found  a  great 
many  acquaintances  in  the  gallery ;  and  I  was  sitting  up 
on  a  bench  with  a  lady,  who  pointed  out  to  me  a  portrait 
of  Lord  Lyndhurst  in  his  chancellor's  wig  and  robes 
— a  very  fine  picture  of  a  man  of  sixty  or  thereabouts. 
Directly  between  me  and  it,  as  I  looked,  sidled  a  per 
son  with  his  back  to  me,  cutting  off  my  view  very  pro- 
vokingly.  "  When  this  dandy  gets  out  of  the  way  with 
his  eyeglass,"  said  I,  "I  shall  be  able  to  see  the  pic 
ture."  My  friend  smiled.  "  Who  do  you  take  the 
dandy  to  be  ?"  It  was  a  well-formed  man,  dressed  in 
the  top  of  the  fashion,  with  a  very  straight  back,  curl 


ing  brown  hair,  and  the  look  of  perhaps  thirty  years 
of  age.  As  he  passed  on  and  I  caught  his  profile,  I 
saw  it  was  Lord  Lyndhurst  himself. 

****** 

I  had  not  seen  Taglioni  since  the  first  representa 
tion  of  the  Sylphide,  eight  or  nine  years  ago  at  Paris. 
!  Last  night  I  was  at  the  opera,   and  saw  her  in  La 
Gitana  ;  and  except  that  her  limbs  are  the  least  in  the 
world  rounder  and  fuller,  she  is,  in  person,  absolutely 
unchanged.     I  can  appreciate  now,  better  than  I  could 
|  then  (when  opera  dancing  was  new  to  me),  what  it  is 
I  that  gives  this  divine  woman  the  right  to  her  proud 
title  of  La  Deesse  de  la  Dansc.     It   is  easy  for  the 
Ellslers,  and  Augusta,  and  others,  who  are  said  to  be 
only  second  to  her,  to  copy  her  flying  steps,  and  even 
\  to  produce,  by  elasticity  of  limb,  the  beautiful  effect 
;  of  touching  the  earth,  like  a  thing  afloat,  without  be 
ing  indebted  to  it  for  the  rebound.    But  Taglioni  alone 
finishes  the  step,  or  the  pirouette,  or  the  arrowy  bound 
over  the  scene,  as  calmly,  as  accurately,  as  faultlessly, 
1  as  she  begins  it.     She  floats  out  of  a  pirouette  as  if, 
,  instead  of  being  made  giddy,  she  had  been  lulled  by 
|  it  into  a  smiling  and  child-like  dream,  and  instead  of 
trying  herself  and  a  plomb  (as  is  seen  in  all  other  dan 
cers,  by  their  effort  to  recover  composure),  it  had  been 
the  moment  when  she  had  rallied  and  been  refreshed. 
The  smile,  so   expressive  of  enjoyment   in  her  own 
grace,  which  steals  over  Taglioni's  lips  when  she  closes 
a  difficult  step,  seems  communicated,  in  an  indefina 
ble  languor,  to  her  limbs.     You  can  not  fancy  her  fa 
tigued  when,  with  her  peculiar  softness  of  motion,  she 
courtesies  to  the  applause  of  the  enchanted  audience, 
and  walks  lightly  away.     You  are  never  apprehensive 
that  she  has  undertaken  too  much.     You  never  de 
tect,  as  you   do   in  all  other  dancers,  defects  slurred 
over  adroitly,  and  movements  that,  from  their  antici 
pating  the  music  of  the  ballet,  are  known  by  the  criti 
cal  eye  to  cover  some  flaw  in  the  step,  from  giddiness 
or  loss  of  balance.     But  oh  what  a  new  relation  bears 
the  music  to  the  dance,  when  this  spirit  of  grace  re 
places  her  companions  in  the  ballet !     Whether  the 
motion  seems  born  of  the  music,  or  the  music  floats 
out  of  her  dreamy  motion,  the  enchanted  gazer  might 
be  almost  embarrassed  to  know. 

In  the  new  ballet  of  La  Gitana,  the  music  is  based 
upon  the  Mazurka.     The  story  is  the  old  one  of  the 
child  of  a  grandee  of  Spain,  stolen  by  gipsies,  and  re 
covered  by  chance  in  Russia.     The  gradual  stealing 
|i  over  her  of  a  recollection  of  music  she  had  heard  in 
|  her  childhood  was  the  finest  piece  of  pantomimic  act 
ing  I  ever  saw.    But  there  is  one  dance,  the  Cachucha, 
\  introduced  at  the  close  of  the  ballet,  in  which  Taglioni 
i  has  enchanted  the  world  anew.     It  could  only  be  done 
!  by  herself;  for  there  is  a  succession  of  flying  move- 
i  ments  expressive  of  alarm,  in  the  midst  of  which  she 
|  alights  and  stands  poised  upon  the  points  of  her  feet, 
i  with  a  look  over  her  shoulder  of  fierte  and  animation 
possible  to   no  other  face,  I  think,  in  the  world.     It 
was  like   a  deer  standing  with  expanded  nostril  and 
i  neck  uplifted  to  its  loftiest  height,  at  the  first  scent  of 
his  pursuers  in  the  breeze.     It  was  the  very  soul  of 
swiftness  embodied  in  a  look  !     How  can  I  describe  it 
j  to  you  ? 

****** 

My  last  eight  hours  have  been  spent  between  Bed- 
|  lam  and  the  opera — one  of  those  antipodal  contrasts 
I  of  which  London  life  affords  so  many.  Thanks  to 
|  God,  and  to  the  Howards  who  have  arisen  in  our  time, 
i  a  madhouse  is  no  longer  the  heart-rending  scene  that 
i  it  used  to  be;  and  Bedlam,  though  a  place  of  melan- 
!  choly  imprisonment,  is  as  cheering  a  spectacle  to  the 
humane  as  imprisonment  can  be  made  by  care  and 
kindness.  Of  the  three  hundred  persons  who  are  in 
mates  of  its  wards,  the  greater  part  seemed  quiet  and 
content,  some  playing  at  ball  in  the  spacious  court 
yards,  some  lying  on  the  grass,  and  some  working  vol- 


PASSAGES  FROM  AN  EPISTOLARY  JOURNAL. 


177 


untarily  at  a  kind  of  wheel  arranged  for  raising  water 
to  their  rooms. 

On  the  end  of  a  bench  in  one  of  the  courts,  quite 
apart  from  the  other  patients,  sat  the  youth  who  came 
up  two  hundred  miles  from  the  country  to  marry  the 
queen  !  You  will  remember  the  story  of  his  forcing 
himself  into  Buckingham  palace.  He  was  a  stout, 
sandy-haired,  sad-looking  young  man,  of  perhaps 
twenty-four;  and  with  his  arms  crossed,  and  his  eyes 
on  the  ground,  he  sat  like  a  statue,  never  moving  even 
an  eyelash  while  we  were  there.  There  was  a  very 
gentlemanlike  man  working  at  the  waterwheel,  or 
rather  walking  round,  with  his  hand  on  the  bar,  in  a 
gait  that  would  have  suited  the  most  finished  exquis 
ite  of  a  drawing-room — Mr.  Davis,  who  shot  (I  think) 
at  Lord  Londonderry.  Then  in  an  upper  room  we 
saw  the  Captain  Brown  who  shook  his  fist  in  the 
queen's  face  when  she  went  to  the  city — really  a  most 
officer-like  and  handsome  fellow ;  and  in  the  next 
room,  poor  old  Hatfield,  who  shot  at  George  the  Third, 
and  has  been  in  Bedlam  for  forty  years — quite  sane! 
He  was  a  gallant  dragoon,  and  his  face  is  seamed  with 
scars  got  in  battle  before  his  crime.  He  employs  him 
self  with  writing  poetry  on  the  death  of  his  birds  and 
cats  whom  he  has  outlived  in  prison — all  the  society  i 
he  has  had  in  this  long  and  weary  imprisonment.  He  I1 
received  us  very  courteously,  and  called  our  attention  j 
to  his  favorite  canary  showed  us  his  poetry,  and  all  I 
with  a  sad,  mild,  subdued  resignation,  that  quite  ! 
moved  me. 

In  the  female  wards  I  saw  nothing  very  striking,  ex 
cept  one  very  noble-looking  woman  who  was  standing  j 
at  her  grated  window,  entirely  absorbed  in  reading  the 
Bible.     Her  face  expressed   the  most   heart-rending  j 
melancholy  I  had  ever  witnessed.     She  has  been  for 
years  under  the  terrible  belief  that  she  has  committed 
••  the  unpardonable  sin,"  and  though  quiet  all  the  day, 
her  agony  at  night  becomes  horrible.     What  a  corn-  j 
ment  on  a  much-practised  mode  of  preaching  the  mild  ! 
and  forgiving  religion  of  our  Savior  ! 

As  I  was  leaving  one  of  the  wards,  a  young  woman 
of  nineteen  or  twenty  came  up  to  me  with  a  very  po- 
lite  courtesy,  and  said,  "Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  i; 
have  me  released  from  this  dreadful  place  ?"     "I  am  |i 
afraid  I  can  not,"  said  I.     "Then,"  she  replied,  lay-  | 
ing  her  hand  on  my  arm,  with  a  most  appealing  ear-  j 
nestness,  "perhaps  you  will  on  Monday— you  know  jl 
I've  nothing  to  pack  !"     The  matron  here  interposed,  j: 
and  led  her  away,  but  she  kept  her  eyes  on  us  till  the 
door  closed.     She  was  confined  there  for  the  murder 
of  her  child. 

We  visited  the  kitchens,  wash-houses,  bakery,  &c., 
&c. —  all  clean,  orderly,  and  admirable,  and  left  our 
names  on  the  visiters'  book,  quite  of  the  opinion  of  a 
Frenchman  who  was  there  just  before  us,  and  who  had 
written  under  his  own  name  this  expressive  praise  : — 
"  J'ai  visile  certains  palais  mains  beaux  et  moms  bicn 
entretcnus  que  cette  maison  de  iafolie." 

Two  hours  after,  I  was  listening  to  the  overture  of 
La  Cenerentola,  and  watching  the  entrance  to  the  op 
era  of  the  gay,  the  celebrated,  and  the  noble.  In  the 
house  I  had  left,  night  had  brought  with  it  (as  it  does 
always  to  the  insane)  a  maddening  and  terrific  exalta 
tion  of  brain  and  spirit — but  how  different  from  that 
exaltation  of  brain  and  spirit  sought  at  the  same  hour, 
by  creatures  of  the  same  human  family,  at  the  opera  ! 
It  was  difficult  not  to  wonder  at  the  distribution  of 
allotments  to  mankind.  In  a  box  on  the  left  of  me  sat 
the  queen,  keeping  time  with  a  fan  to  the  delicious 
singing  of  Pauline  Garcia,  her  favorite  minister  stand 
ing  behind  her  chair,  and  her  maids  of  honor  around 
— herself  the  smiling,  youthful,  and  admired  sovereign 
of  the  most  powerful  nation  on  earth  !  I  thought  of 
the  poor  girl  in  her  miserable  cell  at  Bedlam  imploring 
release. 

The  queen's  face  has  thinned  and  grown  more  oval 


since  I  saw  her  at  a  drawing-room,  four  years  ago,  as 
Princess  Victoria.  She  has  been  compelled  to  think 
since  then,  and  such  exigencies,  in  all  stations  of  life, 
work  out  the  expression  of  the  face.  She  has  now 
what  I  should  pronounce  a  decidedly  intellectual 
countenance,  a  little  petulant  withal  when  she  turns 
to  speak,  but,  on  the  whole,  quite  beautiful  enough 
for  a  virgin  queen.  No  particular  attention  seemed 
paid  to  her  by  the  audience.  She  was  dressed  less 
gayly  than  many  others  around  her.  Her  box  was  at 
the  left  side  of  the  house,  undistinguished  by  any  mark 
of  royalty,  and  a  stranger  would  never  have  suspected 
her  presence. 

Pauline  Garcia  sang  better  than  I  thought  it  possi 
ble  for  any  one  to  sing  after  Malibran  was  dead.  She 
has  her  sister's  look  about  the  forehead  and  eyes,  and 
all  her  sister's  soul  and  passionateness  in  her  style  of 
singing.  Her  face  is  otherwise  very  plain,  but,  plain 
as  it  is,  and  young  as  she  is,  the  opera-going  public 
prefer  her  already  to  the  beautiful  and  more  powerful 
Grisi.  The  latter  long  triumphant  prima  donna  is 
said  to  be  very  unhappy  at  her  eclipse  by  this  new  fa 
vorite  ;  and  it  is  curious  enough  to  hear  the  hundred 
and  one  faults  found  in  the  declining  songstress  by 
those  who  once  would  not  admit  that  she  could  be 
transcended  on  earth.  A  very  celebrated  person,  whom 
I  remembered,  when  in  London  before,  giving  Grisi 
the  most  unqualified  eulogy,  assured  the  gay  admirers 
in  her  box  last  night  that  she  had  always  said  that 
Grisi  had  nothing  but  lungs  and  fine  eyes.  She  was 
a  great  healthy  Italian  girl,  and  could  sing  in  tune; 
but  soul  or  sentiment  she  never  had  !  Poor  Grisi  ! 
Hers  is  the  lot  of  all  who  are  so  unhappy  as  to  have 
been  much  admired.  "  Le  monde  ne  ha'it  rien  autant 
que  ses  idoles  quand  Us  sont  d  terrc,"  said  the  wise  La 
Bruyere. 

****** 

Some  of  the  most  delightful  events  in  one's  travels 
are  those  which  afford  the  least  materiel  for  descrip 
tion,  and  such  is  our  scjour  of  a  few  days  at  the  vicar 
age  of  B .  It  was  a  venerable  old  house  with 

pointed  gables,  elaborate  and  pointed  windows,  with 
panes  of  glass  of  the  size  of  the  palm  of  the  hand, 
low  doors,  narrow  staircases,  all  sorts  of  unsuspected 
rooms,  and  creepers  outside,  trellised  and  trained  to 
every  corner  and  angle.  Then  there  was  the  modern 
wing,  with  library  and  dining-room,  large  windows, 
marble  fireplaces,  and  French  paper;  and  in  going 
from  your  bedroom  to  breakfnst,  you  might  fancy 
yourself  stepping  from  Queen  Elizabeth's  time  to 
Queen  Victoria's.  A  high  hedge  of  holly  divided  the 
smoothly-shaven  lawn  from  the  churchyard,  and  in 
the  midst  of  the  moss-grown  headstones  stood  a  gray 
old  church  with  four  venerable  towers,  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  and  beautiful  specimens  of  the  old  Eng 
lish  architecture  that  I  have  ever  seen.  The  whole 
group,  church,  vicarage,  and  a  small  hamlet  of  vine- 
covered  and  embowered  stone  cottages,  lay  in  the  lap 
of  a  gently  rising  sweep  of  hills,  and  all  around  were 
spread  landscapes  of  the  finished  and  serene  character 
peculiar  to  England — rich  fields  framed  in  flowering 
hedges,  clumps  of  forest  trees,  glimpses  of  distant 
parks',  country  seats,  and  village  Spires,  and  on  the 
horizon  a  line  of  mist-clad  hills,  scarce  ever  more  dis 
tinct  than  the  banks  of  low-lying  clouds  retiring  after 
a  thunderstorm  in  America. 

Early  on  Sunday  morning  we  were  awakened  by 
the  melody  of  the  bells  in  the  old  towers  ;  and  with 
brief  pauses  between  the  tunes,  they  were  phiyed  upon 
most  musically,  till  the  hour  for  the  morning  services. 
We  have  little  idea  in  America  of  the  perfection  to 
which  the  chiming  of  bells  is  carried  in  England.  In 
the  towers  of  this  small  rural  church  are  hung  eight 
bells  of  different  tone,  and  the  tunes  played  on  them 
by  the  more  accomplished  ringers  of  the.  neighboring 
hamlet  are  varied  endlessly.  1  lay  and  listened  to  the 


178 


PASSAGES  FROM  AN  EPISTOLARY  JOURNAL. 


simple  airs  as  they  died  away  over  the  valley,  with  a  I1 
pleasure  I  can  scarcely  express.  The  morning  was!: 
serene  and  bright,  the  perfume  of  the  clematis  and! 
jasmine  flowers  at  the  window  penetrated  to  the  cur-;! 
tains  of  my  bed,  and  Sunday  seemed  to  have  dawned  jj 
with  the  audible  worship  and  palpable  incense  of  na-  || 
ture.  We  were  told  at  breakfast  that  the  chimes  had  , 
been  unusually  merry,  and  were  a  compliment  to  our-  || 
selves,  the  villagers  always  expressing  thus  their  con-  !j 
gratulations  on  the  arrival  of  guests  at  the  vicarage. 
The  compliment  was  repeated  between  services,  and  a  i 
very  long  peal  rang  in  the  twilight — our  near  relation-  j 
ship  to  the  vicar's  family  authorizing  a  very  special  | 
rejoicing. 

The  interior  of  the  church  was  very  ancient  look- 
ing  and  rough,  the  pews  of  unpainted  oak,  and  the  jj 
massive  stone  walls  simply  whitewashed.     The  con-   j 
gregation  was  small,   perhaps  fifty  persons,  and  thelj 
men  were   (with  two   exceptions)  dressed   in  russet  1 1 
carters'  frocks,  and  most  of  them  in  leather  legging,  j  I 
The  children  sat  on  low  benches  placed  in  the  centre  ji 
of  the  one  aisle,  and  the  boys,  like  their  fathers,  were 
in  smock  frocks  of  homespun,  their  heavy  shoes  shod  j 
with  iron  like  horses'  hoofs,  and  their  little  legs  button-  I 
ed  up  in  the  impenetrable  gaiters  of  coarse  leather,  jj 
They  looked,  men  and  boys,  as  if  they  were  intended 
to  wear  but  one  suit  in  this  world. 

I  was  struck  with  the  solemnity  of  the  service,  and  j| 
the  decorous  attention  of  men,  women,  and  children, 
to  the  responses.     It  was   a  beautiful  specimen  of  \\ 
simple  and  pastoral  worship.     Each  family  had   the: 
name  of  their  farm  or  place  of  residence  printed  on 
the  back  of  the  pew,  with  the  number  of  seats  to  jj 
which  they  were  entitled,  probably  in  proportion  to 
their  tithes.     The  "living"  is  worth,  if  I  remember 
right,  not  much  over  a  hundred  pounds — an  insuffi- j 
cient  sum  to  support  so   luxurious  a  vicarage  as  is,! 
appended  to  it;  but,  happily  for  the  people,  the  vicar 
chances  to  be  a  man  of  fortune,  and  he  unites  in  his  !; 
excellent  character  the  exemplary  pastor   with   the  !! 

physician  and  lord  of  the  manor.     I  left  B with  j: 

the  conviction  that  if  peace,  contentment,  and  happi- 
ness,  inhabit  one  spot  more  than  all  others  in  a  world  !; 
whose  allotments  are  so  difficult  to  estimate,  it  is  the 
vicarage  in  the  bosom  of  that  rural  upland. 

We  left  B •  at  twelve  in  the  Brighton  "Age" — 

the  "swell  coach"  of  England.     We   were   to   dine 

thirty  miles  nearer  London,  at Park,  and  we  did 

the  distance  in  exactly  three  hours,  including  a  stop 
of  fifteen  minutes  to  dine.  We  are  abused  by  all 
travellers  for  our  alacrity  in  dining  on  the  road  ;  but 
what  stage-coach  in  the  United  States  ever  limited 
its  dining  time  to  fifteen  minutes,  and  what  American 
dinner  of  roast,  pastry,  and  cheese,  was  ever  despatch 
ed  so  briefly  ?  Yet  the  travellers  to  Brighton  are  of 
the  better  class  ;  and  whose  who  were  my  fellow- 
passengers  the  day  I  refer  to  were  particularly  well 
dressed  and  gentlemanly — yet  all  of  them  achieved  a 
substantial  dinner  of  beef,  pudding,  and  cheese,  paid 
their  bills,  and  drained  their  glass  of  porter,  within  \\ 
the  quarter  of  an  hour.  John  Bull's  blindness  to  the 
beam  in  his  own  eye  is  perhaps  owing  to  the  f;ict  that 
this  hasty  meal  is  sometimes  called  a  "  lunch  !" 

The  two  places  beside  our  own  in  the  inside  were 
occupied  by  a  lady  and  her  maid  and  two  children — 
an  interpretation  of  the  number  two  to  which  I  would 
not  have  agreed  if  I  could  have  helped  it.  We  can  not 
always  tell  at  first  sight  what  will  be  most  amusing, 
however ;  and  the  child  of  two  years,  who  sprawled 
over  my  rheumatic  knees  with  her  mother's  permis 
sion,  thereby  occasioning  on  my  part  a  most  fixed 
look  out  of  the  window,  furnished  me  after  a  while 
with  a  curious  bit  of  observation.  At  one  of  the 
commons  we  passed,  the  children  running  out  from  a  i 
gipsy  encampment  flung  bunches  of  heath  flowers 


into  the  coach,  which  the  little  girl  appropriated,  and 
commenced  presenting  rather  graciously  to  her  mother, 
the  maid,  and  Mrs.  W.,  all  of  whom  received  them 
with  smiles  and  thanks.  Having  rather  a  sulky  face 
of  my  own  when  not  particularly  called  on  to  be 
pleased,  the  child  omitted  me  for  a  long  time  in  her 
distributions.  At  last,  after  collecting  and  re-distribu 
ting  the  flowers  for  about  an  hour,  she  grew  suddenly 
grave,  laid  the  heath  all  out  upon  her  lap,  selected  the 
largest  and  brightest  flowers,  and  made  them  into  a 
nosegay.  My  attention  was  attracted  by  the  serious 
ness  of  the  child's  occupation  ;  and  I  was  watching 
her  without  thinking  my  notice  observed,  when  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  me  very  timidly,  turned  her  new 
bouquet  over  and  over,  and  at  last,  with  a  blush, 
deeper  than  I  ever  saw  before  upon  a  child,  placed 
the  flowers  in  my  hand  and  hid  her  face  in  her  mother's 
bosom.  My  sulkiness  gave  way,  of  course,  and  the 
little  coquette's  pleasure  in  her  victory  was  excessive. 
For  the  remainder  of  the  journey,  those  who  had 
given  her  their  smiles  too  readily  were  entirely  neg 
lected,  and  all  her  attentions  were  showered  upon  the 
only  one  she  had  found  it  difficult  to  please.  I  thought 
it  as  pretty  a  specimen  of  the  ruling  passion  strong  in 
baby-hood  as  I  ever  saw.  It  was  a  piece  of  finished 
coquetry  in  a  child  not  old  enough  to  speak  plain. 

The  coachman  of  "  the  age"  was  a  young  man  of 
perhaps  thirty,  who  is  understood  to  have  run  through 
a  considerable  fortune,  and  drives  for  a  living — but  he 
was  not  at  all  the  sort  of  looking  person  you  would 
fancy  for  a  "swell  whip."  He  drove  beautifully,  and 
helped  the  passengers  out  and  in,  lifted  their  baggage, 
&c.,  very  handily,  but  evidently  shunned  notice,  and 
had  no  desire  to  chat  with  the  "  outsides."  The  ex 
cessive  difficulty  in  England  of  finding  any  clean  way 
of  making  a  living  after  the  initiatory  age  is  passed — 
a  difficulty  which  reduced  gentlemen  feel  most  keen 
ly — probably  forced  this  person  as  it  has  others  to 
take  up  a  vocation  for  which  the  world  fortunately 
finds  an  excuse  in  eccentricity.  He  touches  his  hat 
for  the  half  crown  or  shilling,  although  probably  if  it 
were  offered  to  him  when  the  whip  was  out  of  his 
hand  he  would  knock  the  giver  down  for  his  imperti 
nence.  I  may  as  well  record  here,  by  the  way,  for 
the  benefit  of  those  who  may  wish  to  know  a  compari 
son  between  the  expense  of  travelling  here  and  at 
home,  that  for  two  inside  places  for  thirty  miles  the 
coach  fare  was  two  pounds,  and  the  coachman's  fee 
five  shillings,  or  half-a-crown  each  inside.  To  get 

from  the  post  town  to  Park  (two  miles)  cost  me 

five-and-sixpence  for  a  "  fly,"  so  that  for  thirty-two 
miles  travel  I  paid  21.  10s.  6d.,  a  little  more  than 
twelve  dollars. 

And  speaking  of  vocations,  it  would  be  a  useful 
lesson  to  some  of  our  ambitious  youths  to  try  a  be 
ginning  at  getting  a  living  in  England.  I  was  never 
at  all  aware  of  the  difficulty  of  finding  even  bread  and 
salt  for  a  young  man,  till  I  had  occasion  lately  to  en 
deavor  to  better  the  condition  of  a  servant  of  my  own 
— a  lad  who  has  been  with  me  four  or  five  years,  and 
whose  singular  intelligence,  good  principles,  and  high 
self-improvement,  fitted  him,  I  thought,  for  any  con 
fidential  trust  or  place  whatever.  His  own  ideas,  too 
(I  thought,  not  unreasonably),  had  become  somewhat 
sublimated  in  America,  and  he  was  unwilling  to  con 
tinue  longer  as  a  servant.  He  went  home  to  his 
mother,  a  working-woman  of  London,  and  I  did  my 
utmost,  the  month  I  was  in  town,  inquiring  among  all 
classes  of  my  friends,  advertising,  &c.,  to  find  him  any 
possible  livelihood  above  menial  service.  I  was  met 
everywhere  with  the  same  answer :  "  There  are 
hundreds  of  gentlemen's  sons  wearing  out  their  youth 
in  looking  for  the  same  thing."  I  was  told  daily  that 
it  was  quite  in  vain — that  apprenticeships  were  as 
much  sought  as  clerkships,  and  that  every  avenue  to 
the  making  of  a  sixpence  was  overcrammed  and  inac- 


PASSAGES  FROM  AN  EPISTOLARY  JOURNAL. 


179 


cessible.  My  boy  and  his  mother  at  last  came  to 
their  senses ;  and,  consenting  to  apply  once  more  for 
a  servant's  place,  he  was  fortunate  enough  to  engage 
as  valet  to  a  bachelor,  and  is  now  gone  with  his  new 
master  on  a  tour  to  France.  As  Harding  the  painter 
said  to  me,  when  he  returned  after  his  foreign  trip, 
"England  is  a  great  place  to  take  the  nonsense  out  of 
people." 

*  *  *  *  * 

When  London  shall  have  become  the  Rome  or 
Athens  of  a  fallen  empire  (qu.  will  it  ever?)  the  ter 
mini  of  the  railways  will  be  among  its  finest  ruins. 
That  of  the  Birmingham  and  Liverpool  track  is  al 
most  as  magnificent  as  that  flower  of  sumptuousness, 
the  royal  palace  of  Caserta,  near  Naples.  It  is  really 
an  impressive  scene  simply  to  embark  for  "  Brum 
magem  ;"  and  there  is  that  utility  in  all  this  showy 
expenditure  for  arch,  gateway,  and  pillar,  that  no  one 
is  admitted  but  the  passenger,  and  you  are  refreshing 
ly  permitted  to  manage  your  baggage,  &c.,  without 
the  assistance  of  a  hundred  blackguards  at  a  shilling 
each.  Then  there  are  "  ladies'  waiting-rooms,"  and 
"  gentlemen's  waiting-rooms,"  and  attached  to  them 
every  possible  convenience,  studiously  clean  and  order 
ly.  I  wish  the  president  and  directors  of  the  Utica 
and  other  American  railroads  would  step  over  and 
take  a  sumptuary  hint. 

The  cars  are  divided  into  stalls,  i.  e.  each  passenger 
is  cushioned  off  by  a  stuffed  partition  from  his  neigh 
bor's  shoulder,  and  sleeps  without  offence  or  encroach 
ment.  When  they  are  crowded,  that  is  an  admirable 
arrangement ;  but  I  have  found  it  very  comfortable  in 
long  journeys  in  America  to  take  advantage  of  an 
empty  car,  and  stretch  myself  to  sleep  along  the 


The  Adelphi  is  the  Astor  house  of  Liverpool,  a 
very  large  and  showy  hotel  near  the  terminus  of  the 
railway.  We  were  shown  into  rather  a  magnificent 
parlor  on  our  arrival ;  and  very  hungry  with  rail-road- 
ing  since  six  in  the  morning,  we  ordered  dinner  at 
their  earliest  convenience.  It  came  after  a  full  hour, 
and  we  sat  down  to  four  superb  silver  covers,  anticipa 
ting  a  meal  corresponding  to  the  stout  person  and 
pompous  manners  of  the  fattest  waiter  I  have  seen  in  my 
travels.  The  grand  cover  was  removed  with  a  flourish 
and  disclosed — divers  small  bits  of  second-hand  beef 
steak,  toasted  brown  and  warped  at  the  corners  by  a 
second  fire,  and  on  the  removal  of  the  other  three 
silver  pagodas,  our  eyes  were  gratified  by  a  dish  of 
peas  that  had  been  once  used  for  green  soup,  three 
similarly  toasted  and  warped  mutton  chops,  and  three 
potatoes.  Quite  incredulous  of  the  cook's  intentions, 
I  ventured  to  suggest  to  the  waiter  that  he  had  proba 
bly  mistaken  the  tray  and  brought  us  the  dinner  of 
some  sportsman's  respectable  brace  of  pointers;  but 
on  being  assured  that  there  were  no  dogs  in  the  cellar, 
I  sent  word  to  the  master  of  the  house  that  we  had 
rather  a  preference  for  a  dinner  ne\v  and  hot,  and 
would  wait  till  he  could  provide  it.  Half  an  hour 
more  brought  up  the  landlord's  apologies  and  a  fresh 
and  hot  beef-steak,  followed  by  a  tough-crusted  apple- 
pie,  custard,  and  cheese — and  with  a  bottle  of  Moselle, 
which  was  good,  we  finished  our  dinner  at  one  of  the 
most  expensive  and  showy  hotels  in  England.  The 
manners  and  fare  at  the  American  hotels  being  always 
described  as  exponents  of  civilization  by  English 
travellers,  I  shall  be  excused  for  giving  a  counter- 
picture  of  one  of  the  most  boasted  of  their  own. 

Regretting  exceedingly  that  the  recent  mourning 


vacant  seat.  Here,  full  or  empty,  you  can  occupy  of  my  two  companions  must  prevent  their  presence 
but  your  upright  place.  In  every  car  are  suspended  at  the  gay  festivities  of  Eglinton,  1  put  them  on  board 
lamps  to  give  light  during  the  long  passages  through  j  the  steamer,  bound  on  a  visit  to  relatives  in  Dublin, 


the  subterranean  tunnels. 

We  rolled  from  under  the  Brobdignag  roof  of  the 
terminus,  as  the  church  of  Mary-le-bone  (Cockney 
for  Marie-la-bonne,  but  so  carved  on  the  frieze)  struck 
six.  Our  speed  was  increased  presently  to  thirty 


and  returned  to  the  Adelphi  to  wait  en  garcon  for  the 
Glasgow  steamer  of  Monday.  My  chamber  is  a  large 
and  well-furnished  room,  with  windows  looking  out 
on  the  area  shut  in  by  the  wings  of  the  house  ;  and  I 
must  make  you  still  more  contented  at  the  Astor,  by 

miles  in  the  hour;    and  with  the  exception  of  the   I  describing  what  is  going  on  below  at  this  moment, 
slower  rate  in  passing  the  tunnels,  and  the  slackening   !  It  is  half-past  eight,  and  a  Sunday  morning.     All  the 

j  bells  of  the  house,  it  seems  to  me,  are  ringing,  most, 
patiently,  and  in  the  area  before  the 
are  six  or  eight  idle  waiters,  and  four 

stoppages  having  exceeded  an  hour  altogether.  j  or  five  female  scullions,  playing,  quarrelling,  scolding, 

I  thought,  toward  the  end,  that  all  this  might  be  j  and  screaming;  the  language  of  both  men  and  women 
very  pleasant  with  a  consignment  of  buttons,  or  an  more  profane  and  indecent  than  anything  1  have  ever 
errand  to  Gretna  Green.  But  for  the  pleasure  of  the  (before  chanced  to  hear,  and  every  word  audible  in 
thing,  I  would  as  lief  sit  in  an  arm-chair  and  see  bales  every  room  in  this  quarter  of  the  hotel.  This  has 
of  striped  green  silk  Unfolded  for  eight  hours,  astravel  been  going  on  since  six  this  morning;  and  I  seriously 
the  same  length  of  time  by  the  railroad.  (I  have  de-  declare  I  do  not  think  I  ever  heard  as  much  indecent 
scribed  in  this  simile  exactly  the  appearance  of  the  i  conversation  in  my  life  as  for  three  mortal  hours  must 
fields  as  you  see  them  in  flying  past.)  The  old  wo-  j  have  "  murdered  sleep"  for  every  lady  and  gentleman 


slower  rate  in  passing  tiie  tunnels,  and  tne  slackening  !  it  is  nan-past  eigiu,  ; 

and  getting  under  way  at  the  different  stations,  this  bells  of  the  house,  it 

rate  was  kept  up  throughout.     We  arrived  at  Liver-  i  of  them  very  impati< 

pool    (205   miles  or   upward)    at   three   o'clock,   our  i  kitchen  windows  are  : 


men  and  cabbages  gain  by  it,  perhaps,  for  yoiucan  not 
tell  whether  they  are  not  girls  and  roses.     The  washer 
woman  at  her  tub  follows  the  lady   on  the  lawn  so  i 
quickly  that  you  confound  the  two  irresistibly — the 
thatched  cottages  look  like  browsing  donkeys,  and  the 
browsing  donkeys  like  thatched  cottages — you  ask  the 
name  of  a  town,  and  by  the  time  you  get  up  your 
finger,  your  point  at  a  spot  three  miles  off — in  short, 
the  salmon  well  packed  in  straw  on  the  top  of  the  j 
coach,   and   called   fresh-fish  after  a  journey  of  200  i 
miles,  sees  quite  as  much  of  the  country  as  his  most 
intellectual  fellow-passenger.     I  foresee  in  all  this  a  ' 
new  distinction  in  phraseology.     "  Have  you  travel-  j 
led  in  England?"  will  soon  be  a  question  having  no 
reference   to   railroads.     The   winding  turnpike   and  ! 
cross-roads,  the  coaches  and  post-carriages,  will  be 
resumed  by  all  those  who  consider  the  sense  of  sight 
as  useful  in  travel,  and  the  bagmen  and  letter-bags 
will  have  almost  undisputed  possession  of  the  rail- 
cars. 


lodged  on  the  rear  bide  of  the  "  crack  hotel"  of  Liver 
pool. 

Sick  of  the  scene  described  above,  I  went  out  just 
now  to  take  a  turn  or  two  in  my  slippers  in  the  long 
entry.  Up  and  down,  giving  me  a  most  appealing 
stare  whenever  we  met,  dawdled  also  the  fat  waiter 
who*  served  up  the  cold  victuals  of  yesterday.  He 
evidently  had  some  errand  with  me,  but  what  I  did 
not  immediately  fathom.  At  last  he  approached— 

"  You — a — got  your  things,  sir  ?" 

"  What  things?" 

"The  stick  and  umbrella,  I  carried  to  your  bed 
room,  sir." 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  and  I  resumed  my  walk. 

The  waiter  resumed  his,  and  presently  approached 
again. 

u  You — a — don't  intend  to  use  the  parlor  again,  sir  ?" 

"No:  I  have  explained  to  the  master  of  the  house 
that  I  shall  breakfast  in  the  coffee-room."  And  again 
I  walked  on. 


180 


PASSAGES  FROM  AN  EPISTOLARY  JOURNAL. 


My  friend  began  again  at  the  next  turn. 

"You — a — pay  for  those  ladies'  dinner  yourself, 
sir?" 

"  Yes."     I  walked  on  once  more. 

Once  more  approaches  rny  fat  incubus,  and  with  a 
twirl  of  the  towel  in  his  hand  looks  as  if  he  would  fain 
be  delivered  of  something. 

•'  Why  the  d— 1  am  I  badgered  in  this  way  ?"  I 
stormed  out  at  last,  losing  patience  at  his  stammering 
hesitation,  and  making  a  move  to  get  round  the  fat 
obstruction  and  pursue  rny  walk. 

"  Will  you — a — remember  the  waiter,  if  you  please, 
sir?" 

"  Oh  !  I  was  not  aware  that  I  was  to  pay  the  waiter 
at  every  meal.  I  generally  do  it  when  I  leave  the 
house.  Perhaps  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  let  me 
finish  my  walk,  and  trust  me  till  to-morrow  morning?" 

P.  S.  Evening  in  the  coffee-room — They  say  the 
best  beginning  in  love  is  a  decided  aversion,  and  badly 
as  I  began  at  Liverpool,  I  shall  always  have  a  tender 
recollection  of  it  for  the  admirable  and  unequalled 
luxury  of  its  baths.  A  long  and  beautiful  Grecian 
building  crests  the  head  of  George's  pier,  built  by  the 
corporation  of  Liverpool,  and  devoted  exclusively  to 
salt-water  baths.  I  walked  down  in  the  twilight  to 
enjoy  this  refreshing  luxury,  and  it  being  Sunday 
evening,  1  was  shown  into  the  ladies'  end  of  the 
building.  The  room  where  I  waited  till  the  bath 
was  prepared  was  a  lofty  and  finely  proportioned 
apartment,  elegantly  furnished,  and  lined  with  superb 
ly  bound  books  and  pictures,  the  tables  covered  with 
engravings,  and  the  whole  thing  looked  like  a  central 
apartment  in  a  nobleman's  residence.  A  boy  showed 
me  presently  into  a  small  drawing-room,  to  which  was 
attached  a  bath  closet,  the  two  rooms  lined,  boudoir 
fashion,  with  chintz,  a  clock  over  the  bath,  a  nice 
carpet  and  stove,  in  short,  every  luxury  possible  to 
such  an  establishment.  I  asked  the  boy  if  the  gentle 
men's  baths  were  as  elegant  as  these.  "  Oh  yes,"  he 
said:  "there  are  two  splendid  pictures  of  Niagara 
Falls  and  Catskill."  "  Who  painted  them  ?"  "Mr. 
Wall."  "  And  whose  are  they  ?"  "  They  belong  to 
our  father,  sir  !"  I  made  up  my  mind  that  "  our 
father"  was  a  man  of  taste  and  a  credit  to  Liverpool. 
******* 

I  have  just  returned  from  the  dinner  given  to  Mac- 
ready  at  the  Freemason's  tavern.  The  hall,  so  cele 
brated  for  public  "  feeds,"  is  a  beautiful  room  of  a 
very  showy  style  of  architecture,  with  three  galleries, 
and  a  raised  floor  at  the  end  usually  occupied  by  the 
cross  table.  It  accommodated  on  this  occasion  four 
hundred  persons. 

From  the  peculiar  object  of  the  meeting  to  do 
honor  to  an  actor  for  his  intellectual  qualities,  and  for 
his  efforts  to  spiritualise  and  elevate  the  stage,  there 
probably  never  was  collected  together  in  one  room  so 
much  talent  and  accomplishment.  Artists,  authors, 
critics,  publishers,  and  amateurs  of  the  stage — a  large 
body  in  London — made  up  the  company.  My  atten 
tion  was  called  by  one  of  my  neighbors  to  the  singu 
larly  superior  character  of  the  heads  about  us,  and  I 
had  already  observed  the  striking  difference,  both  in 
head  and  physiognomy,  between  this  and  a  common 
assemblage  of  men.  Most  of  the  persons  connected 
with  the  press,  it  was  said,  were  present;  and  perhaps 
it  would  have  been  a  worthy  service  to  the  world  had 
some  shorn  Samson,  among  the  authors,  pulled  the 
temple  upon  the  heads  of  the  Philistines. 

The  cry  of  "  make  way  !"  introduced  the  duke  of 
Sussex,  the  chairman  of  the  meeting — a  stout,  mild- 
looking,  dignified  old  man,  wearing  a  close  black  scull- 
cap  and  the  star  and  riband.  He  was  followed  by 
Lord  Conyngham,  who,  as  grand  chamberlain,  had 
done  much  to  promote  the  interests  of  the  drama;  by 
Lord  Nugent  (whom  I  had  last  seen  sailing  a  scampama 
in  the  bay  of  Corfu),  by  Sir  Lytton  Bulwer,  Mr.  I 


Shell,  Sir  Martin  Shee,  Young,  the  actor,  Mr.  Milnes, 
the  poet,  and  other  distinguished  men.  I  should 
have  said,  by  the  way  Mr.  Macready  followed  next 
his  royal  highness. 

The  cheering  and  huzzas,  as  this  procession  walked 

up  the  room,  were  completely  deafening.     Macready 

looked  deadly  pale  and  rather  overcome;  and  amid 

:  the  waving  of  handkerchiefs  and  the  stunning  uproar 

I  of  four  hundred  "gentlemen  and  scholars,"  the  duke 

placed  the  tragedian  at  his  right  hand,  and  took  his 

seat  before  the  turbot. 

The  dinner  was  an  uncommonly  bad  one ;  but  of 
this  I  had  been  forewarned,  and  so  had  taken  a  provi 
sory  chop  at  the  club.  I  had  leisure,  therefore,  to 
look  about  me,  and  truly  there  was  work  enough  for 

the  eyes.     M 's  head    interested   me   more  than 

any  one's  else,  for  it  was  the  personification  of  his 
lofty,  liberal,  and  poetic  genius.  His  hair,  which 
was  long  and  profuse,  curled  in  tendrils  over  the 
loftiest  forehead  ;  but  about  the  lower  part  of  the  face 
!  lay  all  the  characteristics  which  go  to  make  up  a 
voluptuous  yet  generous,  an  enthusiastic  and  fiery, 
yet  self-possessed  and  well  directed  character.  He  was 
excessively  handsome ;  yet  it  was  the  beauty  of 
Masaniello,  or  Salvator  Rosa,  with  more  of  intellect 
than  both  together.  All  in  all,  I  never  saw  a  finer 
face  for  an  artist;  and  judging  from  his  looks  and 
from  his  works  (he  is  perhaps  twenty-four),  I  would 
stake  my  sagacity  on  a  bold  prophecy  of  his  greatness. 
On  the  same  side  were  the  L s,  very  quiet-look 
ing  men,  and  S the  portrait-painter,  a  merry- 

!  looking  grenadier,  and  L •  B the  poet,  with  a 

|  face  like  a  poet.     Near  me  was  L ,  the  painter, 

!  poet,  novelist,  song  and  music  writer,  dramatist,  and 
good  fellow — seven  characters  of  which  his  friends 
j  scarce  know  in  which  he  is  most  excellent — and  he 
:  has  a  round  Irish  face,  with  a  bright  twinkle  in  his 
|  eye,  and  a  plump  little  body  which  carries  off  all  his 
I  gifts  as  if  they  were  no  load  at  all. — And  on  my  left 

[  was  S ,   the  glorious  painter  of  Venice,  of  the 

j  battle  of  Trafalgar,  the  unequalled  painter  of  the  sea 
i  in  all  its  belongings;  and  you  would  take  him  for  a 
|  gallant  lieutenant  of  the  navy,  with  the  fire  of  a  score 
I  of  battles  asleep  in  his  eye,  and  the  roughening  of  a 
|  hundred  tempests  in  his  cheek.  A  franker  and  more 
j  manly  face  would  not  cross  your  eye  in  a  year's  travel. 

Mr.  J was  just  beyond,  a  tall,  sagacious-look- 

!  ing,  good  humored  person  of  forty-five.  He  was  a 
•  man  of  very  kind  manners,  and  was  treated  with  great 
[  marks  of  liking  and  respect  by  all  about  him.  Buc 
directly  opposite  to  me  sat  so  exact  a  picture  of  Paul 
j  Pry  as  he  is  represented  on  the  stage,  particularly  of 
my  friend  Finn  in  that  character,  that  it  was  difficult 
|  not  to  smile  in  looking  at  him.  To  my  surprise,  I 
heard  some  one  behind  me  point  him  out,  soon  after, 
as  the  well-known  original  in  that  character — the 
gentleman,  whose  peculiarities  of  person,  as  well  as 
manners,  were  copied  in  the  farce  of  Mr.  Poole. — 
"  That's  my  name — what's  yours  ?"  said  he  the  mo 
ment  after  he  had  seated  himself,  thrusting  his  card 
close  to  the  nose  of  the  gentleman  next  him.  I  took 
it  of  course  for  a  piece  of  fun  between  two  very  old 
friends,  but  to  my  astonishment  the  gentlemen  next 
him  was  as  much  astonished  as  I. 

The  few  servants  scattered  up  and  down  were  deaf 
to  everything  but  calls  for  champagne  (furnished  only 
at  an  extra  charge  when  called  for — a  very  mean 
system  for  a  public  dinner,  by  the  way),  and  the 
wines  on  the  table  seemed  selected  to  drive  one  to 
champagne  or  the  doctor.  Each  person  had  four 
plates,  and  when  used,  they  were  to  be  put  under  the 
bench,  or  on  the  top  of  your  head,  or  to  be  sat  upon, 
j  or  what  you  would,  except  to  be  taken  away,  and  the 
|  soup  and  fish,  and  the  roast  and  boiled  and  all,  having 
been  put  on  together,  was  all  removed  at  one  fell 
swoop — the  entire  operation  of  dinner  having  lasted 


PASSAGES  FROM  AN  EPISTOLARY  JOURNAL. 


181 


just  twenty-five  minutes.  Keep  this  fact  till  we  are  re 
corded  by  some  new  English  traveller  as  the  most  ex 
peditious  eaters  in  Christendom. 

Here  end  my  croakings,  however,  for  the  speeches 
commenced  directly,  and  admirable  they  were.  To 
the  undoing  of  much  prejudice  got  by  hearsay,  I 
listened  to  Bulwer.  He  is,  beyond  all  comparison, 
the  most  graceful  and  effective  speaker  I  ever  heard 
in  England.  All  the  world  tells  you  that  he  makes 
signal  failures  in  oratory — yet  he  rose,  when  his  health 
was  drank,  and,  in  self-possessed,  graceful,  unhesita 
ting  language,  playful,  yet  dignified,  warm,  yet  not 
extravagant,  he  replied  to  the  compliments  of  his 
royal  highness,  and  brought  forward  his  plan  (as  you 
have  seen  it  reported  in  the  papers)  for  the  erection 
of  a  new  theatre  for  the  legitimate  drama  and  Mac- 
ready.  I  remember  once  hearing  that  Bulwer  had  a 
belief  in  his  future  eminence  as  an  orator — and  I  would 
warrant  his  warmest  anticipations  in  that  career  of 
ambition.  He  is  a  better  speaker  than  Sheil,  who  follow 
ed  him,  and  Sheil  is  renowned  as  an  orator.  Really 
there  is  nothing  like  one's  own  eyes  and  ears  in  this 
world  of  envy  and  misrepresentation. 

D sat  near  Sheil,  at  the  cross  table,  very  silent, 

as  is  his  custom  and  that  of  most  keen  observers. 
The  courtly  Sir  M S was  near  B ,  look 
ing  like  some  fine  old  picture  of  a  wit  of  Charles  the 

second's  time,  and  he  and  Y the  actor  made  two 

very  opposite  and  gentlemanlike  speeches.  1  believe 
I  have  told  you  nearly  all  that  struck  me,  except  what 
was  reported  in  the  gazettes,  and  that  you  have  no 
need  to  read  over  again.  I  got  away  at  eleven,  and 
reached  the  opera  in  time  to  hear  the  last  act  of  the 
Puritani,  and  see  the  Elsslers  dance  in  the  ballet,  and 
with  a  look-in  at  a  ball,  I  concluded  one  of  those  ex 
hausting,  exciting,  overdone  London  days,  which  are 
pleasanter  to  remember  than  to  enjoy,  and  pleasanter 
to  read  about  than  either. 
******* 

One  of  the  most  elegant  and  agreeable  persons  I 
ever  saw  was  Miss  P ,  and  I  think  her  conversa 
tion  more  delightful  to  remember  than  any  person's 
I  ever  knew.  A  distinguished  artist  told  me  that  he 
remembered  her  when  she  was  his  beau-ideal  of  female 
beauty  ;  but  in  those  days  she  was  more  "fancy-rapt," 
and  gave  in  less  to  the  current  and  spirit  of  society. 
Age  has  made  her,  if  it  may  be  so  expressed,  less 
selfish  in  her  use  of  thought,  and  she  pours  it  forth, 
like  Pactolus — that  gold  which  is  sand  from  others,  i 


once  on  a  visit  to  a  noble  house,  when  to  her  dismay 
a  large  and  fashionable  company  arrived,  who  brought 
with  them  a  mania  for  private  theatricals.  Her  ward 
robe  was  very  slender,  barely  sufficient  for  the  ordinary 
j  events  of  a  week-day,  and  her  purse  contained  one 
I  solitary  shilling.  To  leave  the  house  was  out  of  the 
|  question,  to  feign  illness  as  much  so,  and  to  decline 
|  taking  a  part  was  impossible,  for  her  talent  and  spright- 
j  liness  were  the  hope  of  the  theatre.  A  part  was  cast 
for  her,  and,  in  despair,  she  excused  herself  from  the 
gay  party  bound  to  the  country  town  to  make  purcha 
ses  of  silk  and  satin,  and  shut  herself  up,  a  prey  to 
mortified  low  spirits.  The  character  required  a  smart 
village  dress,  and  it  certainly  did  not  seem  that  it  could 
come  out  of  a  shilling.  She  sat  at  her  window,  biting 
her  lips,  and  turning  over  in  her  mind  whether  she 
could  borrow  of  some  one,  when  her  attention  was  at 
tracted  to  a  carpenter,  who  was  employed  in  the  con 
struction  of  a  stage  in  the  large  hall,  and  who,  in  the 
court  below,  was  turning  off  from  his  plane  broad  and 
long  shavings  of  a  peculiarly  striped  wood.  It  struck 
her  that  it  was  like  riband.  The  next  moment  she 
was  below,  and  begged  of  the  man  to  give  her  half-a- 
dozen  lengths  as  smooth  -as  he  could  shave  them.  He 
performed  his  task  well,  and  depositing  them  in  her 
apartment,  she  set  off  alone  on  horseback  to  the  vil 
lage,  and  with  her  single  shilling  succeeded  in  pur 
chasing  a  chip  hat  of  the  coarsest  fabric.  She  carried 
it  home,  exultingly,  trimmed  it  with  her  pine  shavings, 
and  on  the  evening  of  the  performance  appeared  with 
a  white  dress,  and  hat  and  belt-ribands  which  were 
the  envy  of  the  audience.  The  success  of  her  inven 
tion  gave  her  spirits  and  assurance,  and  she  played  to 
admiration.  The  sequel  will  justify  my  first  remark. 
She  made  a  conquest  on  that  night  of  one  of  her  titled 
auditors,  whom  she  afterward  married.  You  will  al 
low  that  Lady may  afford  to  be  tolerant  of  car 
penters." 

An  eminent  clergyman  one  evening  became  the  sub 
ject  of  conversation,  and  a  wonder  was  expressed  that 
!  he  had  never  married.  "That  wonder,"  said  Miss 
P ,  "was  once  expressed  to  the  reverend  gentle 
man  himself  in  my  hearing,  and  he  told  a  story  in  an 
swer  which  I  will  tell  you — and  perhaps,  slight  as  it 
may  seem,  it  is  the  history  of  other  hearts  as"sensitive 
and  delicate  as  his  own.  Soon  after  his  ordination, 
he  preached  once  every  Sabbath,  for  a  clergyman  in 
i  a  small  village  not  twenty  miles  from  London.  Among 
his  auditors,  from  Sunday  to  Sunday,  he  observed  a 


She  is  still  what  I  should  call  a  handsome  woman,  or,   j  young  lady,  who  always  occupied  a  certain  seat,  and 
if  that  be  not  allowed,  she  is  the  wreck  of  more  than  ||  whose  close  attention  began  insensibly  to  grow  to  him 

an   object   of  thought   and    pleasure.      She   left    the 
church  as  soon  as  service  was  over,  and  it  so  chanced 
that  he  went  on  for  a  year  without  knowing  her  name ; 
but   his   sermon  was   never  written  without   many  a 
|  thought  how  she  would  approve  it,  nor  preached  with 
]  satisfaction  unless  he  read   approbation   in  her  face. 
I  Gradually  he  came  to  think  of  her  at  other  times  than 
I  when  writing  sermons,  and  to  wish  to  see  her  on  other 
days   than   Sundays  ;  but   the  weeks  slipped   on,  and 
though  he   fancied  she   grew  paler  and  thinner,  he 
never  brought  himself  to   the  resolution  either  to  ask 
her  name  or  to  seek   to   speak  with   her.     By  these 
silent  steps,  however,  love  had  worked  into  his  heart, 
and  he  had  made  up  his  mind   to  seek  her  acquaint 
ance  and  marry  her,  if  possible,  when  one  day  he  was 
sent  for  to   minister  at  a  funer.il.     The  face  of  the 
corpse  was  the  same  that  had  looked  up  to  him  Sun 
day  after  Sunday,  till  he  had  learned  to  make  it  a  part 
of  his  religion  and  his  life.     He  was  unable  to  perform 
the  service,  and  another  clergyman  present  officiated  ; 
and  after  she  was  buried,  her  father  took  him  aside  and 
begged  his  pardon  for  giving  him  pain — but  he  could 
I  not  resist  the  impulse  to  tell  him  that  his   daughter 


a  common  allotment  of  beauty,  and  looks  it.  Her 
person  is  remarkably  erect,  her  eyes  and  eyelids  (in 
this  latter  resembling  Scott)  very  heavily  moulded, 
and  her  smile  is  beautiful.  It  strikes  me  that  it  always 
is  so — where  it  ever  was.  The  smile  seems  to  be  the 
work  of  the  soul. 

I  have  passed  months  under  the  same  roof  with  Miss 

P 1  and   nothing  gave  me   more  pleasure  than  to 

find  the  company  in  that  hospitable  house  dwindled 
to  a  "  fit  audience  though  few,"  and  gathered  around 
the  figure  in  deep  mourning  which  occupied  the 
warmest  corner  of  the  sofa.  In  any  vein,  and  a-propos 
to  the  gravest  and  the  gayest  subject,  her  well-stored 
mind  and  memory  flowed  forth  in  the  same  rich  cur 
rent  of  mingled  story  and  reflection,  and  I  never  saw 
an  impatient  listener  beside  her.  I  recollect,  one  even 
ing  a  lady's  sinking  "Auld  Robin  Gray,"  and  some 
one  remarking  (rather  unsentimentaliy),  at  the  close, 

"  By-the-by,  what  is  Lady (the  authoress  of  the 

ballad)  doing  with  so  many  carpenters.  Berkeley 
square  is  quite  deafened  with  their  hammering !" 

"A-propos  of  carpenters  and   Lady ,"  said   Miss 

P 1  "  this  same  charming  ballad-writer  owes  some 


thing  to  the  craft.     She  was~better-born  than  provided  jj  had  mentioned  his  name  with  her  last  breath,  and  he 
with  the  gifts  of  fortune,  and  in  her  younger  days  was  ||  was  afraid  that  a  concealed  affection  for  him  had  hur- 


182 


PASSAGES  FROM  AN  EPISTOLARY  JOURNAL. 


ried  her  to  the  grave.  Since  that,  said  the  clergyman 
ia  question,  my  heart  has  been  dead  within  me,  and  I 
look  forward  only.  I  shall  speak  to  her  in  heaven." 

****** 

London  is  wonderfully  embellished  within  the  last 
three  years — not  so  much  by  new  buildings,  public  or 
private,  but  by  the  almost  insane  rivalry  that  exists 
among  the  tradesmen  to  outshow  each  other  in  the  ex 
pensive  magnificence  of  their  shops.  When  I  was  in 
England  before,  there  were  two  or  three  of  these  pal 
aces  of  columns  and  plate-glass — a  couple  of  shawl- 
shops,  and  a  glass  warehouse  or  two,  but  now  the 
west  end  and  the  city  have  each  their  scores  of  estab 
lishments  of  which  you  would  think  the  plate-glass 
alone  would  ruin  anybody  but  Aladdin.  After  an  ab 
sence  of  a  month  from  town  lately,  I  gave  myself  the 
always  delightful  treat  of  an  after-dinner  ramble  among 
the  illuminated  palaces  of  Regent  street  and  its  neigh 
borhood,  and  to  my  surprise,  found  four  new  wonders 
of  this  description — a  shawl-house  in  the  upper  Re 
gent  Circus,  a  silk-mercer's  in  Oxford  street,  a  whip- 
maker's  in  Regent  street,  and  a  fancy  stationer's  in  the 
Quadrant — either  of  which  establishments  fifty  years 
ago  would  have  been  the  talk  of  all  Europe.  The 
first-mentioned  warehouse  lines  one  of  the  quarters  of 
the  Regent  Circus,  and  turns  the  corner  of  Oxford 
street  with  what  seems  but  one  window — a  series  of 
glass  plates,  only  divided  by  brass  rods,  reaching  from 
the  ground  to  the  roof — window-panes  twelve  feet  high, 
and  four  or  five  feet  broad!  The  opportunity  which 
this  immense  transparency  of  front  gives  for  the  dis 
play  of  goods  is  proportionately  improved  ;  and  in  the 
mixture  of  colors  and  fabrics  to  attract  attention  there 
is  evidently  no  small  degree  of  art — so  harmonious  are 
the  colors  and  yet  so  gorgeous  the  show.  I  see  that 
several  more  renovations  are  taking  place  in  different 
parts  of  both  "  city"  and  "town;"  and  London  prom 
ises,  somewhere  in  the  next  decimals,  to  complete  its 
emergence  from  the  chrysalis  with  a  glory  to  which 
eastern  tales  will  be  very  gingerbread  matters  indeed. 

If  I  may  judge  by  my  own  experience  and  by  what 
I  can  see  in  the  streets,  all  this  night-splendor  out  of 
doors  empties  the  play-houses — for  I  would  rather 
walk  Regent  street  of  an  evening  than  see  ninety-nine 
plays  in  a  hundred  ;  and  so  think,  apparently,  multi 
tudes  of  people,  who  stroll  up  and  down  the  clean  and 
broad  London  sidewalks,  gazing  in  at  the  gorgeous 
succession  of  shop-windows,  and  by  the  day-bright 
glare  of  the  illumination  exchanging  nods  and  smiles 
— the  street,  indeed,  becoming  gradually  a  fashionable 
evening  promenade,  as  cheap  as  it  is  amusing  and  de 
lightful.  There  are  large  classes  of  society,  who  find 
the  evenings  long  in  their  dingy  and  inconvenient 
homes,  and  who  must  go  somewhere;  and  while  the 
streets  were  dark,  and  poorly  paved  and  lighted,  the 
play-house  was  the  only  resort  where  they  could  be 
guile  their  cares  with  splendor  and  amusement,  and 
in  those  days  theatricals  flourished,  as  in  these  days 
of  improved  thoroughfares  and  gay  shops  they  evi 
dently  languish.  I  will  lend  a  hint  to  the  next  essay 
ist  on  the  "  Decline  of  the  Drama." 

The  increased  attractiveness  of  London,  from  thus 
disclosing  the  secrets  of  its  wondrous  wealth,  compen 
sates  in  a  degree  for  what  increases  as  rapidly  on  me 
— the  distastefulness  of  the  country,  from  the  forbid 
ding  and  repulsive  exclusiveness  of  high  garden-walls, 
impermeable  shrubberies,  and  every  sort  of  contrivance 
for  confining  the  traveller  to  the  road,  and  nothing  but 
the  road.  What  should  we  say  in  America  to  travel 
ling  miles  between  two  brick  walls,  with  no  prospect 
but  the  branches  of  overhanging  trees  from  the  invis 
ible  park  lands  on  either  side,  and  the  alley  of  cloudy 
sky  overhead  ?  How  tantalizing  to  pass  daily  by  a 
noble  estate  with  a  fine  specimen  of  architecture  in  its 
centre,  and  see  no  more  of  it  than  a  rustic  lodge  and 
some  miles  of  the  tops  of  trees  over  a  paling !  All 


this  to  me  is  oppressive — I  feel  abridged  of  breathing- 
room  and  eyesight — deprived  of  my  liberty — robbed 
of  my  horizon  Much  as  I  admire  high  preservation 
and  cultivation,  I  would  compromise  for  a  "  snake- 
fence"  all  over  England. 

On  a  visit  to  a  friend  a  week  or  two  since  in  the 
neighborhood  of  London,  I  chanced,  during  a  long 
walk,  to  get  a  glimpse  over  the  wall  of  a  nicely-grav 
elled  and  secluded  path,  which  commanded  what  the 
proprietor's  fence  enviously  shut  from  the  road — a 
noble  view  of  London  and  the  Thames.  Accustomed 
to  see  people  traversing  my  own  lawn  and  fields  in 
America  without  question,  as  suits  their  purpose,  and 
tired  of  the  bricks,  hedges  and  placards  of  blacking 
and  pills,  I  jumped  the  fence,  and  with  feelings  of 
great  relief  and  expansion  aired  my  eyes  and  my  im 
agination  in  the  beautiful  grounds  of  my  friend's  op 
ulent  neighbor.  The  Thames  with  its  innumerable 
steamers,  men-of-war,  yachts,  wherries,  and  ships — a 
vein  of  commercial  and  maritime  life  lying  between  the 
soft  green  meadows  of  Kent  and  Essex — formed  a  de 
licious  picture  of  contrast  and  meaning  beauty,  which 
I  gazed  upon  with  great  delight  for — some  ten  minutes. 

In  about  that  time   I  was  perceived  by  Mr.  B 's 

gardener,  who,  with  a  very  pokerish-looking  slick  in 
his  hand,  came  running  toward  me,  evidently,  by  his 
pace,  prepared  for  a  vigorous  pursuit  of  the  audacious 
intruder.  He  came  up  to  where  I  stood,  quite  out  of 
breath,  and  demanded,  with  a  tight  grasp  of  his  stick, 
what  business  I  had  there.  I  was  not  very  well  pre 
pared  with  an  answer,  and  short  of  beating  the  man 
for  his  impudence  (which  in  several  ways  might  have 
been  a  losing  job),  I  did  not  see  my  way  very  clearly 

out  of  Mr.  B 's  grounds.     My  first  intention,  to 

call  on  the  proprietor  and  apologise  for  my  intrusion 
while  I  complained  of  the  man's  insolence,  was  defeat 
ed  by  the  information,  evidently  correct,  that  Mr. 
B— — —  was  not  resident  at  the  place,  and  so  I  was  walk 
ed  out  of  the  lodge-gate  with  a  vagabond's  warning — 
never  to  let  him  "catch  me  there  again  !"  So  much 
for  my  liberal  translation  of  a  park-fence! 

This  spirit  of  exclusion  makes  itself  even  more  dis 
agreeably  felt  where  a  gentleman's  paling  chances  to 
include  any  natural  curiosity.  One  of  the  wildest,  as 
well  as  most  exquisitely  beautiful  spots  on  earth,  is 
the  Dargle,  in  the  county  Wicklow,  in  Ireland.  It  is 
interesting,  besides,  as  belonging  to  the  estate  of  the 
orator  and  patriot  Grattan.  To  get  to  it,  we  were  let 
through  a  gate  by  an  old  man,  who  received  a 
douceur  ;  we  crossed  a  newly-reaped  field,  and  came 
to  another  gate;  another  person  opened  this,  and  we 
paid  another  shilling.  We  walked  on  toward  the 
glen,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  path,  without  any  ob 
ject  apparently  but  the  toll,  there  was  another  locked 
gate,  and  another  porter  to  pay ;  and  when  we  made 
our  exit  from  the  opposite  extremity  of  the  grounds, 
after  seeing  the  Dargle,  there  was  a  fourth  gate  and  a 
fourth  porter.  The  first  field  and  fee  belonged,  if  I 
remember  rightly,  to  a  Captain  Somebody,  but  the 
other  three  gates  belong  to  the  present  Mr.  Grattan, 
who  is  very  welcome  to  my  three  shillings,  either  as 
a  tribute  to  his  father's  memory,  or  to  the  beauty  of 
Tinnehinch  and  the  Dargle.  But  on  whichever 
ground  he  pockets  it,  the  mode  of  assessment  is,  to  say 
the  least,  ungracious.  Without  subjecting  myself 
to  the  charge  of  a  mercenary  feeling,  I  think  I  may 
say  that  the  enthusiasm  for  natural  scenery  is  very 
much  clipped  and  belittled  by  seeing  it  at  a  shilling 
the  perch— paying  the  money  and  taking  the  look.  I 
should  think  no  sum  lost  which  was  expended  in 
bringing  me  to  so  romantic  a  glen  as  the  Dargle;  but 
it  should  be  levied  somewhere  else  than  within  sound 
of  its  wild  waterfall — somewhere  else  than  midway 
between  the  waterfall  and  the  fine  mansion  of  Tin 
nehinch. 


PASSAGES  FROM  AN  EPISTOLARY  JOURNAL. 


183 


The  fish  most  "out  of  water"  in  the  world  is  cer 
tainly  a  Frenchman  in  England  without  acquaint 
ances.  The  illness  of  a  friend  has  lately  occasioned 
me  one  or  two  hasty  visits  to  Brighton;  and  being 
abandoned  on  the  first  evening  to  the  solitary  mercies 
of  the  coffee-room  of  the  hotel,  I  amused  myself  not  I 
a  little  with  watching  the  ennui  of  one  of  these  unfor 
tunate  foreigners,  who  was  evidently  there  simply  to 
qualify  himself  to  say  that  he  had  been  at  Brighton  j 
in  the  season.  I  arrived  late,  and  was  dining  by  my-  | 
self  at  one  of  the  small  tables,  when,  without  looking  ; 
up,  I  became  aware  that  some  one  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room  was  watching  me  very  steadily.  The  place  i 
was  as  silent  as  coffee-rooms  usually  are  after  the 
dinner-hour,  the  rustling  of  newspapers  the  only  sound 
that  disturbed  the  digestion  of  the  eight  or  ten  per-  | 
sons  present,  when  the  unmistakeable  call  of"  Vaitare !"  j 
informed  me  that  if  I  looked  up  I  should  encounter  ; 
the  eyes  of  a  Frenchman.  The  waiter  entered  at  the  ! 
call,  and  after  a  considerable  parley  with  my  opposite 
neighbor,  came  over  to  me  and  said  in  rather  an 
apologetic  tone,  "  Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  the  shevaleer  ; 
wishes  to  know  if  your  name  is  Coopair."  Not  very  ' 
much  inclined,  fatigued  as  I  was,  for  a  conversation 
in  French,  which  I  saw  would  be  the  result  of  a  polite 
answer  to  his  question,  I  merely  shook  my  head,  and 
took  up  the  newspaper.  The  Frenchman  drew  a  long  j 
sigh,  poured  out  his  last  glass  of  claret,  and  crossing  • 
his  thumbs  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  fell  into  a  pro-  I 
found  study  of  the  grain  of  the  mahogany. 

What  with  dawdling  over  coffee  and  tea  and  reading 
half-a-dozen  newspapers,  I  whiled  away  the  time  till 
ten  o'clock,  pitying  occasionally  the  unhappy  chevalier, 
who  exhibited  every  symptom  of  a  person  bored  to 
the  last  extremity.     One  person  after  another  called 
for  a  bed-room  candle,  and  exit  finally  the  French-  j 
man  himself,  making  me,  however,  a  most  courteous 
bow  as  he  passed  out.     There  were  two  gentlemen  ; 
left  in  the  room,  one  a  tall  and  thin  old  man  of  seventy,  ! 
the  other  a  short  portly  gentleman  of  fifty  or  there 
abouts,   both  quite  bald.     They    rose    together   and 
came  to  the  fire  near  which  I  was  sitting. 

"That  last  man  who  went  out  calls  himself  a  cheva 
lier,"  said  the  thin  gentleman. 

"Yes,"  said  his  stout  friend — "he  took  me  for  a 
Mr.  Cooper  he  had  travelled  with." 

"  The  deuce  he  did,"  said  the  other — "  why  he 
took  me  for  a  Mr.  Cooper,  too,  and  we  are  not  very 
much  alike." 

"  I  beg  pardon,  gentlemen,"  said  I — "he  took  me  j 
for  this  Mr.  Cooper  too." 

The  Frenchman's  ruse  was  discovered.  It  was  in 
stead  of  a  snuff-box — a  way  he  hnd  of  making  ac 
quaintance.  We  had  a  good  laugh  at  our  triple  re 
semblance  (three  men  more  unlike  it  would  be  diffi 
cult  to  find),  and  bidding  the  two  Messrs.  Cooper 
good  night,  I  followed  the  ingenious  chevalier  up 
stairs. 

The  next  morning  I  came  down  rather  late  to  break 
fast,  and  found  my  friend  chipping  his  egg-shells  to 
pieces  at  the  table  next  to  the  one  I  had  occupied  the 
night   before.     He  rose  immediately  with  a  look  of  j 
radiant  relief  in  his  countenance,  made  a  most  elabo-  ! 
rate  apology   for  having   taken  me  for  Mr.   Cooper  | 
(whom  I  was  so  like,  cependant,  that  we  should   be 
mistaken  for  each  other  by  our  nearest  friends),  and 
in  a  few  minutes,  Mr.  Cooper  himself,  if  he  had  en 
tered  by  chance,  would  have  returned  the  compliment, 
and  taken  me  for  the  chevalier's  most  intimate  friend 
and  fellow-traveller. 

1  remained  three  or  four  days  at  Brighton,  and 
never  discovered  in  that  time  that  the  chevalier's  ruse  ' 
succeeded  with  any  other  person.  I  was  his  only 
successful  resemblance  to  "  Monsieur  Coopair."  He 
always  waited  breakfast  for  me  in  the  coffee-room, 
and  when  I  called  for  my  bill  on  the  last  morning,  he  1 


dropped  his  knife  and  asked  if  I  was  going  to  London 
— and  at  what  hour — and  if  I  would  be  so  obliging  as 
to  take  a  place  for  him  in  the  same  coach. 

It  was  a  remarkably  fine  day  ;   and  with  my  friend 

by  my  side  outside  of  "  the  Age,"  we  sped  on  toward 

!  London,  the  sun  getting  dimmer  and  dimmer,  and  the 

j  fog  thicker  and  more  chilly  at  every  mile  farther  from 

!  the  sea.     It  was  a  trying  atmosphere  for  the  best  of 

spirits — let  alone  the  ever-depressed  bosom  of  a  stran- 

i  ger  in  England.     The  coach  stopped  at  the  Elephant 

j  and  Castle,  and  I  ordered  down  my  baggage,  and  in- 

1  formed  my  friend,  for  the  first  time,  that  I  was  bound 

j  to  a  country-house  six  miles  from  town.     I  scarce 

know  how  I  had  escaped  telling  him  of  it  before,  but 

|  his   "  impossible  mon  ami. .'"  was  said   in  a  tone  and 

!  accompanied  with  a  look  of  the  most  complete  sur- 

!  prise  and  despair.     I  was  evidently  his  only  hope  in 

London. 

I  went  up  to  town  a  day  or  two  after ;   and  in  ma 
king  my  way  to  Paternoster  Row,  I  saw  my  friend  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  strand,  with  his  hands  thrust 
up  to  the  wrists  in  the  pockets  of  his  "Taglioni,"  and 
his  hat  jammed  down  over  his  eyes,  looking  into  the 
shop  windows  without  much  distinction  between  the 
trunkmaker's   and  the   printsellers — evidently   miser 
able  beyond  being  amused  at  anything.     I  was  too 
much  in  a  hurry  to  cross  over  and  resume  my  office 
of  escape-valve  to  his  ennui,  and  I  soon  outwalked  his 
slow  pace,  and  lost  sight  of  him.     Whatever  title  he 
j  had   to   the  "  chevalier"  (and  he  was  decidedly  too 
j  deficient   in   address   to   belong  to   the   order   "c/'in- 
i  dustrie"),  he  had  no  letter  of  recommendation  in  his 
|  personal  appearance,  and  as  little  the  air  of  even  a 
Frenchman  of  "  quality"  as  any  man  I  ever  saw  in 
the  station  of  a  gentleman.     He  is,  in  short,  the  per 
son  who  would  first  occur  to  me  if  I  were  to  see  a 
paragraph  in  the  Jim es  headed   "suicide   by   a  for 
eigner." 

Revenons  un  pen.    Brighton  at  this  season  (Novem- 
j  ber)  enjoys  a  climate,  which,  as  a  change  from  the 
heavy  air  in  the  neighborhood  of  London,  is  extremely 
exhilarating  and  agreeable.     Though  the  first  day  of 
'  my  arrival  was  rainy,  a  walk  up  the  west  cliff  gave  me  a 
feeling  of  elasticity  and  lightness  of  spirits,  of  which  I 
;  was  beginning  to  forget  the  very   existence,   in   the 
!  eternal   fogs  of  the  six  months  I  had  passed  inland. 
:  I  do   not  wonder  at  the   passion  of  the   English  for 
Brighton.     It  is,  in  addition  to  the  excellence  of  the 
air,  both  a  magnificent  city  aud  the  most  advantageous 
ground  for  the  discomfiture  of  the  common  enemy, 
"  winter  and  rough  weather."     The  miles  of  broad 
i  gravel-walk  just  out  of  reach  of  the  surf  of  the  sea,  so 
hard  and  so  smoothly  rolled  that  they  are  dry  in  five 
minutes  after  the  rain  has  ceased  to  fall,  are  alone  no 
small  item  in  the  comfort  of  a  town  of  professed  idlers 
and  invalids.     1  was  never  tired  of  sauntering  along 
i  this  smooth  promenade   so   close   to   the  sea.     The 
beautiful  children,  who  throng  the  walks  in  almost  all 
weathers   (and    what   children   on   earth   are  half  as 
beautiful  as  English  children?)  were  to  me  a  constant 
1  source  of  pleasure  and  amusement.     Tire  of  this,  and 
'.  by  crossing  the  street  you  meet  a  transfer  of  the  gay 
throngs  of  Regent  street  and  Hyde  Park,  with  splen 
did  shops  and  all  the  features  of  a  metropolis,  while 
midway  between  the  sea  aud  this  crowded  sidewalk 
•  pours  a  tide  of  handsome  equipages,  parties  on  horse- 
i  back,  and  vehicles  of  every  description,  all  subservient 
j  to  exercise  and  pleasure. 

My  first  visit  to  Brighton  was  made  in  a  very  cold 
day  in  summer,  aud  I  saw  it  through  most  unfavorable 
spectacles.  But  1  should  think  that  along  the  cliffs, 
!  where  there  are  no  trees  or  vendure  to  be  seen,  there 
i  is  very  little  apparent  difference  between  summer  and 
i  winter ;  and  coming  here  with  the  additional  clothing 
\  of  a  severer  season,  the  temperature  of  the  elastic  and 
i  saline  air  is  not  even  chilly.  The  most  delicate  chil- 


184 


PASSAGES  FROM  AN  EPISTOLARY  JOURNAL. 


dren  play  upon  the  beach  in  days  when  there  is  no 
sunshine;  and  invalids,  wheeled  out  in  these  conve 
nient  bath  chairs,  sit  for  hours  by  the  seaside,  watch 
ing  the  coming  and  retreating  of  the  waves,  apparently 
without  any  sensation  of  cold — and  this  in  December. 
In  America  (in  the  same  latitudes  with  Leghorn  and 
Venice),  an  invalid  sitting  out  of  doors  at  this  season 
would  freeze  to  death  in  half  an  hour.  Yet  it  was  as 
cold  in  August,  in  England,  as  it  has  been  in  Novem 
ber,  and  it  is  this  temperate  evenness  of  the  weather 
throughout  (he  year  which  makes  English  climate, 
on  the  whole,  perhaps  the  healthiest  in  the  world. 

In  the  few  days  I  was  at  Brighton,  I  became  very 
fond  of  the  perpetual  ioud  beat  of  the  sea  upon  the 
shore.  Whether,  like  the  "  music  of  the  spheres," 
it  becomes  at  last  "  too  constant  to  be  heard,"  I  did 
not  ask — but  I  never  lost  the  consciousness  of  it  ex 
cept  when  engaged  in  conversation,  and  1  found  it 
company  to  my  thoughts  when  I  dined  or  walked 
alone,  and  a  most  agreeable  lullaby  at  night.  This 
majestic  monotone  is  audible  all  over  Brighton,  in 
doors  and  out,  and  nothing  overpowers  it  but  the 
wind  in  a  storm  ;  it  is  even  then  only  by  fits,  and  the 
alternation  of  the  hissing  and  moaning  of  the  blast 
with  the  broken  and  heavy  plash  of  the  waters,  is  so 
like  the  sound  of  a  tempest  at  sea  (the  whistling  in  the 
rigging,  and  the  burst  of  the  waves),  that  those  who 
have  been  at  Brighton  in  rough  weather  have  realized 
all  of  a  storm  at  sea  but  the  motion  and  the  sea-sick 
ness — rather  a  large  but  not  an  undesirable  diminution 
of  experience. 

Calling  on  a  friend  at  Brighton,  I  was  introduced 
casually  to  a  Mr.  Smith.  The  name,  of  course,  did 
not  awaken  any  immediate  curiosity,  but  a  second 
look  at  the  gentleman  did — for  I  thought  1  had  never 
seen  a  more  intellectual  or  finer  head.  A  fifteen 
minutes'  conversation,  which  touched  upon  nothing 
that  could  give  me  a  clue  to  his  profession,  still  satis 
fied  me  that  so  distinguished  an  address,  and  so  keen 
an  eye,  could  belong  to  no  nameless  person,  and  I  was 
scarcely  surprised  when  I  read  upon  his  card  at  part 
ing — HORACE  SMITH.  I  need  not  say  it  was  a  very  i 
great  pleasure  to  meet  him.  I  was  delighted,  too,  j 
that  the  author  of  books  we  love  as  much  as  "  Zillah,"  i 
and  "  Brambletye-House,"  looks  unlike  other  men. 
It  gratifies  somehow  a  personal  feeling — as  if  those 
who  had  won  so  much  admiration  from  us  should,  for 
our  pride's  sake,  wear  the  undeniable  stamp  of  supe 
riority — as  if  we  had  acquired  a  property  in  him  by 
loving  him.  How  natural  it  is,  when  we  have  talked 
and  thought  a  great  deal  about  an  author,  to  call  him 
"ours."  "What  Smith?  Why  our  Smith — Horace 
Smith" — is  as  common  a  dialogue  between  persons 
who  never  saw  him  as  it  is  among  his  personal  friends. 

These  two  remarkable  brothers,  James  and  Horace 
Smith,  are  both  gifted  with  exteriors  such  as  are  not  I 
often  possessed  with  genius — yet  only  James  is  so 
fortunate  as  to  have  stumbled  upon  a  good  painter. 
Lonsdale's    portrait   of  James    Smith,    engraved    by 
Cousens,  is  both  the  author  and  the  man — as  fine  a  I 
picture  of  him,  with  his  mind  seen  through  his  features,  j 
as  was  ever  done.     But  there  is  an  engraved  picture  ] 
extant  of  the  author  of  Zillah,  that,  though  it  is  no 
likeness  of  the  author,  is  a  detestable  caricature  of  the 
man.     Really  this  is  a  point  about  which  distinguish 
ed   men,  in  justice  to  themselves,  should  take  some 
little  care.     Sir  Thomas   Lawrence's   portraits,   and 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's,  are  a  sort  of  biography  of  the 
eminent    men   they    painted.      The    most    enduring 
history,  it  has  been  said,  is  written  in  coins.     Certain 
ly  the  most  effective  biography  is  expressed  in  por 
traits.     Long  after  the  book  and  your  impressions  of  ' 
the  character  of  which  it  treats  have  become  dim  in  j 
your  memory  your  impression  of  the  features  and 
mien  of  a  hero  or  a  poet,  as  received  from  a  picture, 
remains  indelible.     How  often  does  the  face  belie  the 


biography — making  us  think  better  or  worse  of  the 
man,  after  forming  an  opinion  from  a  portrait  in  words, 
that  was  either  partial  or  malicious  !  I  am  persuaded 
the  world  would  think  better  of  Shelley,  if  there  were 
a  correct  and  adequate  portrait  of  his  face,  as  it  has 
been  described  to  me  by  one  or  two  who  knew  him. 
How  much  of  the  Byronic  idolatry  is  born  and  fed 
from  the  idealized  pictures  of  him  treasured  in  every 
portfolio  !  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  Chalon,  and  Par- 
ris,  have  composed  between  them  a  biography  of  Lady 
Blessington,  that  have  made  her  quite  independent 
of  the  "  memoirs"  of  the  next  century.  And  who,  I 
may  safely  ask,  even  in  America,  has  seen  the  nice, 
cheerful,  sensible,  and  motherly  face  which  prefaces 
the  new  edition  of  "  The  Manners  of  the  American 
Domestics"  (I  beg  pardon  for  giving  the  title  from  my 
Kentucky  copy),  without  liking  Mrs.  Trollope  a  great 
deal  better,  and  at  once  dismissing  all  idea  of  "  the 
bazar"  as  a  libel  on  that  most  lady-like  countenance  ? 
*  *  *  *  *  *  # 

I  think  Lady  S had  more  talent  and  distinction 

crowded  into  her  pretty  rooms,  last  night,  than  I  ever 
before  saw  in  such  small  compass.  It  is  a  bijou  of  a 
house,  full  of  gems  of  statuary  and  painting,  but  all 
its  capacity  for  company  lies  in  a  small  drawing-room, 
a  smaller  reception-room,  and  a  very  small,  but  very 
exquisite  boudoir — yet  to  tell  you  who  were  there 
would  read  like  Colburn's  list  of  authors,  added  to  a 
paragraph  of  noble  diners-out  from  the  Morning  Post. 

The  largest  lion  of  the  evening  certainly  was  the 
new  Persian  ambassador,  a  man  six  feet  in  his  slippers  ; 
a  height  which,  with  his  peaked  calpack,  of  a  foot  and 
a  half,  superadded,  keeps  him  very  much  among  the 
chandeliers.  The  principal  article  of  his  dress  does 
not  diminish  the  effect  of  his  eminence — a  long  white 
shawl  worn  like  a  cloak,  and  completely  enveloping 
him  from  beard  to  toe.  From  the  twisted  shawl 
around  his  waist  glitters  a  dagger's  hilt,  lumped  with 
diamonds — and  diamonds,  in  most  dazzling  profu 
sion,  almost  cover  his  breast.  1  never  saw  so  many 
together  except  in  a  cabinet  of  regalia.  Close  behind 
this  steeple  of  shawl  and  gem,  keeps,  like  a  short 
shadow  when  the  sun  is  high,  his  excellency's  secre 
tary,  a  dwarfishly  small  man,  dressed  also  in  cashmere 
nd  calpack,  and  of  a  most  ill-favored  and  bow-stringish 
countenance  and  mien.  The  master  and  man  seem 
chosen  for  contrast,  the  countenance  of  the  ambassa 
dor  expressing  nothing  but  serene  good  nature.  The 
ambassador  talks,  too,  and  the  secretary  is  dumb. 

T H stood  bolt  upright  against  a  mirror- 
door,  looking  like  two  T H s  trying  to  see 

hich  was  taller.  The  one  with  his  face  to  me  looked 
like  the  incarnation  of  the  John  Bull  newspaper,  for 
which  expression  he  was  indebted  to  a  very  hearty 
face,  and  a  very  round  subject  for  a  buttoned-up  coat; 

while  the  H with  his  back  to  me  looked  like  an 

author,  for  which  he  was  indebted  to  an  exclusive  view 

of  his  cranium.  I  dare  say  Mr.  H would  agree 

with  me  that  he  was  seen,  on  the  whole,  at  a  most  en 
viable  advantage.  It  is  so  seldom  we  look,  beyond  the 
man,  at  the  author. 

I  have  rarely  seen  a  greater  contrast  in  person  and 

expression  than  between  H ;md  B ,  who  stood 

near  him.  Both  were  talking  to  ladies — one  bald, 
burly,  upright,  and  with  a  face  of  immovable  gravity, 
the  other  slight,  with  a  profusion  of  curling  hair,  rest 
less  in  his  movements,  and  of  a  countenance  which 

lights  up  with  a  sudden  inward  illumination.  H 's 

partner  in  the  conversation  looked  into  his  face  with  a 
ready-prepared  smile  for  what  he  was  going  to  say, 

B 's  listened  with  an  interest  complete,  but  without 

effort.  H was  suffering  from  what  I  think  is  the 

common  curse  of  a  reputation  for  wit — the  expectation 
of  the  listener  had  outrun  the  performance. 

H B ,  whose  diplomatic  promotion  goes  on 

much  faster  than  can  be  pleasing  to  "Lady  Cheveley," 


PASSAGES  FROM  AN  EPISTOLARY  JOURNAL. 


185 


has  just  received  his  appointment  to  Paris — the  object 
of  his  first  wishes.  He  stood  near  his  brother,  talking 
to  a  very  beautiful  and  celebrated  woman,  and  I 
thought,  spite  of  her  ladyship's  unflattering  descrip 
tion,  I  had  seldom  seen  a  more  intellectual  face,  or  a 
more  gentlemanly  and  elegant  exterior. 

Late  in  the  evening  came  in  his  royal  highness  the 

duke  of  C -,  and  I  wondered,  as  I  had  done  many 

times  before,  when  in  company  with  one  of  these  royal 
brothers,  at  the  uncomfortable  etiquette  so  laboriously 
observed  toward  them.  Wherever  he  moved  in  the 
crowded  rooms,  everybody  rose  and  stood  silent,  and 
by  giving  way  much  more  than  for  any  one  else,  left 
a  perpetual  circular  space  around  him,  in  which,  of 
course,  his  conversation  had  the  effect  of  a  lecture  to 
a  listening  audience.  A  more  embarrassed  manner 
and  a  more  hesitating  mode  of  speech  than  the  duke's, 
I  can  not  conceive.  He  is  evidently  gene,  to  the  last 
degree  with  this  burdensome  deference;  and  one 
would  think  that  in  the  society  of  highly-cultivated 
and  aristocratic  persons,  such  as  were  present,  he 
would  be  delighted  to  put  his  highness  into  his  pocket 
when  the  footman  leaves  him  at  the  door,  and  hear  no 
more  of  it  till  he  goes  again  to  his  carriage.  There 
was  great  curiosity  to  know  whether  the  duke  would 
think  it  etiquetical  to  speak  to  the  Persian,  as  in  con 
sequence  of  the  difference  between  the  shah  and  the 
British  envoy  the  tall  minister  is  not  received  at  the 

court  of  St.  James.     Lady  S introduced  them, 

however,  and  then  the  duke  again  must  have  felt  his 
rank  nothing  less  than  a  nuisance.  It  is  awkward 
enough,  at  any  time,  to  converse  with  a  foreigner  who 
has  not  forty  English  words  in  his  vocabulary,  but 
what  with  the  duke's  hesitating  and  difficult  utterance, 
the  silence  and  attention  of  the  listening  guests,  and 
the  Persian's  deference  and  complete  inability  to  com 
prehend  a  syllable,  the  scene  was  quite  painful. 

There  was  some  of  the  most  exquisite  amateur  sing 
ing  I  ever  heard  after  the  company  thinned  off  a  little, 
and  the  fashionable  song  of  the  day  was  sung  by  a 
most  beautiful  woman  in  a  way  to  move  half  the  com 
pany  to  tears.  It  is  called  "Ruth,"  and  is  a  kind  of 
recitative  of  the  passage  in  Scripture,  "  Wliere  thou 
goest  I  will  go,"  &c. 

****** 

I  have  driven  in  the  park  several  days,  admiring  the 
queen  on  horseback,  and  observing  the  changes  in  the 
fashions  of  driving,  equipages,  &c.,  &c.  Her  majesty 
seems  to  me  to  ride  very  securely  and  fearlessly, 
though  it  is  no  wonder  that  in  a  country  where  every 
body  rides,  there  should  be  bolder  and  better  horse 
women.  Miss  Quentin,  one  of  the  maids  of  honor, 
said  to  be  the  best  female  equestrian  in  England, 
"takes  the  courage  out"  of  the  queen's  horse  every 
morning  before  the  ride — so  she  is  secured  against  one 
class  of  accidents.  1  met  the  royal  party  yesterday  in 
full  gallop  near  the  centre  of  Rotten  Row,  and  fhe  two 
grooms  who  ride  ahead  had  brief  time  to  do  their  work 
of  making  the  crowd  of  carriages  give  way.  On  came 
the  queen  upon  a  dun-colored,  highly-groomed  horse, 
with  her  prime  minister  on  one  side  of  her  and  Lord 
Byron  upon  the  other,  her  cortege  of  maids  of  honor 
and  ladies  and  lords  in  waiting  checking  their  more 
spirited  horses,  and  preserving  always  a  slight  distance 
between  themselves  and  her  majesty.  Victoria's  round 
and  plump  figure  looks  extremely  well  in  her  dark- 
green  riding-dress,  but  I  thought  the  man's  hat  un 
becoming.  Her  profile  is  not  sufficiently  good  for 
that  trying  style,  and  the  cloth  riding-cap  is  so  much 
prettier,  that  I  wonder  she  does  not  remember  that 
"  nice  customs  courtesy  to  great  queens,"  and  wear 
what  suits  her.  She  rode  with  her  mouth  open,  and 
looked  exhilarated  with  the  exercise.  Lord  Melbourne, 
it  struck  me,  was  the  only  person  in  her  party  whose 
face  had  not  the  constrained  look  of  consciousness  of 
observation. 


1 1      I  observe  that  the  "crack  men"  ride  without  mar- 
ji  tingals,  and  that  the  best  turnouts  are  driven  without 
|  a  check-rein.     The  outstretched  neck  which  is  the 
consequence,  has  a  sort  of  Arab  or  blood  look,  proba 
bly  the  object  of  the  change;  but  the  drooping  head 
when  the  horse  is  walking  or  standing  seems  to   me 
ugly  and  out  of  taste.     All  the  new  carriages  are  built 
near  the   ground.     The  low  park-phaeton,  light,  as  a 
child's  plaything,  and  drawn  by  a  pair  of  ponies,  is  the 
fashionable  equipage.     I  saw  the  prettiest  thing  con- 
j  ceivable   of  this  kind  yesterday  in   the  park — a  lady 
I  driving  a  pair  of  small  cream-colored   horses  of  great 
1  beauty,  with  her  two  children  in  the  phceton,  and  two 
grooms    behind    mounted    on    cream-colored    saddle- 
j  horses,  all  four  of  the  animals  of  the  finest  shape  and 
action.     The  new  street  cabs  (precisely  the  old-fash 
ioned  sedan-chair  suspended  between  four  wheels,  a 
foot  from  the  ground)  are  imitated  by  private  carriages, 
and  driven  with  two  horses— ugly  enough.     The  cab- 
phaeton,  is  in   great  fashion,  with  either  one  or  two 
horses.     The  race  of  ponies  is  greatly  improved  since 
I  was  in   England.     They  are  as  well-shaped   as  the 
large  horse,  with  very  fine  coats  and  great  spirit.     The 
children  of  the  nobility  go  scampering  through  the 
j  park  upon  them,  looking  like  horsemen  and  horse- 
|  women  seen  through  a  reversed  opera-glass.     They 
j  are  scarce  larger  than  a  Newfoundland  dog,  but  they 
i  patter  along  with  great  speed.     There  is  one  fine  lad 
!  of  about  eight  years,  whose  parents  seem  to  have  very 
I  little  care  for  his  neck,  and  who,  upon  a  fleet,  milk- 
i  white,  long-tailed  pony,  is  seen  daily  riding  at  a  rate 
I  of  twelve  miles  an  hour  through  the  most   crowded 
I  streets,  with  a  servant  on  a  tall  horse  plying  whip  and 
I  spur  to  keep  up  with  him.     The  whole  system  has  the 
droll  effect  of  a  mixture  of  Lilliput  and  Brobdignag. 
*  *  *  *  *  * 

We  met  the  king  of  Oude  a  few  deys  since  at  a  party, 
and  were   honored   by  an  invitation  to  dine  with  his 
majesty  at  his  house  in  the  Regent's  park.     Yester 
day  was  the  appointed  day  ;  and  with  the  pleasant  an 
ticipation  of  an  oriental  feast,  we  drove  up  at  seven, 
and  were  received   by  his  turbaned  ayahs,  who  took 
shawl  and  hat  with  a  reverential  salaam,  and  introduced 
us  to  the  large  drawing-room  overlooking  the  park. 
j  The   king  was  not  yet  down;  but  in  the  corner  sat 
I  three  parsees  or  fire-worshippers,  guests  like  ourselves, 
who  in  their  long  white  linen  robes,  bronze  faces,  and 
!  high  caps,  looked   like  anything  but  "  diners-out"  in 
j  London.     To   our  surprise  they  addressed  us  in  ex- 
I  cellent  English,  and  we  were  told  afterward  that  they 
;  were  all  learned  men — facts  not  put  down  to  the  credit 
of  the  Ghebirs  in  Lalla  Rookh. 

We  were   called  out  upon  the  balcony  to  look  at  a 
i  balloon  that  was  hovering  over  the  park,  and  on  step- 
I  ping  back  into  the  drawing-room,  we  found  the  com 
pany  all  assembled,  and  our  royal  host  alo/ie  wanting. 
There  were  sixteen  English  ladies  present,  and   five 
i  white  gentlemen   beside  myself.     The   Orient,   how- 
•  ever,  was  well  represented.     In   a  corner,  leaning  si- 
I  lently  against  a  table,  stood  Prince  Hussein  Mirza,  the 
!  king's  cousin,  and  a   more  romantic  and  captivating 
specimen   of  Hindoo   beauty  could   scarcely   be   im- 
j  agined.     He  was  slender,  tall,  and  of  the  clearest  olive 
complexion,    his    night-black    hair    falling    over   his 
i  shoulders  in  profusion,  and   his   large  antelope   eyes 
|  fixed  with  calm  and   lustrous  suiprise  upon  the  half- 
|  denuded  forms  sitting   in  a  circle   before  him.     We 
j  heard  afterward  that  he  has  conceived  a  most  uncon 
trollable    and  unhappy  passion   for  a  high-born   and 
|  beautiful  P^nglish  girl  whom  he  met  in  society,  and 
i  that  it  is  with  difficulty  he  is  persuaded  to  come  out 
j  of  his  room.     His  dress  was  of  shawls  most  gracefully 
j  draped  about  him,  and  a  cap  of  gold  cloth  was  thrown 
I  carelessly  on  the  side  of  his  head.     Altogether  he  was 
i  like  a  picture  of  the  imagination. 

A  middle-aged  stout  man,  ashy  black,  with  Grecian 


186 


PASSAGES  FROM  AN  EPISTOLARY  JOURNAL. 


features,  and  a  most  determined  and  dignified  expres-  i 

sion  of  mouth,  sat  between  Lady and  Miss  Por-  j 

ter,  and  this  was  the  waked  or  ambassador  of  the  j 
prince  of  Sutara,  by  name  Afzul  AH.  He  is  in  Eng-  I 
land  on  business  for  his  master,  and  if  he  does  not  sue-  i 
ceed  it  will  be  no  fault  of  his  under  lip.  His  secretary,  ; 
Keeram  Ali,  stood  behind  him — the  wakeel  dressed  in  [ 
shawls  of  bright  scarlet,  with  a  white  cashmere  turban,  j 
and  the  scribe  in  darker  stuffs  of  the  same  fashion.  \ 
Then  there  was  the  king's  physician,  a  short,  wiry,  ! 
merry-looking,  quick-eyed  Hindoo,  with  a  sort  of  quiz-  j 
zical  angle  in  the  pose  of  his  turban :  the  high-priest,  ' 
also  a  most  merry-looking  Oriental,  and  Ali  Acbar,  a 
Persian  attache.  I  think  these  were  all  the  Asiatics. 

The  king  entered  in  a  few  minutes,  and  made  the 
circuit  of  the  room,  shaking  hands  most  cordially  with  : 
all  his  guests.     He  is  a  very  royal-looking  person  in-  j 
deed.     Perhaps  you  might  call  him  too  corpulent,  if  • 
his  fine  height  (a   little  over  six  feet),  and  very  fine  j 
proportions,  did  not  give  his  large  size  a  character  of  j 
majesty.     His  chest   is  full  and  round,  and  his  walk  ) 
erect  and  full  of  dignity.     He   has  the   Italian   olive  I 
complexion,  with  straight  hair,  and  my  own  remark  at  ! 
first  seeing  him  was  that  of  many  others,  "How  like  | 
a  bronze  cast  of  Napoleon !"     The  subsequent  study 
of  his  features  remove   this  impression,  however,  for  j 
he  is  a  most  "  merry  monarch,"  and  is  seldom  seen  j 
without  a  smile.     His  dress  was  a  mixture  of  oriental 
and  English  fashions — a  pair  of  baggy  blue  pantaloons, 
bound  around  the  waist  with  a  rich  shawl,  a  splendid  i 
scarlet   waistcoat   buttoned    close   over   his   spacious  j 
chest,  and  a  robe  of  very  fine  snuff-colored  cloth  some-  ! 
thing  like  a  loose  dressing-gown  without  a  collar.     A  I 
cap  of  silver  cloth,  and  a  brilliant  blue  satin  cravat  [ 
completed  his  costume,  unless  in  his  covering  should 
be  reckoned  an  enormous  turquoise  ring,  which  al 
most  entirely  concealed  one  of  his  fingers. 

Ekbal-ood-Dowlah,  Nawnub  of  Oude  (his  name  and  ! 
title),  is  at  present  appealing  to  the  English  against  ; 
his  uncle,  who  usurps  his  throne  by  the  aid  and  counte-  j 
nance  of  the  East  India  company.     The   Mohamme-  j 
dan  law,  as  I  understand,  empowers  a  king  to  choose 
his   successor   from    his   children   without   reference 
to  primogeniture,  and  the  usurper,  though  an  elder  | 
brother,  having  been  imbecile  from  his  youth,  Ekbal's  \ 
father  was  selected  by  the  then  king  of  Oude  to  sue-  j 
ceed   him.     The   question   having   been   referred    to 
Lord  Wellesley,  however,  then  governor  of  India,  he 
decided  that  the  English  law  of  primogeniture  should 
prevail,  or  in  other  words  (as  the  king's  friends  say) 
preferred  to  have  for  the  king  of  a  subject  province  an 
imbecile  who  would  give  him  no  trouble.     So  slipped 
from  the   Nawaub's  hands   a  pretty  kingdom  of  six 
millions  of  faithful  Mohammedans  !     I  believe  this  is 
the  "short"  of  the  story.     I  wonder  (we  are  reproach 
ed  so  very  .often  by  the  English  for  our  treatment  of 
the  Indians)  whether  a  counter-chapter  of  "  expedient 
wrong"  might  not  be  made  out  from  the  history  of  the 
Indians  under  British  government  in  the  east  ? 

Dinner  was  announced  with  a  Hindostanee  salaam, 

and  the  king  gave  his  arm  to  Lady .     The  rest 

of  us  "stood  not  upon  the  order  of  our  going,"  and  .1 
I  found  myself  seated  at  table  between  my  wife  and  a  I 
Polish  countess,  some  half  dozen  removes  from  the 
Nawaub's  right  hand.     His  highness  commenced  help-  I 
ing   those  about  him   most   plentifully  from  a  large 
pillau,  talking  all  the  while  most  merrily  in  broken 
English,  or  resorting  to  Hindostanee  and  his  inter 
preter  whenever  his  tongue  got  into  trouble.     With 
the  exception   of  one  or  two   English  joints,  all  the 
dishes  were  prepared  with  rice  or  saffron,  and  (wine 
being  forbidden  by  the  Mahommedan  law)  iced  water 
was  served  round  from  Indian   coolers   freely.     For  I 
one,  I  would  have  compounded  for  a  bottle  of  wine 
by  taking  the  sin  of  the  entire  party  on  my  soul,  for, 
what  with  the  exhaustion  of  a  long  London  day,  and 


the  cloying  quality  of  the  Nawaub's  rich  dishes,  I 
began  to  be  sorry  I  had  not  brought  a  flask  in  my 
pocket.  His  majesty's  spirits  seemed  to  require  no 
aid  from  wine^  He  talked  constantly,  and  shrewdly, 
and  well.  He  impresses  every  one  with  a  high 
estimate  of  his  talents,  though  a  more  complete  and 
undisguised  child  of  nature  I  never  saw.  Good  sense, 
with  good  humor,  frankness,  and  simplicity,  seem  to 
be  his  leading  qualities. 

We  were  obliged  to  take  our  leave  early  after  din 
ner,  having  other  engagements  for  the  evening,  but 
while  coffee  was  serving,  the  Hindostanee  cook,  a 
funny  little  old  man,  came  in  to  receive  the  compli 
ments  of  the  company  upon  his  dinner,  and  to  play 
and  dance  for  his  majesty's  amusement.  He  had  at 
his  back  a  long  Indian  drum,  which  he  called  his 
"turn  turn,"  and  playing  himself  an  accompaniment 
upon  this,  he  sang  two  or  three  comic  songs  in  his 
own  language  to  a  sort  of  wild  yet  merry  air,  very 
much  to  the  delight  of  all  the  orientals.  Singer, 
dancer,  musician,  and  cook,  the  king  certainly  has  a 
jewel  of  a  servant  in  him. 

One  moment  bowing  ourselves  out  from  the  pres 
ence  of  a  Hindoo  king,  and  the  next  beset  by  an  Irish 
man  with  "  Heaven  bless  your  honor  for  the  sixpence 
you  mean  to  give  me !"  what  contrasts  strike  the  travel 
ler  in  this  great  heart  of  the  world  !  Paddy  lighted 
us  to  our  carriage  with  his  lantern,  implored  the  coach 
man  to  "  dhrive  carefully,"  and  then  stood  with  his 
head  bent  to  catch  the  sound  upon  the  pavement  of 
another  sixpence  for  his  tenderness.  Wherever  there 
is  a  party  in  the  fashionable  quarters  of  London,  these 
Tantaluses  flit  about  with  their  lanterns — for  ever  at 
the  door  of  pleasure,  yet  shivering  and  starving  for 
ever  in  their  rags.  What  a  life  ! 

*#*#** 

One  of  the  most  rational  and  agreeable  of  the  fashion 
able  resorts  in  London  is  Kensington  Gardens,  on  the 
days  when  the  royal  band  plays  from  five  to  seven 
near  the  bridge  of  the  Serpentine.  Some  twenty  of 
the  best  instrumental  musicians  of  London  station 
themselves  under  the  trees  in  this  superb  park  (for 
though  called  "  gardens,"  it  is  but  a  park  with  old 
trees  and  greensward),  and  up  and  down  the  fine  silky 
carpet  stroll  hundreds  of  the  fashionables  of  "  May 
fair  and  Belgrave  square,"  listening  a  little  perhaps, 
and  chattering  a  great  deal  certainly.  It  is  a  good 
opportunity  to  see  what  celebrated  beauties  look  like 
by  daylight;  and,  truth  to  say,  one  comes  to  the  con 
clusion  there,  that  candle-light  is  your  true  kalydor. 
It  is  very  ingeniously  contrived  by  the  grand  chamber 
lain  that  this  public  music  should  be  played  in  a  far 
away  corner  of  the  park,  inaccessible  except  by  those 
who  have  carriages.  The  plebeians,  for  whose  use 
and  pleasure  it  seems  at  first  sight  graciously  con 
trived,  are  pretty  well  sifted  by  the  two  miles  walk, 
and  a  very  aristocratic  and  well-dressed  assembly  in 
deed  is  that  of  Kensington  gardens. 

Near  the  usual  stand  of  the  musicians  runs  a  bridle 
path  for  horsemen,  separated  from  the  greensward  by 
a  sunk  fence,  and  as  I  was  standing  by  the  edge  of  the 
ditch  yesterday,  the  queen  rode  by,  pulling  up  to  listen 
to  the  music,  and  smile  right  and  left  to  the  crowd  of 
cavaliers  drawn  up  in  the  road.  I  pulled  off  my  hat 
and  stood  uncovered  instinctively,  but  looking  around 
to  see  how  the  promenaders  received  her,  I  found  to 
my  surprise  that  with  the  exception  of  a  bald-headed 
nobleman  whem  I  chanced  to  know,  the  Yankee  stood 
alone  in  his  homage  to  her. 

I  thought  before  I  left  America  that  I  should  find 
the  stamp  of  the  new  reign  on  manners,  usages,  con 
versation,  and  all  the  outer  form  and  pressure  of  socie 
ty.  One  can  not  fancy  England  under  Elizabeth  to 
have  struck  a  stranger  as  did  England  under  James. 
We  think  of  Shakspere,  Leicester,  and  Raleigh,  and 
conclude  that  under  a  female  sovereign  chivalry  at 


MY  ADVENTURES  AT  THE  TOURNAMENT. 


187 


least  shines  brighter,  and  poetry  should.  A  good 
deal  to  my  disappointment,  I  have  looked  in  vain  for 
even  a  symptom  of  the  queen's  influence  on  anything. 
She  is  as  completely  isolated  in  England,  as  entirely 
above  and  out  of  the  reach  of  the  sympathies  and 
common  thoughts  of  society,  as  the  gilt  grasshopper 
on  the  steeple.  At  the  opera  and  play,  half  the 
audience  do  not  even  know  she  is  there  ;  in  the  park, 
she  rides  among  the  throng  with  scarcely  a  head 
turned  to  look  after  her;  she  is  unthought  of,  and 
almost  unmentioned  at  balls,  routes,  and  soirees  ;  in 
short,  the  throne  seems  to  stand  on  glass — with  no  one 
conductor  to  connect  it  with  the  electric  chain  of  hu 
man  hearts  and  sympathies. 


MY  ADVENTURES  AT  THE  TOURNAMENT, 


THAT  Irish  Channel  has,  as  the  English  sny,   '•  ;i  | 
nasty  way  with  it."     I  embarked  at  noon  on  the  26th,  j 
in  a  magnificent  steamer,  the  Royal  Sovereign,  which  j 
had  been  engaged  by  Lord  Eglinton  (as  per  advertise-  ' 
ment)  to  set  down  at  Ardrossan  all  passengers  bound 
to  the  tournament.     This  was  a  seventeen  hours'  job, 
including  a  very  cold,  blowy,  and  rough  night ;    and 
of  the  two  hundred  passengers  on  board,  one  half 
were  so  blest  as  to  have  berths  or  settees — the  others 
were  unblest,  indeed. 

I  found  on  board  several  Americans  ;  and  by  the 
time  I  had  looked  at  the  shape  of  the  Liverpool  har 
bor,  and  seen  one  or  two  vessels  run  in  before  a  slap 
ping  breeze,  the  premonitory  symptom  (which  had 
already  sent  many  to  their  berths)  sent  me  to  mine. 
The  boat  was  pitching  backward  and  forward  with  a 
sort  of  handsaw  action  that  was  not  endurable.  By 
foregoing  my  dinner  and  preserving  a  horizontal  posi 
tion,  I  escaped  all  sickness,  and  landed  at  Ardrossan  I 
at  six  the  next  morning,  with  a  thirty-six  hours'  fast  \ 
upon  me,  which  I  trusted  my  incipient  gout  would  re 
member  as  a  per  contra  to  the  feast  in  the  promised 
"  banquet." 

Ardrossan,  built  chiefly,  I  believe,  by  Lord  Eglin- 
ton's  family,  and  about  eight  miles  from  the  castle,  is 
a  small  but  very  clean  and  thrifty-looking  hamlet  on 
that  part  of  the  western  coast  of  Scotland  which  lies 
opposite  the  Isle  of  Arran.  Ailsa  Rock,  famous  in 
song,  slumbers  like  a  cloud  in  the  southwestern  hori 
zon.  The  long  breakers  of  the  channel  lay  their  lines 
of  foam  almost  upon  the  street,  and  the  harbor  is 
formed  by  a  pier  jutting  out  from  a  little  promontory 
on  the  northern  extremity  of  the  town.  The  one 
thoroughfare  of  Ardrossan  is  kept  clean  by  the  Broom 
of  every  wind  that  sweeps  the  Irish  sea.  A  cleaner  or 
bleaker  spot  I  never  saw. 

A  Gael,  who  did  not  comprehend  a  syllable  of  such 
English  as  a  Yankee  delivers,  shouldered  my  port 
manteau  without  direction  or  request,  and  travelled 
away  to  the  inn,  where  he  deposited  it  and  held  out 
his  hand  in  silence.  There  was  certainly  quite  enough 
said  between  us ;  and  remembering  the  boisterous  ac 
companiment  with  which  the  claims  of  porters  are 
usually  pushed  upon  one's  notice,  I  could  well  wish 
that  Gaelic  tide-waiters  were  more  common. 

"  Any  room,  landlord  ?"  was  the  first  question — 
"  Not  a  clipboard,  sir,"  was  the  answer. — u  Can  you 
give  me  some  breakfast  ?"  asked  fifty  others  in  a  breath. 
— "  Breakfast  will  be  put  upon  all  the  tables  presently, 
gentlemen,"  said  the  dismayed  Boniface,  glancing  at 
the  crowds  who  were  pouring  in,  and,  Scotchmanlike, 
making  no  promises  to  individuals. — "  Landlord  !" 
vociferated  a  gentleman  from  the  other  side  of  the 


hall — "what  the  devil  does  this  mean?     Here's  the 
room  I  engaged  a  fortnight  ago  occupied  by  a  dozen 
people  shaving  and  dressing  !" — "  I  canna  help  it,  sir  ! 
Ye're  welcome  to  turn  'em  a'  out — if  ye  can  .'"  said 
j  the  poor  man,  lifting  up  his  hands  in  despair,  and  re 
treating   to   the   kitchen.     The  hint  was  a  good  one, 
I  and  taking  up  my  own  portmanteau,  I  opened  a  door 
|  in  one  of  the  passages.     It  led  into  a  small  apartment, 
i  which  in  more  roomy  times  might  have  been  a  pantry, 
but  was  now  occupied  by  three  beds  and  a  great  varie- 
|  ty  of  baggage.     There  was  a  twopenny  glass  on  the 
mantel-piece,  and  a  drop  or  two  of  water  in  a  pitcher, 
and  where  there  were  sheets  I  could  make  shift  for  a 
towel.     I  found  presently,  by  the  way,  that  I  had  had 
a  narrow  escape  of  surprising  some  one  in  bed,  for 
the  sheet  which  did  duty  as  a  napkin  was  still  warm 
with  the  pressure  of  the  newly-fled  occupant. 

Three  or  four  smart-looking  damsels  in  caps  looked 
in  while  I  was  engaged  in  my  toilet,  and  this,  with  one 
or  two  slight  observations  made  in  the  apartment,  con 
vinced  me  that  I  had  intruded  on  the  dormitory  of  the 
ladies'  maids  belonging  to  the  various  parties  in  the 
house.  A  hurried  "God  bless  us!"  as  they  retreated, 
however,  was  all  either  of  reproach  or  remonstrance 
that  I  was  troubled  with;  and  I  emerged  with  a 
|  smooth  chin  in  time  for  breakfast,  very  much  to  the 
']  envy  and  surprise  of  my  less-enterprising  compan 
ions. 

There  was  a  great  scramble  for  the  tea  and  toast; 
but,  uniting  forces  with  a  distinguished  literary  man 
whose  acquaintance  I  had  been  fortunate  enough  to 
make  on  board  the  steamer,  we  managed  to  get  places 
at  one  of  the  tables,  and  achieved  our  breakfasts  in 
tolerable  comfort.  We  were  still  eight  miles  from 
Eglinton,  however,  and  a  lodging  was  the  next  matter 
of  moment.  My  friend  thought  he  was  provided  for 
nearer  the  castle,  and  I  went  into  the  street,  which  I 
found  crowded  with  distressed-looking  people,  flying 
from  door  to  door,  with  ladies  on  their  arms  and  wheel 
barrows  of  baggage  at  their  heels,  the  townspeople 
standing  at  the  doors  and  corners  staring  at  the  novel 
spectacle  in  open-mouthed  wonder.  Quite  in  a  di 
lemma  whether  or  not  to  go  on  to  Irvine  (which,  being 
within  two  miles  of  the  castle,  was  probably  much 
more  over-run  than  Ardrossan),  I  was  standing  at  the 
corner  of  the  street,  when  a  Liverpool  gentleman, 
whose  kindness  I  must  record  as  well  as  my  pleasure 
in  his  society  for  the  two  or  three  days  we  were  to 
gether,  came  up  and  offered  me  a  part  of  a  lodging  he 
had  that  moment  taken.  The  bed  was  what  we  call 
in  America  a  bunk,  or  a  kind  of  berth  sunk  into  the 
wall,  and  there  were  two  in  the  same  garret,  but  the 
sheets  were  clean  ;  and  there  was  a  large  bible  on  the 
table — the  latter  a  warrant  for  civility,  neatness,  and 
honesty,  which,  after  many  years  of  travel,  I  have 
never  found  deceptive.  I  closed  immediately  with 
my  friend  ;  and  whether  it  was  from  a  smack  of  au 
thorship  or  no,  I  must  say  I  took  to  my  garret  very 
kindly- 
It  "was  but  nine  o'clock,  and  the  day  was  on  my 
hands.  Just  beneath  the  window  ran  a  railroad,  built 
to  bring  coal  to  the  seaside,  and  extending  to  within 
a  mite  of  the  castle;  and  with  some  thirty  or  forty 
others,  I  embarked  in  a  horse-car  for  Eglinton  to  see 
the  preparations  for  the  following  day's  tournament. 
We  were  landed  near  the  park  gate,  after  an  hour's 
drive  through  a  flat  country  blackened  with  coal-pits; 
and  it  was  with  no  little  relief  to  the  eye  that  I  en 
tered  upon  a  smooth  and  gravelled  avenue,  leading  by 
a  mile  of  shaded  windings  to  the  castle.  The  day  was 
heavenly;  the  sun-flecks  lay  bright  as  "patines  of 
gold"  on  the  close-shaven  grass  beneath  the  trees ; 
and  I  thought  that  nature  had  consented  for  once  to 
remove  her  eternal  mist-veil  from  Scotland,  and  let 
pleasure  and  sunshine  have  a  holyday  together.  The 
sky  looked  hard  and  deep;  and  I  had  no  more  appre- 


188 


MY  ADVENTURES  AT  THE  TOURNAMENT. 


hension  of  rain  for  the  morrow  than  I  should  have  had 
under  a  July  sun  in  Asia. 

Crossing  a  bright  little  river  (the  Lugton,  I  think 
it  is  called),  whose  sloping  banks,  as  far  as  I  could  see 
up  and  down,  were  shaven  to  the  rich  smoothness  of 
"  velvet  of  three-pile,"  I  came  in  sight  of  the  castle 
towers.  Another  bridge  over  a  winding  of  the  same 
river  lay  to  the  left,  a  Gothic  structure  of  the  most 
rich  and  airy  mould,  and  from  either  end  of  this  ex 
tended  the  enclosed  passage  for  the  procession  to  the 
lists.  The  castle  stood  high  upon  a  mound  beyond.  Its 
round  towers  were  half  concealed  by  some  of  the  finest 
trees  I  ever  saw ;  and  though  less  antique  and  of  a  less 
rowning  and  rude  aspect  than  I  had  expected,  it  was 
a  very  perfect  specimen  of  modern  castellated  archi 
tecture.  On  ascending  to  the  lawn  in  front  of  the 
castle.  I  found  that  it  was  built  less  upon  a  mound 
than  upon  the  brow  of  a  broad  plateau  of  table-land, 
turned  sharply  by  the  Lugton,  close  under  the  castle 
walls — a  natural  sight  of  singular  beauty.  Two  Sara 
cenic-looking  tents  of  the  gayest  colors  were  pitched 
upon  the  bright-green  lawn  at  a  short  distance,  and 
off  to  the  left,  by  several  glimpses  through  the  trees, 
I  traced  along  the  banks  of  the  river  the  winding  en 
closures  for  the  procession. 

The  large  hall  was  crowded  with  servants  ;  but  pre- 
Buming  that  a  knight  who  was  to  do  his  devoir  so  con 
spicuously  ou  the  morrow  would  not  be  stirring  at  so 
early  an  hour,  1  took  merely  a  glance  of  the  armor 
upon  the  walls  in  passing,  and  deferring  the  honor  of 
paying  my  respects,  crossed  the  lawn  and  passed  over 


I  blue  sky  of  the  size  of  my  garret  skylight,  and  a  daz- 
j  zling  sunshine  on  the  floor.  "  Skirling"  above  all  the 
other  instruments  of  the  band,  the  Highland  bagpipe 
made  the  air  reel  with  "A'  the  blue  bonnets  are  over 
the  border,"  and,  hoisting  the  window  above  my  head, 
I  strained  over  the  house-leads  to  get  a  look  at  the 
performer.  A  band  of  a  dozen  men  in  kilt  and  bonnet 
were  marching  up  and  down,  led  by  a  piper,  something 
in  the  face  like  the  heathen  representations  of  Boreas; 
and  on  a  long  line  of  roughly-constructed  rail-cars 
were  piled,  two  or  three  deep,  a  crowd  resembling,  at 
first  sight,  a  crushed  bed  of  tulips.  Bonnets  of  every 
cut  and  color,  from  the  courtier's  green  velvet  to  the 
shepherd's  homely  gray,  struggled  at  the  top  ;  and 
over  the  sides  hung  red  legs  and  yellow  legs,  cross- 
barred  stockings  and  buff  boots,  bare  feet  and  pilgrim's 
sandals.  The  masqueraders  scolded  and  laughed,  the 
boys  halloed,  the  quiet  people  of  Ardrossan  stared  in 
grave  astonishment,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  some 
brawny  shoulders,  applied  to  the  sides  of  the  over 
laden  vehicles,  the  one  unhappy  horse  got  his  whim 
sical  load  under  way  for  the  tournament. 

Train  followed  train,  packed  with  the  same  motley 
array  ;  and  at  ten  o'clock,  after  a  clean  and  comforta 
ble  Scotch  breakfast  in  our  host's  little  parlor,  we  sal 
lied  forth  to  try  our  luck  in  the  scramble  for  places. 
j  After  a  considerable  fight  we  were  seated,  each  with  a 
j  man  in   his  lap,  when  we  were  ordered  down   by  the 
,  conductor,   who   informed   us  that  the   chief  of  the 
Campbells  had  taken  the  car  for  his  party,  and  that, 
with  his  band  in  the  succeeding  one,  he  was  to  go  in 


the  Lugton  by  a  rustic  foot-bridge  in  search   of  the     state  (upon  a  railroad!)  to  Eglinton.     Up  swore  half- 


lists.  A  cross-path  (leading  by  a  small  temple  en 
closed  with  wire  netting,  once  an  aviary,  perhaps,  but 
now  hung  around  in  glorious  profusion  with  game, 
venison,  a  boar's  head,  and  other  comestibles),  brought 
me  in  two  or  three  minutes  to  a  hill-side  overlooking 
the  chivalric  arena.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight  of  itself 
without  plume  or  armor.  In  the  centre  of  a  verdant 
plain,  shut  in  by  hills  of  an  easy  slope,  wooded  richly, 
appeared  an  oblong  enclosure  glittering  at  either  end 
with  a  cluster  of  tents,  striped  with  the  gayest  colors 
of  the  rainbow.  Between  them,  on  the  farther  side, 
stood  three  galleries,  of  which  the  centre  was  covered 
with  a  Gothic  roof  highly  ornamented,  the  four  front 
pillars  draped  with  blue  damask,  and  supporting  a  can 
opy  over  the  throne  intended  for  the  queen  of  beauty. 
A  strongly-built  barrier  extended  through  the  lists; 
and  heaps  of  lances,  gay  flags,  and  the  heraldic  orna 
ments,  still  to  be  added  to  the  tents,  lay  around  on 
the  bright  grass  in  a  picture  of  no  little  richness.  I 
was  glad  afterward  that  I  had  seen  thus  much  with 
the  advantage  of  an  unclouded  sun. 

In  reluming,  I  passed  in  the  rear  of  the  castle,  and 
looked  into  the  temporary  pavilions  erected  for  the 
banquet  and  ball.  They  were  covered  exteriorly  with 
rough  board  and  sails,  and  communicated  by  an  en 
closed  gallery  with  one  of  the  larger  apartments  of  the 
castle.  The  workmen  were  still  nailing  up  the  drapery, 
and  arranging  lamps  and  flowers;  but  with  all  this  dis 
advantage,  the  effect  of  the  two  immense  halls,  lined  as 
they  were  with  crimson  and  white  in  broad  alternate 
stripes,  resembling  in  shape  and  fashion  two  gigantic 
tents,  was  exceedingly  imposing.  Had  the  magnificent 
design  of  Lord  Eglinton  been  successfully  carried  out, 
it  would  have  been  a  scene,  with  the  splendor  of  the 
costumes,  the  lights,  music,  and  revelry,  unsurpassed, 
probably,  by  anything  short  of  enchantment. 


PRINCIPAL   DAY. 


I  WAS  awakened  at  an  early  hour  the  morning  after 
my  arrival  at  Ardrossan  by  a  band  of  music  in  the 
street.  My  first  feeling  was  delight  at  seeing  a  bit  of  i 


a-dozen  Glasgow  people,  usurpers  like  ourselves,  that 
they  would  give  way  for  no  Campbell  in  the  world ; 
and  finding  a  stout  hand  laid  on  my  leg  to  prevent  my 
yielding  to  the  order  to  quit,  1  gave  in  to  what  might 
j  be  called  as  pretty  a  bit  of  rebellious  republicanism  as 
I  you  would  find  on  the  Mississippi.  The  conductor 
stormed,  but  the  Scotch  bodies  sat  firm ;  and  as  Scot 
met  Scot  in  the  fight,  I  was  content  to  sit  in  silence 
and  take  advantage  of  the  victory.  I  learned  after 
ward  that  the  Campbell  chieftain  was  a  Glasgow  man 
ufacturer;  and  though  he  undoubtedly  had  a  right  to 
gather  his  clan,  and  take  piper  and  eagle's  plume,  there 
might,  possibly,  be  some  jealous  disapprobation  at  the 
bottom  of  his  townsmen's  rudeness. 

Campbell  and  his  party  presently  appeared,  and  a 
dozen  or  twenty  very  fine  looking  men  they  were.  One 
of  the  ladies,  as  well  as  I  could  see  through  the  black 
lace  veil  thrown  over  her  cap  and  plumes,  was  a  re 
markably  handsome  woman  ;  and  I  was  very  glad  when 
the  matter  was  compromised,  and  the  Campbells  were 
distributed  among  our  company.  We  jogged  on  at  a 
slow  pace  toward  the  tournament,  passing  thousands 
of  pedestrians,  the  men  all  shod,  and  the  women  all 
barefoot,  with  their  shoes  in  their  hands,  and  nearly 
every  one,  in  accordance  with  Lord  Eglinton's  printed 
request,  showing  some  touch  of  fancy  in  his  dress.  A 
plaid  over  the  shoulder,  or  a  Glengary  bonnet,  or,  per 
haps,  a  goose-feather  stuck  jauntily  in  the  cap,  was 
enough  to  show  the  feeling  of  the  wearer,  and  quite 
enough  to  give  the  crowd,  all  in  all,  a  most  festal  and 
joyous  aspect. 

The  secluded  bit  ol  road  between  the  rail-track  and 
the  castle  lodge,  probably  never  before  disturbed  by 
more  than  two  vehicles  at  a  time,  was  thronged  with  a 
press  of  wheels,  as  closely  jammed  as  Fleet  street  at 
noon.  Countrymen's  carts  piled  with  women  and 
children  like  loads  of  market-baskets  in  Kent;  post- 
chaises  with  exhausted  horses  and  occupants  straining 
their  eyes  forward  for  a  sight  of  the  castle  ;  carriages 
of  the  neighboring  gentry  with  "  bodkins"  and  over- 
packed  dickeys,  all  in  costume  ;  stout  farmers  on 


horseback,  with  plaid  and  bonnet;  gingerbread  and 
ale-carts,  pony-carts,  and  coal-carts;  wheelbarrows 
with  baggage,  and  porters  with  carpet-bags  and  hat- 


MY  ADVENTURES  AT  THE  TOURNAMENT. 


189 


boxes,  were  mixed  up  in  merry  confusion  with  the 
most  motley  throng  of  pedestrians  it  has  ever  been  my 
fortune  to  join.  The  vari-colored  tide  poured  in  at 
the  open  gate  of  the  castle;  and  if  I  had  seen  no  other 
procession,  the  long-extended  mass  of  caps,  bonnets, 
and  plumes,  winding  through  that  shaded  and  beautiful 
avenue,  would  have  repaid  me  for  no  small  proportion 
of  my  subsequent  discomfort.  I  remarked,  by  the 
way,  that  I  did  not  see  a  hat  in  the  entire  mile  between 
the  porter's  lodge  and  the  castle. 

The  stables,  which  lay  on  the  left  of  the  approach 
(a  large  square  structure  with  turret  and  clock,  very  | 
like   four   methodist   churches,  dos-d-dos),  presented  j 
another   busy   and    picturesque   scene — horses   half-  j 
caparisoned,  men-at-arms  in   buff  and  steel,  and   the  j 
gay  liveries  of  the  nineteenth  century  paled  by  the  re-  I 
vived  glories  of  the  servitude  of  more  knightly  times,  j 
And  this  part  of  the  scene,  too,  had  its  crowd  of  laugh 
ing  and  wondering  spectators. 

On  reaching  the  Gothic   bridge  over  the   Lugton,  ! 
we  came  upon  a  cordon  of  police  who  encircled  the  ! 
castle,  turning  the  crowd  off  by  the  bridge  in  the  di-  ( 
rection  of  the  lists.     Sorry  to  leave   my  merry  and 
motley  fellow-pedestrians,  1  presented  my  card  of  in 
vitation  and  passed   on  alone  to  the  castle.     The  sun 
was  at  this  time  shining  with  occasional  cloudings- 
over;  and  the  sward  and  road,  after  the  two  or  three 
fine  days  we  had  had,  were  in  the  best  condition  for 
every  purpose  of  the  tournament. 

Two  or  three  noble  trees  with  their  foliage  nearly  i 
to  the  ground  stood  between  me  and  the  front  of  the  | 
castle,  as  I  ascended  the  slope  above  the  river  ;  and  : 
the  lifting  of  a  stage  curtain  could  scarce  be  more  i 
sudden,  or  the  scene  of  a  drama  more  effectively  com-  J 
posed,  than  the  picture  disclosed  by  the  last  step  upon  i 
the  terrace.     Any  just  description  of  it,  indeed,  must 
read  like  a  passage  from  the  "  prompter's  book."     I  I 
stood  for  a  moment,  exactly  where  you   would  have  ! 
placed  an  audience.     On  my  left  rose  a  noble  castle 
with  four  round  towers,  the  entrance  thronged  with  I 
men-at-arms,   and   busy  comers  and   goers  in  every  ! 
variety  of  costume.     On  the  greensward  in  front  of  the  j 
castle   lounged   three   or  four  gentlemen    archers  in  ! 
suits  of  green  silk  and  velvet.     A  cluster  of  grooms 
under  an  immense  tree  on  the  right  were  fitting  two 
or  three  superb  horses  with  theirarmor  and  caparisons, 
while  one   beautiful   blood  palfrey,  whose  fine  limbs  ' 
and  delicately  veined  head  and  neck  were  alone  visible  \ 
under  his  embroidered  saddle  and  gorgeous  trappings  ' 
of  silk,  was  held  by  two  "  tigers"  at  a  short  distance,  j 
Still  farther  on  the  right,  stood  a  cluster  of  gayly  dec-  ; 
orated  tents;  and  in  and  out  of  the  looped-up  curtain 
of  the  farthest  passed  constantly  the  slight  forms  of  j 
lady  archers  in   caps  with  snowy  plumes,  kirtles  of 
green  velvet,  and  petticoats  of  white  satin,  quivers  at 
their  backs  and   bows   in  their  hands — one   tall  and   ' 
stately   girl    (an   Ayrshire    lady    of  very   uncommon   j 
beauty,  whose   name  I  took  some  pains  to  inquire),    | 
conspicuous  by  her  grace  and  dignity  above  all. 

SFhe  back-ground  was  equally  well  composed the  '! 

farther  side  of  the  lawn  making  a  sharp  descent  to  the   ! 
small  river  which  bends  around  the  castle,  the  opposite   ! 
shore  thronged  with  thousands  of  spectators  watching   ] 
the  scene  1  have  described  ;    and  in  the  distance  be-   ! 
hind  them,  the  winding  avenue,  railed  in  for  the  pro- 
CWrion,   hidden   and  disclosed   by   turns   among   the 
noble  trees  of  the  park,  and  alive  throughout  its  whole 
extent   with   the   multitudes  crowding   to   the  lists. 
There  was  a  chivalric  splendor  in  the  whole  scene,  ' 
which  I  thought  at  the  time  would  repay  one  for  a  i 
long   pilgrimage  to  see  it — even  should  the  clouds,  ; 
which  by  this  time  were  coming  up  very  threatening 
ly  from  the  horizon,  put  a  stop  to  the  tournament  al 
together. 

On  entering  the  castle  hall,   a  lofty   room  hung  ! 
round   with   arms,   trophies  of  the   chase,   ancient  i 
13 


shields,  and  armor  of  every  description,  T  found  my 
self  in  a  crowd  of  a  very  merry  and  rather  a  motley 
character— knights  half  armed,  esquires  in  buff,  pal- 
|  mers,  halberdiers,  archers,  and  sen-ants  in  modern 
'j  livery,  here  and  there  a  lady,  and  here  and  there  a 
spectator  like  myself,  and  in  a  corner  by  one  of  the 
Gothic  windows— what  think  you? — a  minstrel? — a 
gray-haired  harper?— a  jester  ?  Guess  again — a  re 
porter  for  the  Times!  With  a  "walking  dictionary" 
at  his  elbow,  in  the  person  of  the  fat  butler  of  the 
castle,  he  was  inquiring  out  the  various  characters  in 
the  crowd,  and  the  rapidity  of  his  stenographic  jot 
tings-down  (with  their  lucid  apparition  in  print  two 
days  after  in  London)  would,  in  the  times  represented 
by  the  costumes  about  him,  have  burnt  him  at  the 
stake  for  a  wizard  with  the  consent  of  every  knight  in 
Christendom. 

I  was  received  by  the  knight-marshal  of  the  lists, 
j  who  did  the  honors  of  hospitality  for  Lord  Eglinton 
during  his  preparation  for  the  "  passage  of  arms  ;" 
and  finding  an  old  friend  under  the  gray  beard  and 
I  scallop  shell  of  a  venerable  palmer,  whose  sandal  and 
I  bare  toes  I  chanced  to  stumble  over,  we  passed  in 
I  together  to  the  large  dining-room  of  the  castle. 
j  "  Lunch"  was  on  the  long  table,  and  some  two  hun- 
I  dred  of  the  earl's  out-lodging  guests  were  busy  at 
!  knife  and  fork,  while  here  and  there  were  visible  some 
of  those  anachronisms  which,  to  me,  made  the  zest 
|  of  the  tournament — pilgrims  eating  Perigord  pies, 
!  esquires  dressing  after  the  manner  of  the  thirteenth 
century  diving  most  scientifically  into  the  richer  veins 
of  pates  defoie-gras,  dames  in  rufl'and  farthingale  dis 
cussing  blue  blanc-mange,  and  a  knight  with  an  over 
night  headache  calling  out  for  a  cup  of  tea  ! 

On  returning  to  the  hall  of  the  castle,  which  was 
|  the  principal  place  of  assemblage,  I  saw  with  no  little 
j  regret  that  ladies  were  coining  from  their  carriages 
i  under  umbrellas.     The  fair  archers  tripped  in  doors 
from   their  crowded  tent,  the   knight  of  the  dragon, 
who  had  been  out  to  look  after  his  charger,  was  being 
wiped  dry  by  a  friendly  pocket  handerckief,   and  all 
I  countenances  had  fallen  with  the  barometer.     It  was 
i  time  for  the   procession    to  start,   however,   and   the 
j  knights   appeared,  one  by  one,  armed  cap-a-pie,  all 
i  save  the  helmet,  till  at  last  the  hall  was  crowded  with 
steel-clad  and  chivalric  forms;  and  they  waited  only 
for  the  advent  of  the  queen  of  beauty.     After  admiring 
not  a  little  the  manly  bearing  and  powerful  "  thewes 
and  sinews"  displayed  by  the  array  of  modern  English 
i  nobility  in  the  trying  costumes  and  harness  of  olden 
j  time,  1  stepped  out  upon  the  lawn  with  some  curiosity 
j  to  see  how  so  much  heavy  metal  was  to  be  got  into  a 
demipique  saddle.     After  one  or  two  ineffectual  at 
tempts,  foiled  partly  by  the  restlessness  of  his  horse, 
the  first  knight  called  ingloriously  for  a  chair.    Another 
scrambled   over  with  great   difficulty  ;    and   I   fancy, 
though  Lord  Waterford  and  Lord  Eglinton,  and  one 
other  whom   I   noticed,  mounted   very  gallantly  and 
gracefully,  the  getting  to  saddle  was  possibly  the  most 
difficult   feat  of  the  day.     The  ancient  achievement 
of  leaping  on  the  steed's  back  from  the  ground  in 
complete   armor   would    certainly   have    broken    the 
spine  of  any  horse  present,  and  was  probably  never 
done   but   in  story.     Once   in    the   saddle,   however, 
English  horsemanship  told  well ;  and  one  of  the  finest 
sights  of  the  day  I  thought  was  the  breaking  away  of 
a  powerful  horse  from  the  grooms,  before  his  rider  had 
gathered  up  his  reins,  and  a  career  at  furious  speed 
through  the  open  park,  during  which  the  steel-encum 
bered  horseman  rode  as  safely  as  a  fox-hunter,  and 
subdued  the  affrighted  animal,  and  brought  him  back 
in  a  style  worthy  of  a  wreath  from  the  queen  of 
beauty. 

Driven  in  by  the  rain,  I  was  standing  at  the  upper 
side  of  the  hall,  when  a  movement  in  the  crowd  and 
an  unusual  "  making-way"  announced  the  coming  of 


190 


MY  ADVENTURES  AT  THE  TOURNAMENT. 


the  "cynosure  of  all  eyes."  She  enteted  from  the 
interior  of  the  castle  with  her  train  held  up  by  two 
beautiful  pages  of  ten  or  twelve  years  of  age,  and  at 
tended  by  two  fair  and  very  young  maids  of  honor. 
Her  jacket  of  ermine,  her  drapery  of  violet  and  blue 
velvet,  the  collars  of  superb  jewels  which  embraced 
her  throat  and  bosom,  and  her  sparkling  crown,  were 
on  her  (what  they  seldom  are,  but  should  be  only) 
mere  accessaries  to  her  own  predominating  and  radiant 
beauty.  Lady  Seymour's  features  are  as  nearly  fault 
less  as  is  consistent  with  expression  ;  her  figure  and 
face  are  rounded  to  the  complete  fulness  of  the  mould 
for  a  Juno  ;  her  walk  is  queenly,  and  peculiarly  un 
studied  and  graceful,  yet  (I  could  not  but  think  then 
and  since)  she  was  not  well  chosen  for  the  queen  of  a 
tournament.  The  character  of  her  beauty,  uncom 
mon  and  perfect  as  it  is,  is  that  of  delicacy  and  loveli 
ness — the  lily  rather  than  the  rose — the  modest  pearl, 
not  the  imperial  diamond.  The  eyes  to  flash  over  a 
crowd  at  a  tournament,  to  be  admired  from  a  distance, 
to  beam  down  upon  a  knight  kneeling  for  a  public 
award  of  honor,  should  be  full  of  command,  dark, 
lustrous,  and  fiery.  Hers  are  of  the  sweetest  and 
most  tranquil  blue  that  ever  reflected  the  serene 
heaven  of  a  happy  hearth — eyes  to  love,  not  wonder 
at,  to  adore  and  rely  upon,  not  admire  and  tremble  for. 
At  the  distance  at  which  most  of  the  spectators  of  the 
tournament  saw  Lady  Seymour,  Fanny  Kemble's 
stormy  orbs  would  have  shown  much  finer,  and  the 
forced  and  imperative  action  of  a  stage-taught  head 
and  figure  would  have  been  more  applauded  than  the 
quiet,  nameless,  and  indescribable  grace  lost  to  all  but 
those  immediately  round  her.  I  had  seen  the  Queen 
of  Beauty  in  a  small  society,  dressed  in  simple  white, 
without  an  ornament,  when  she  was  far  more  becom 
ingly  dressed  and  more  beautiful  than  here,  and  I  have 
never  seen,  since,  the  engravings  and  prints  of  Lady 
Seymour  which  fill  every  window  in  the  London 
shops,  without  feeling  that  it  was  a  profanation  of  a 
style  of  loveliness  that  would  be 

"  prodigal  enough 

If  it  unveiled  its  beauty  to  the  moon." 

The  day  wore  on,  and  the  knight-marshal  of  the 
lists  (Sir  Charles  Lamb,  the  stepfather  of  Lord 
Eglinton,  by  far  the  most  knightly  looking  person  at 
the  tournament),  appeared  in  his  rich  surcoat  and 
embossed  armor,  and  with  a  despairing  look  at  the  in 
creasing  torrents  of  rain,  gave  the  order  to  get  to 
horse.  At  the  first  blast  of  the  trumpet,  the  thick- 
leaved  trees  around  the  castle  gave  out  each  a  dozen 
or  two  of  gay  colored  horsemen  who  had  stood  almost 
unseen  under  the  low-hanging  branches — mounted 
musicians  in  silk  and  gay  trappings,  mounted  inen-at- 
arms  in  demi-suits  of  armor,  deputy  marshals  and 
halberdiers;  and  around  the  western  tower,  where 
their  caparisons  had  been  arranged  and  their  horse- 
armor  carefully  looked  to,  rode  the  glittering  and 
noble  company  of  knights,  Lord  Eglinton  in  his  armor 
of  inlaid  gold,  and  Lord  Alford,  with  his  athletic 
frame  and  very  handsome  features,  conspicuous  above 
all.  The  rain,  meantime,  spared  neither  the  rich 
tabard  of  the  pursuivant,  nor  the  embroidered  saddle 
cloths  of  the  queen's  impatient  palfrey  ;  and  after  a 
half-dozen  of  dripping  detachments  had  formed  and 
led  on,  as  the  head  of  the  procession,  the  lady-archers 
(who  were  to  go  on  foot)  were  called  by  the  marshal 
with  a  smile  and  a  glance  upward  which  might  have 
been  construed  into  a  tacit  advice  to  stay  in  doors. 
Gracefully  and  majestically,  however,  with  quiver  at 
her  back,  and  bow  in  hand,  the  tall  and  fair  archer  of 
whose  uncommon  beauty  I  have  already  spoken, 
stepped  from  the  castle  door ;  and,  regardless  of  the 
rain  which  fell  in  drops  as  large  as  pearls  on  her  un 
protected  forehead  and  snowy  shoulders,  she  took  her 
place  in  the  procession  with  her  silken-booted  troop 


picking  their  way  very  gingerly  over  the  pools  behind 
her.  Slight  as  the  circumstance  may  seem,  there 
was  in  the  manner  of  the  lady,  and  her  calm  disregard 
of  self  in  the  cause  she  had  undertaken,  which  would 
leave  me  in  no  doubt  where  to  look  for  a  heroine 
were  the  days  of  Wallace  (whose  compatriot  she  is) 
to  come  over  again.  The  knight-marshal  put  spurs 
to  his  horse,  and  re-ordered  the  little  troop  to  the 
castle  ;  and  regretting  that  I  had  not  the  honor  of  the 
lady's  acquaintance  for  my  authority,  I  performed  my 
only  chivalric  achievement  for  the  day,  the  sending  a 
halberdier  whom  I  had  chanced  to  remember  as  the 
servant  of  an  old  friend,  on  a  crusade  into  the  castle 
for  a  lady's  maid  and  a  pair  of  dry  stockings !  Whether 
they  were  found,  and  the  fair  archer  wore  them,  or 
where  she  and  her  silk-shod  company  have  the  tourna 
ment  consumption,  rheumatism,  or  cough,  at  this 
hour,  I  am  sorry  I  can  not  say. 

The  judge  of  peace,  Lord  Saltoun,  with  his  wand, 
and  retainers  on  foot  bearing  heavy  battle-axes,  was 
one  of  the  best  figures  in  the  procession  ;  though,  as 
he  was  slightly  gray,  and  his  ruby  velvet  cap  and  sat 
urated  ruff  were  poor  substitutes  for  a  warm  cravat 
and  hat-brim,  I  could  not  but  associate  his  fine  horse 
manship  with  a  sore  throat,  and  his  retainers  and  their 
battle-axes  with  relays  of  nurses  and  hot  flannels.  The 
flower  of  the  tournament,  in  the  representing  and 
keeping  up  of  the  assumed  character,  however,  was  its 
king,  Lord  Londonderry.  He,  too,  is  a  man,  I  should 
think,  on  the  shady  side  of  fifty,  but  of  just  the  high 
preservation  and  embonpoint  necessary  for  a  royal  pres 
ence.  His  robe  of  red  velvet  and  ermine  swept  the 
ground  as  he  sat  in  his  saddle;  and  he  managed  to 
keep  its  immense  folds  free  of  his  horse's  legs,  and 
yet  to  preserve  its  flow  in  his  prancing  motion,  with  a 
grace  and  ease,  I  must  say,  which  seemed  truly  im 
perial.  His  palfrey  was  like  a  fiery  Arabian,  all  ac 
tion,  nerve,  and  fire ;  and  every  step  was  a  rearing 
prance,  which,  but  for  the  tranquil  self-possession  and 
easy  control  of  the  king,  would  have  given  the  specta 
tors  some  fears  for  his  royal  safety.  Lord  London 
derry's  whole  performance  of  his  part  was  without  a 
fault,  and  chiefly  admirable,  I  thought,  from  his  sus 
taining  it  with  that  unconsciousness  and  entire  freedom 
from  mauvaise  honte  which  the  English  seldom  can 
command  in  new  or  conspicuous  situations. 

The  queen  of  beauty  was  called,  and  her  horse  led 
to  the  door;  but  the  water  ran  from  the  blue  saddle 
cloth  and  housings  like  rain  from  a  roof,  and  the  storm 
seemed  to  have  increased  with  the  sound  of  her  name. 
She  came  to  the  door,  and  gave  a  deprecating  look 
upward  which  would  have  mollified  anything  but  a 
Scotch  sky,  and,  by  the  command  of  the  knight  mar 
shal,  retired  again  to  wait  for  a  less  chivalric  but  drier 
conveyance.  Her  example  was  followed  by  the  other 
ladies,  and  their  horses  were  led  riderless  in  the  pro 
cession. 

The  knights  were  but  half  called  when  I  accepted 
a  friend's  kind  offer  of  a  seat  in  his  carriage  to  the  lists. 
The  entire  park,  as  we  drove  along,  was  one  vast  ex 
panse  of  umbrellas  ;  and  it  lookedYrom  the  carriage- 
window,  like  an  army  of  animated  and  gigantic  mush 
rooms,  shouldering  each  other  in  a  march.  I  had  no 
idea  till  then  of  the  immense  crowd  the  occasion  had 
drawn  together.  The  circuitous  route  railed  in  for 
the  procession  was  lined  with  spectators  six  or  seven 
deep,  on  either  side,  throughout  its  whole  extent  of  a 
mile ;  the  most  distant  recesses  of  the  park  were 
crowded  with  men,  horses,  and  vehicles,  all  pressing 
onward  ;  and  as  we  approached  the  lists  we  found  the 
multitude  full  a  quarter  of  a  mile  deep,  standing  on  all 
the  eminences  which  looked  down  upon  the  enclosure, 
as  closely  serried  almost  as  the  pit  of  the  opera,  and 
all  eyes  bent  in  one  direction,  anxiously  watching  the 
guarded  entrance.  I  heard  the  number  of  persons 
present  variously  estimated  during  the  day,  the  esti- 


MY  ADVENTURES  AT  THE  TOURNAMENT. 


191 


mates  ranging  from  fifty  to  seventy-five  thousand,  but 
I  should  think  the  latter  was  nearer  the  mark. 

We  presented  our  tickets  at  the  private  door,  in  the 
rear  of  the  principal  gallery,  and  found  ourselves  intro 
duced  to  a  very  dry  place  among  the  supports   and 
rafters  of  the  privileged  structure.     The  look-out  was 
excellent  in  front,  and  here  I  proposed  to  remain,  de 
clining  the  wet  honor  of  a  place  above  stairs.     The 
gentleman-usher,   however,  was  very   urgent  for  our 
promotion  ;  but  as  we  found  him  afterward   chatting 
very  familiarly  with  a  party  who  occupied  the  seats 
we  had  selected,  we  were  compelled  to  relinquish  the 
flattering  unction  that  he  was  actuated  by  an  intuitive 
sense  of  our  deservings.     On  ascending  to  the  covered 
gallery,  I  saw,  to   my  surprise,  that  some  of  the  best 
seats   in  front  were  left  vacant,  and  here  and  there, 
along  the  different  tiers  of  benches,  ladies  were  crowd 
ing  excessively  close  together,  while  before  or  behind 
<hem  there  seemed  plenty  of  unoccupied  room.     A 
second  look  showed  me  small  streams  of  water  coming 
through  the  roof,  and   I  found  that  a  dry  seat  was 
totally  unattainable.     The  gallery  held  about  a  thou 
sand  persons  (the  number  Lord  Eglinton  had  invited 
to  the  banquet  and  ball),  and  the  greater  part  of  these 
were  ladies,  most  of  them  in  fancy  dresses,  and  the  re 
mainder  in  very  slight  demi-toilette— everybody  having 
dressed   apparently  with  a  full   reliance  on  the  morn- 
ing's  promise  of  fair  weather.     Less   fortunate  than 
the  multitude  outside,  the  earl's  guests  seemed  not  to 
have  numbered  umbrellas  among  the  necessities  of  a 
tournament;  and  the  demand  for  this  despised  inven 
tion  was  sufficient  (if  merit  were  ever  rewarded)  to  i 
elevate  it  for  ever  after  to  a  rank  among  chivalric  ap 
pointments.     Substitutes   and    imitations   of  it   were 
made  of  swords  and  cashmeres  ;  and  the  lenders  of 
veritable  umbrellas  received  smiles  which  should  in 
duce  them,  one  would  think,  to  carry  half-a-dozen  to 
all  future  tournaments  in  Scotland.     It  was  pitiable 
to  see  the  wreck  going  on  among  the  perishable  ele 
gancies  of  Victorine  and  Herbault— chip  hats  of  the 
most    faultless    toumure   collapsing    with    the    wet ;  { 
starched   ruffs  quite  flat ;  dresses   passing  helplessly  I 
from  "  Lesbia's"  style  to  "  Nora  Creina's ;"  shawls,  ! 
tied  by  anxious  mammas  over  chapeau  and  coiffure, 
crushing  pitilessly  the  delicate  fabric  of  months  of  in-  j 
vention  ;  and,  more  lamentable  still,  the  fair  brows  and  I 
shoulders  of  many  a  lovely  woman  proving  with  rain-  j 
bow  clearness  that  the  colors  of  the  silk  or  velvet  com 
posing  her  head-dress  were  by  no  means  "  fast."     The 
Irvine  archers,  by  the  way,  who,  as  the  queen's  body-  j 
guard,  were   compelled  to  expose  themselves  to  the  I 
rain  on  the  grand  staircase,  resembled  a  troop  of  New-  j 
Zealanders   with    their   faces   tattooed    of  a  delicate 
green ;  though,   as    their   Lincoln   bonnets   were   all 
made  of  the  same  faithless  velvet,  they  were  fortunately 
streaked  so  nearly  alike  as  to  preserve  theiimniform. 

After  a  brief  consultation  between  the  rheumatisms  , 
in  my  different  limbs,  it  was  decided  (since  it  was  vain  i 
to  hope  for  shelter  for  the  entire  person)  that  my  cloth- 
cap  would  be  the  best  recipient  for  the  inevitable  wet;  ! 
and  selecting  the  best  of  the  vacated  places,  I  seated  I 
myself  so  as  to  receive  one  of  ihe  small  streams  as  I 
nearly  as  possible  on  my  organ  of  firmness.     Here  I  ; 
was   undisturbed,  except  that  once  I  was  asked  (my  j 
seat  supposed  to  be  a  dry  one)  to  give  place  to  a  lady  ! 
newly  arrived,  who,  receiving  my  appropriated  rivulet 
in  her  neck,  immediately  restored  it  to  me  with  many  ! 
acknowledgments,  and  passed   on.     In  point  of  posi 
tion,  my  seat,  which  was  very  near  the  pavilion  of  the 
queen  of  beauty,  was  one  of  the  best  at  the  tourna 
ment;  and  diverting  my  aqueduct,  by  a  little  manage 
ment,  over  my  left  shoulder,  I  contrived  to  be  more 
comfortable,  probably,  than  most  of  my  shivering  and 
melancholy  neighbors. 

A  great  agitation  in  the  crowd,  and  a  dampish  sound 
of  coming  trumpets,  announced  the  approach  of  the 


procession.  As  it  came  in  sight,  and  wound  along  the 
curved  passage  to  the  lists,  its  long  and  serpentine  line 
of  helmets  and  glittering  armor,  gonfalons,  spear- 
points,  and  plumes,  just  surging  above  the  moving  sea 
of  umbrellas,  had  the  effect  of  some  gorgeous  and 
bright-scaled  dragon  swimming  in  troubled  waters. 
The  leaders  of  the  long  cavalcade  pranced  into  the 
arena  at  last,  and  a  tremendous  shout  from  the  multi 
tude  announced  their  admiration  of  the  spectacle.  On 
they  came  toward  the  canopy  of  the  queen  of  beauty, 
rnen-at-arms,  trumpeters,  heralds,  and  halberdiers,  and 
soon  after  them  the  king  of  the  tournament,  with  his 
long  scarlet  robe  flying  to  the  tempest,  and  his  rearing 
palfrey  straining  every  nerve  to  show  his  pride  and 
beauty.  The  first  shout  from  the  principal  gallery 
was  given  in  approbation  of  this  display  of  horseman 
ship,  as  Lord  Londonderry  rode  past ;  and  consider 
ing  the  damp  state  of  the  enthusiasm  which  prompted 
it,  it  should  have  been  considered  rather  flattering. 
Lord  Eglinton  came  on  presently,  distinguished  above 
all  others  no  less  by  the  magnificence  of  his  appoint 
ments  than  by  the  ease  and  dignity  with  which  he 
rode,  and  his  knightly  bearing  and  stature.  His 
golden  armor  sat  on  him  as  if  he  had  been  used  to 
wear  it ;  and  he  managed  his  beautiful  charger,  and 
bowed  in  reply  to  the  reiterated  shouts  of  the  multitude 
and  his  friends,  with  a  grace  and  chivalric  courtesy 
which  drew  murmurs  of  applause  from  the  spectators 
long  after  the  cheering  had  subsided. 

The  jester  rode  into  the  lists  upon  a  gray  steed, 
shaking  his  bells  over  his  head,  and  dressed  in  an  odd 
costume  of  blue  and  yellow,  with  a  broad-flapped  hat, 
asses'  ears,  Arc.  His  character  was  not  at  first  under 
stood  by  the  crowd,  but  he  soon  began  to  excite  mer 
riment  by  his  jokes,  and  no  little  admiration  by  his 
capital  riding.  He  was  a  professional  person,  I  think 
it  was  said,  from  Astley's,  but  as  he  spoke  with  a  most 
excellent  Scotch  "  burr,"  lie  easily  passed  for  an  in 
digenous  "fool."  He  rode  from  side  to  side  of  the 
lists  during  the  whole  of  the  tournament,  borrowing 
umbrellas,  quizzing  the  knights,  &c. 

One  of  the  most  striking  features  of  the  procession 
was  the  turn-out  of  the  knight  of  the  Gael,  Lord 
Glenlyon,  with  seventy  of  his"  clansmen  at  his  back 
in  plaid  and  philibeg,  and  a  finer  exhibition  of  calves 
(without  a  joke)  could  scarce  be  desired.  They  fol 
lowed  their  chieftain  on  foot,  and  when  the  procession 
separated,  took  up  their  places  in  line  along  the 
palisade,  serving  as  a  guard  to  the  lists. 

After  the  procession  had  twice  made  the  circuit  of 
the  enclosure,  doing  obeisance  to  the  queen  of  beauty, 
the  jester  had  possession  of  the  field  while  the  knights 
retired  to  don  their  helmets  (hitherto  carried  by  their 
esquires),  and  to  await  the  challenge  to  combat.  All 
eyes  were  now  bent  upon  the  gorgeous  clusters  of 
tents  at  either  extremity  of  the  oblong  area  ;  and  in  a 
very  few  minutes  the  herald's  trumpet  sounded,  and 
the  knight  of  the  swan  rode  forth,  having  sent  his  de 
fiance  to  the  knight  of  the  golden  lion.  At  another 
blast  of  the  trumpet  they  set  their  lances  in  rest,  se 
lected  opposite  sides  of  the  long  fence  or  barrier  run 
ning  lengthwise  through  the  lists,  and  rode  furiously 
past  each  other,  the  fence  of  course  preventing  any 
contact  except  that  of  their  lances.  This  part  oY  the 
tournament  (the  essential  part,  one  would  think)  was, 
from  the  necessity  of  the  case,  the  least  satisfactory  of 
all.  The  knights,  though  they  rode  admirably,  were 
so  oppressed  by  the  weight  of  their  armor,  and  so  em 
barrassed  in  their  motions  by  the  ill-adjusted  joints, 
that  they  were  like  men  of  wood,  unable  apparently 
even  to  raise  the  lance  from  the  thigh  on  which  it 
rested.  I  presume  no  one  of  them  either  saw  where 
he  should  strike  his  opponent,  or  had  any  power  of 
directing  the  weapon.  As  they  rode  close  to  the 
fence,  however,  and  a  ten-foot  pole  sawed  nearly  off 
in  two  or  three  places  was  laid  crosswise  on  the  legs 


193 


MY  ADVENTURES  AT  THE  TOURNAMENT. 


of  each,  it  would  be  odd  if  they  did  not  come  in  con 
tact;  and  (he  least  shock  of  course  splintered  the  lance 
— in  other  words,  finished  what  was  begun  by  the  car 
penter's  saw.  The  great  difficulty  was  to  ride  at  all 
under  such  a  tremendous  weight,  and  manage  a  horse 
of  spirit,  totally  unused  both  to  the  weight  and  the 
clatter  of  his  own  and  his  rider's  armor.  I  am  sure 
that  Lord  Eglinton's  horse,  for  one,  would  have 
bothered  Ivanhoe  himself  to  "bring  to  the  scratch;" 
and  Lord  Waterford's  was  the  only  one  that,  for  all 
the  fright  he  showed,  might  have  been  selected  (as 
they  all  should  have  been)  for  the  virtue  of  having 
peddled  tin-ware.  These  two  knights,  by  the  way,  ran 
the  best  career,  Lord  Eglinton,  malgrc  his  bolter, 
coming  off  the  victor. 

The  rain,  meantime,  had  increased  to  a  deluge,  the 
queen  of  beauty  sat  shivering  under  an  umbrella,  the 
jester's  long  ears  were  water-logged,  and  lay  flat  on 
his  shoulders,  and  everybody  in  my  neighborhood  had 
expressed  a  wish  for  a  dry  seat  and  a  glass  of  sherry. 
The  word  "  banquet"  occurred  frequently  right  and 
left;  hopes  for  "  mulled  wine  or  something  hot  be 
fore  dinner"  stole  from  the  lips  of  a  mamma  on  the 
seat  behind ;  and  there  seemed  to  be  but  one  chance 
for  the  salvation  of  health  predominant  in  the  minds 
of  all,  and  that  was  drinking  rather  more  freely  than 
usual  at  the  approaching  banquet.  Judge  what  must 
have  been  the  astonishment,  vexation,  dread,  and  de 
spair,  of  the  one  thousand  wet,  shivering,  and  hungry 
candidates  for  the  feast,  when  Lord  Eglinton  rode  up 
to  the  gallery  unhelmeted,  and  delivered  himself  as 
follows : — 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  had  hoped  to  have  given 
you  all  a  good  dinner;  but  to  my  extreme  mortifica 
tion  and  regret,  I  am  just  informed  that  the  rain  has 
penetrated  the  banqueting  pavilions,  and  that,  in  con 
sequence,  I  shall  only  be  able  to  entertain  so  many  of 
my  friends  as  can  meet  around  rny  ordinary  table." 

About  as  uncomfortable  a  piece  of  intelligence,  to 
some  nine  hundred  and  sixty  of  his  audience,  as  they 
could  have  received,  short  of  a  sentence  for  their  im 
mediate  execution. 

To  comprehend  fully  the  disastrous  extent  of  the 
disappointment  in  the  principal  gallery,  it  must  be 
taken  into  consideration  that  the  dornicils,  fixed  or 
temporary,  of  the  rejected  sufferers,  were  from  five  to 
twenty  miles  distant — a  long  ride  at  best,  if  begun  on 
the  point  of  famishing,  and  in  very  thin  and  well- 
saturated  fancy  dresses.  Grievance  the  first,  however, 
was  nothing  to  grievance  the  second;  viz.,  that  from 
the  tremendous  run  upon  post-horses  and  horses  of  all 
descriptions,  during  the  three  or  four  previous  days, 
the  getting  to  the  tournament  was  the  utmost  that 
many  parties  could  achieve.  The  nearest  baiting- 
place  was  several  miles  off;  and  in  compassion  to  the 
poor  beasts,  and  with  the  weather  promising  fair  on 
their  arrival,  most  persons  had  consented  to  take 
their  chance  for  the  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  lists  to 
the  castle,  and  had  dismissed  their  carriages  with 
orders  to  return  at  the  close  of  the  banquet  and  ball 
— daylight  the  next  morning  !  The  castle,  everybody 
knew,  was  crammed,  from  "  donjon-keep  to  turret- 
top,"  with  the  relatives  and  intimate  friends  of  the 
noble  earl,  and  his  private  table  could  accommodate 
no  more  than  these.  To  get  home  was  the  inevitable 
alternative. 

The  rain  poured  in  a  deluge.  The  entire  park  was 
trodden  into  a  slough,  or  standing  in  pools  of  water — 
carts,  carriages,  and  horsemen,  with  fifty  thousand 
flying  pedestrians,  crowding  every  road  and  avenue. 
How  to  get  home  with  a  carriage  !  How  the  deuce 
to  get  home  without  one  ! 

A  gentleman,  who  had  been  sent  out  on  the  errand 
of  Noah's  dove  by  a  lady  whose  carriage  and  horses 
were  ordered  at  four  the  following  morning,  carne 
back  with  the  mud  up  to  his  knees,  and  reported  that 


there  was  not  a  wheel-barrow  to  be  had  for  love  or 
money.  After  threading  the  crowd  in  every  direction, 
he  had  offered  a  large  sum,  in  vain,  for  a  one-horse 
cart ! 

Night  was  coming  on,  meantime,  very  fast ;  but 
absorbed  by  the  distresses  of  the  shivering  groups 
around  me,  I  had  scarce  remembered  that  my  own  in 
vitation  was  but  to  the  banquet  and  ball — and  my 
dinner,  consequently,  nine  miles  off,  at  Ardrossan. 
Thanking  Heaven,  that,  at  least,  I  had  no  ladies  to 
share  my  evening's  pilgrimage,  I  followed  the  queen 
of  beauty  down  the  muddy  and  slippery  staircase,  and, 
when  her  majesty  had  stepped  into  her  carriage,  I 
stepped  over  ankles  in  mud  and  water,  and  began  my 
wade  toward  the  castle. 

Six  hours  of  rain,  and  the  trampling  of  such  an  im 
mense  multitude  of  men  and  horses,  had  converted 
the  soft  and  moist  sod  and  soil  of  the  park  into  a  deep 
and  most  adhesive  quagmire.  Glancing  through  the 
labyrinth  of  vehicles  on  every  side,  and  seeing  men 
and  horses  with  their  feet  completely  sunk  below  the 
surface,  I  saw  that  there  was  no  possibility  of  shying 

I  the  matter,  and  that  wade  was  the  word.     I  thought, 

i  at  first,  that  I  had  a  claim  for  a  little  sympathy  on  the 
score  of  being  rather  slenderly  shod  (the  impalpable 
sole  of  a  pattern  leather-boot  being  all  that  separated 

|  me  from  the  subsoil  of  the  estate  of  Eglinton);  but 
overtaking,  presently,  a  party  of  four  ladies  who  had 
lost  several  shoes  in  the  mire,  and  were  positively 
wading  on  in  silk  stockings,  I  took  patience  to  myself 
from  my  advantage  in  the  comparison,  and  thanked 
fate  for  the  thinnest  sole  with  leather  to  keep  it  on. 
The  ladies  I  speak  of  were  under  the  charge  of  a  most 
despairing-looking  gentleman,  but  had  neither  cloak 
nor  umbrella,  and  had  evidently  made  no  calculations 
for  a  walk.  We  differed  in  our  choice  of  the  two 
sides  of  a  slough,  presently,  and  they  were  lost  in  the 
crowd  ;  but  I  could  not  help  smiling,  with  all  my  pity 
of  their  woes,  to  think  what  a  turning  up  of  prunella 
shoes  there  will  be, should  Lord  Eglintou  ever  plough 
the  chivalric  field  of  the  Tournament. 

As  I  reached  the  castle,  I  got  upon  the  Macadamised 
road,  which  had  the  advantage  of  a  bottom  somewhere, 
though  it  was  covered  with  a  liquid  mud,  of  which 
every  passing  foot  gave  you  a  spatter  to  the  hips.  My 
exterior  was  by  this  time  equally  divided  between 

I  water  and  dirt,  and  I  trudged  on  in  comfortable  fellow 
ship  with  farmers,  coal-miners,  and  Scotch  lasses — 
envying  very  much  the  last,  for  they  carried  their 
shoes  in  their  hands,  and  held  their  petticoats,  to  say 
the  least,  clear  of  the  mud.  Many  a  good  joke  they 
seemed  to  have  among  them,  but  as  they  spoke  in 
Gaelic,  it  was  lost  on  my  Sassenach  ears. 

I  had  looked  forward  with  a  faint  hope  to  a  ginger 
bread  and  ale-cart,  which  I  remembered  having  seen 
in  the  morning  established  near  the  terminus  of  the 
railroad,  trusting  to  refresh  my  strength  and  patience 
with  a  glass  of  anything  that  goes  under  the  generic 
appellation  of  "summat;"  but  though  the  cart  was 
there,  the  gingerbread  shelf  was  occupied  by  a  row  of 
Scotch  lasses,  crouching  together  under  cover  from 
the  rain,  and  the  pedlar  assured  me  that  "there  wasna 
a  drap  o'  speerit  to  be  got  within  ten  mileo'  the  castle." 
One  glance  at  the  railroad,  where  a  car  with  a  single 
horse  was  beset  by  some  thousands  of  shoving  and 
fighting  applicants,  convinced  me  that  I  had  a  walk 
of  eight  miles  to  finish  my  "  purgation  by"  tourna 
ment  ;  and  as  it  was  getting  too  dark  to  trust  to  any 
picking  of  the  way,  I  took  the  middle  of  the  rail-track, 
and  set  forward. 

"  Oh.  but  a  weary  wight  was  he 
When  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  dogwood  tree." 

Eight  miles  in  a  heavy  rain,  with  boots  of  the  con 
sistence  of  brown  paper,  and  a  road  of  alternate  deep 
mud  and  broken  stone,  should  entitle  one  to  the  green 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


193 


turban.     I  will  make  the  pilgrimage  of  a  Hadji  from 
the  "  farthest  inn"  with  half  the  endurance. 

I  found  my  Liverpool  friends  over  a  mutton-chop 
in  the  snug  parlor  of  our  host,  and  with  a  strong  brew 
of  hot  toddy,  and  many  a  laugh  at  the  day's  adventures 
by  land  and  water,  we  got  comfortably  to  bed  "  some 
where  in  the  small  hours."  And  so  ended  the  great 
day  of  the  tournament. 

After  witnessing  the  disasters  of  the  first  day,  the 
demolition  of  costumes,  and   the  perils  by  water,  of 
masqueraders  and  spectators,  it  was  natural  to  fancy 
that  the  tournament  was  over.     So  did  not  seem  to 
think   several    thousands   of    newly-arrived    persons, 
pouring  from  steamer  after  steamer  upon  the  pier  of 
Ardrossan,  and  in  every  variety  of  costume,  from  the 
shepherd's  maud  to  the  courtier's  satin,  crowding  to 
the   rail-cars   for   Eglinton.      It   appeared    from    the 
chance  remarks  of  one  or  two  who  came  to  our  lodg 
ings  to  deposite  their  carpet-bags,  that  it  had  rained 
very  little  in  the  places  from  which  the  steamers  had  j 
come,  and  that  they  had  calculated  on  the  second  as  ; 
the  great  day  of  the  joust.     No  dissuasion  had  the  | 
least  effect  upon  them,  and  away  they  went,  bedecked  j 
and  merry,  the  sufferers  of  the  day  before  looking  out  j 
upon  them,  from  comfortable  hotel  and  lodging,  with  i 
prophetic  pity. 

At  noon  the  sky  brightened  ;  and  as  the  cars  were  j 
running  by  this  time  with  diminished  loads,  I  parted  ( 
from   my   agreeable  friends,   and    bade   adieu  to   my  i 
garret  at  Ardrossan.     I  was  bound  to  Ireland,  and  my  | 
road    lay  by   Eglinton   to   Irvine  and   Ayr.     Fellow-  | 
passengers  with   me   were   twenty  or  thirty   men   in  j 
Glengary  bonnets,  plaids,  &c. ;  and  I  came  in  for  my 
share  of  the  jeers  and  jokes  showered  upon  them  by 
the  passengers  in  the  return-cars,  as  men  bound  on  a 
fruitless  errand.     As  we  neared  the  castle,  the  crowds 
of  people  with  disconsolate  faces  waiting  for  convey 
ances,  or  standing   by  the  reopened  gingerbread  carts  ! 
in  listless  idleness,  convinced  my  companions,  at  last  i 
that  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen,  for  that  day  at  least,  ! 
at  Eglinton.     I  left  them  sitting  in  the  cars,  undecided 
whether  to  go  on  or  return  without  losing  their  places ; 
and  seeing  a  coach  marked  "  Irvine"  standing  in  the 
road,  1  jumped  in  without  question  or  ceremony.     It 
belonged  to  a  private  party  of  gentlemen,  who  were  to 
visit   the  castle   and   tilting-ground   on   their  way   to 
Irvine  ;    and  as  they  very  kindly   insisted  on  my  re 
maining  after  I   had   apologised  for  the  intrusion,   I 
found  myself  "booked"  fora  glimpse  of  the  second 
day's  attractions. 

The  avenue  to  the  castle  was  as  crowded  as  on  the 
day  before  ;  but  it  was  curious  to  remark  how  the 
general  aspect  of  the  multitude  was  changed  by  the 
substitution  of  disappointment  for  expectation.  The 
lagging  gait  and  surly  silence,  instead  of  the  elastic 
step  and  merry  joke,  seemed  to  have  darkened  the 
scene  more  than  the  withdrawal  of  the  sun,  and  I  was 
glad  to  wrap  myself  in  my  cloak,  and  remember  that 
I  was  on  the  wing.  The  banner  flying  at  the  castle 
tower  was  the  only  sign  of  motion  I  could  see  in  its 
immediate  vicinity  ;  the  sail-cloth  coverings  of  the 
pavilion  were  dark  with  wet;  the  fine  sward  was  every 
where  disfigured  with  traces  of  mud,  and  the  whole 
scene  was  dismal  and  uncomfortable.  We  kept  on  to 
the  lists,  and  found  them,  as  one  of  my  companions 
expressed  it,  more  like  a  cattle-pen  after  a  fair  than  a 
scene  of  pleasure — trodden,  wet,  miry,  and  deserted. 
The  crowd,  content  to  view  them  from  a  distance, 
were  assembled  around  the  large  booths  on  the  ascent 
of  the  rising  ground  toward  the  castle,  where  a  band 
was  playing  some  merry  reels,  and  the  gingerbread 
and  ale  venders  plied  a  busy  vocation.  A  look  was 
enough;  and  we  shaped  our  course  for  Irvine,  sympa 
thizing  deeply  with  the  disappointment  of  the  high- 
spirited  and  generous  lord  of  the  Tourney.  I  heard 
at  Irvine,  and  farther  on,  that  the  tilting  would  be  re 


newed,  and  the  banquet  and  ball  given  on  the  succeed 
ing  days  ;  but  after  the  wreck  of  dresses  and  peril  of 
health  I  had  witnessed,  I  was  persuaded  that  the  best 
that  could  be  done  would  be  but  a  slender  patching 
up  of  the  original  glories,  as  well  as  a  halting  rally  of 
the  original  spirits  of  the  tournament.  So  I  kept  on 
my  way. 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 

CHAPTER  I. 


THKRK  is  an  inborn  and  inbred  distrust  of  "foreign 
ers"  in  England — continental  foreigners,  I  should  say 
— which  keeps  the  current  of  French  and  Italian  so 
ciety  as  distinct  amid  the  sea  of  London,  as  the  blue 
Rhone  in  Lake  Leman.  The  word  "  foreigner,"  ia 
England,  conveys  exclusively  the  idea  of  a  dark-com 
plexioned  and  whiskered  individual,  in  a  frogged  coat 
and  distressed  circumstances ;  and  to  introduce  a 
smooth-cheeked,  plaiuly-dressed,  quiet-looking  person 
by  that  name,  would  strike  any  circle  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen  as  a  palpable  misnomer.  The  violent  and 
unhappy  contrast  between  the  Parisian's  mode  of  life 
in  London  and  in  Paris,  makes  it  very  certain  that  few 
of  those  bien  nes  et  comv;nable>ncnt  riches  will  live  in 
London  for  pleasure;  and  then  the  flood  of  political 
emigres,  for  the  last  half  century,  has  monopolised 
hair-dressing,  &c.,  &c.,  to  such  a  degree,  that  the 
word  Frenchman  is  synonymous  in  English  ears  with 
barber  and  dancing-master.  If  a  dark  gentleman, 
wearing  either  whisker  or  mustache,  chance  to  of 
fend  John  Bull  in  the  street,  the  first  opprobrious  lan 
guage  he  hears — the  strongest  that  occurs  to  the  fel 
low's  mind — is,  "  Get  out,  you Frenchman  !" 

All  this,  malgrc  the  rage  for  foreign  lions  in  London 
society.  A  well-introduced  foreigner  gets  easily  into 
this,  and  while  he  keeps  his  cabriolet  and  confines 
himself  to  freqiiemingsoirf'es  and  accepting  invitations 
to  dine,  he  will  never  suspect  that  he  is  not  on  an 
equal  footing  with  any  "  milor"  in  London.  If  he 
wishes  to  be  disenchanted,  he  has  only  to  change  his 
lodgings  from  Long's  to  Great  Russell  street,  or  (bit 
terer  and  readier  trial)  to  propose  marriage  to  the 
honorable  Augusta  or  Lady  Fanny. 

Everybody  who  knows  the  society  of  Paris,  knows 
something  of  a  handsome  and  very  elegant  young 
baron  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  who,  with  small 
fortune,  very  great  taste,  and  greater  credit,  contrived 
to  go  on  very  swimmingly  as  an  adorable  roue  and 
vaurien  till  he  was  hard  upon  twenty-five.  At  the 
first  crisis  in  his  affairs,  the  ladies,  who  hold  all  the 
politics  in  their  laps,  got  him  appointed  consul  to 
Algiers,  or  minister  to  Venezuela,  and  with  this  pretty 
pretext  for  selling  his  horses  and  dressing-gowns,  these 
cherished  articles  brought  twice  their  original  value, 
saved  his  loyautt,  and  set  him  up  in  fans  and  monkeys 
at  his  place  of  exile.  A  year  of  this  was  enough  for 
the  darling  of  Paris,  and  not  more  than  a  day  before 
his  desolate  loves  would  have  ceased  to  mourn  for 
him,  he  galloped  into  his  hotel  with  a  new  fashion  of 
whiskers,  a  black  female  slave,  and  the  most  delicious 
|  histories  of  his  adventures  during  the  ages  he  had 
been  exiled.  Down  to  the  earth  and  their  previous 
obscurity  dropped  the  rivals  who  were  just  beginning 
to  usurp  his  glories.  A  new  stud,  an  indescribable 
I  vehicle,  a  suite  of  rooms  a.  rAfricaine,  and  a  mystery, 
preserved  at  some  expense,  about  his  negress,  kept  all 
|  Paris,  including  his  new  creditors,  in  admiring  aston- 


194 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


ishment  for  a  year.  Among  the  crowd  of  his  worship 
pers,  not  the  last  or  least  fervent,  were  the  fair-haired 
and  glowing  beauties  who  assemble  at  the  levees  of 
their  ambassador  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  and  upon 
whom  le  beau  Adolplie  had  looked  as  pretty  savages, 
whose  frightful  toilets  and  horrid  French  accent 
might  be  tolerated  one  evening  in  the  week — vu  le 
souper  ! 

Eclipses  will  arrive  as  calculated  by  insignificant 
astronomers,  however,  and  debts  will  become  due  as 
presumed  by  vulgar  tradesmen.  Le  beau  Adolphe 
began  to  see  another  crisis,  and  betook  himself  to  his 
old  advisers,  who  were  dcsoles  to  the  last  degree;  but 
there  was  a  new  government,  and  the  blood  of  the 
Faubourg  was  at  a  discount.  No  embassies  were  to 
be  had  for  nothing.  With  a  deep  sigh,  and  a  gentle 
tone,  to  spare  his  feelings  as  much  as  possible,  his 
friend  ventures  to  suggest  to  him  that  it  will  be  neces 
sary  to  sacrifice  himself. 

"•Ahi  !  mais  comment  /" 

"  Marry  one  of  these  betes  Anglaises,  who  drink 
you  up  with  their  great  blue  eyes,  and  are  made  of 
gold  !" 

Adolphe  buried  his  face  in  his  gold-fringed  oriental 
pocket-handkerchief;  but  when  the  first  agony  was 
passed,  his  resolution  was  taken,  and  he  determined  to 
go  to  England.  The  first  beautiful  creature  he  should 
see,  whose  funds  were  enormous  and  well-invested, 
should  bear  away  from  all  the  love,  rank,  and  poverty 
of  France,  the  perfumed  hand  he  looked  upon. 

A  flourishing  letter,  written  in  a  small,  cramped 
hand,  but  with  a  seal  on  whose  breadth  of  wax  and 
blazon  all  the  united  heraldry  of  France  was  inter 
woven,  arrived,  through  the  ambassador's  despatch 

box,  to  the  address  of  Miladi  ,  Belgrave  square, 

announcing,  in  full,  that  le  beau  Adolphe  was  coming 
to  London  to  marry  the  richest  heiress  in  good  socie 
ty  ;  and  as  Paris  could  not  spare  him  more  than  a 
week,  he  wished  those  who  had  daughters  to  marry, 
answering  the  description,  to  be  bien  prevenus  of  his 
visit  and  errand.  With  the  letter  carne  a  compend  of 
his  genealogy,  from  the  man  who  spoke  French  in  the 
confusion  of  Babel  to  le  dit  Baron  Adolphe. 

To  London  came  the  valet  of  le  beau  baron,  two 
days  before  his  master,  bringing  his  slippers  and  dres 
sing-gown  to  be  aired  after  their  sea-voyage  across  the 
channel.  To  London  followed  the  irresistible  youth, 
cursing,  in  the  politest  French,  the  necessity  which 
subtracted  a  week  from  a  life  measured  with  such 
"diamond  sparks"  as  his  own  in  Paris.  He  sat  him 
self  down  in  his  hotel,  sent  his  man  Porphyre  with  his 
card  to  every  noble  and  rich  house,  whose  barbarian 
tenants  he  had  ever  seen  in  the  Champs  Elysees,  and 
waited  the  result.  Invitations  from  fair  ladies,  who 
remembered  him  as  the  man  the  French  belles  were 
mad  about,  and  from  literary  ladies,  who  wanted  his 
whiskers  and  black  eyes  lo  give  their  soirees  the  neces 
sary  foreign  complexion,  flowed  in  on  all  sides,  and 
Monsieur  Adolphe  selected  his  most  mignon  cane  and 
his  happiest  design  in  a  stocking,  and  "rendered  him 
self"  through  the  rain  like  a  martyr. 

No  offers  of  marriage  the  first  evening! 

None  the  second  !  ! 

None  the  third !  !  ! 

Le  beau  Adolphe  began  to  think  either  that  English 
papas  did  not  propose  their  daughters  to  people  as  in 
France  ;  or,  perhaps,  that  the  lady  whom  he  had  com 
missioned  to  circulate  his  wishes  had  not  sufficiently 
advertised  him.  .  She  had,  however. 

He  took  advice,  and  found  it  would  be  necessary  to 
take  the  first  step  himself.  This  was  disagreeable, 
and  he  said  to  himself,  "  Lc  jeu  ne  vaut  pas  le  chan- 
delle  ;"  but  his  youth  was  passing,  and  his  English 
fortune  was  at  interest. 

He  went  to  Almack's  and  proposed  to  the  first 
authenticated  fortune  that  accepted  his  hand  for  a 


waltz.     The  young  lady  first  laughed,  and  then  told 
her  mother,  who  told  her  son,  who  thought  it  an  in 
sult,  and  called  out  le  beau  Adolphe,  very  much  to  the 
astonishment  of  himself  and  Porphyre.     The  thing 
was  explained,  and  the  baron  looked  about  the  next 
day  for  one  pas  si  bete.     Found  a  young  lady  with 
half  a  million  sterling,  proposed  in  a  morning  call, 
and   was  obliged  to  ring  for  assistance,  his  intended 
having  gone  into  convulsions  with  laughing  at  him. 
The  story  by  this  time  had  got  pretty  well  distributed 
through  the  different  strata  of  London  society  ;  and 
when  le  beau,  Adolphe  convinced  that  he  would  not 
succeed  with  the  noble  heiresses  of  Belgrave  square, 
j  condescended,  in  his  extremity,  to  send  his  heart  by 
his  valet  to  a  rich  little  vulgarian,  who  "  never  had  a 
|  grandfather,"  and  lived  in  Harley  street,  he  narrowly 
I  escaped  being  prosecuted  for  a  nuisance,  and,  Parig 
[  being  now  in  the  possession  of  the  enemy,  he  buried 
j  his  sorrows  in  Belgium.     After  a  short  exile  his  friends 
j  procured  him  a  vice-consulate  in  some  port  in  the 
j  north  sea,  and  there  probably  at  this  moment  he  sor 
rowfully  vegetates. 

This  is  not  a  story  founded  upon  fact,  but  literally 
true.  Many  of  the  circumstances  came  under  my  own 
observation  ;  and  the  whole  thus  affords  a  laughable 
example  of  the  esteem  in  which  what  an  English  fox- 
hunter  would  call  a  "  trashy  Frenchman"  is  held  in 
England,(as  well  as  of  the  travestie  produced  by  trans 
planting  the  usages  of  one  country  to  another. 

Ridiculous  as  any  intimate  mixture  of  English  and 
French  ideas  and  persons  seems  to  be  in  London,  the 
foreign  society  of  itself  in  that  capital  is  exceedingly 
spiritual  and  agreeable.  The  various  European  em 
bassies  and  their  attaches,  with  their  distinguished 
travellers,  from  their  several  countries,  accidentally 
belonging  to  each ;  the  French  and  Italians,  married 
to  English  noblemen  and  gentry,  and  living  in  Lon 
don,  and  the  English  themselves,  who  have  become 
cosmopolite  by  residence  in  other  countries,  form  a 
very  large  society  in  which  mix,  on  perfectly  equal 
terms,  the  first  singers  of  the  opera,  and  foreign  musi 
cians  and  artists  generally.  This  last  circumstance 
gives  a  peculiar  charm  to  these  reunions,  though  it 
imparts  a  pride  and  haughty  bearing  to  the  prima 
donna  and  her  fraternity,  which  is,  at  least,  sometimes 
very  inconvenient  to  themselves.  The  remark  recalls 
to  my  mind  a  scene  I  once  witnessed  in  London, 
which  will  illustrate  the  feeling  better  than  an  essay 
upon  it. 

I  was  at  one  of  those  private  concerts  given  at  an 
enormous  expense  during  the  opera  season,  at  which 
"  assisted"  Julia  Grisi,  Rubini,  Lablache,  Tamburiui, 
and  Ivanhoff.  Grisi  came  in  the  carriage  of  a  foreign 
lady  of  rank,  who  had  dined  loith  Aer,  and  she  walked 
into  the  room  looking  like  an  empress.  She  was 
dressed  in  the  plainest  white,  with  her  glossy  hair  put 
smooth  from  her  brow,  and  a  single  white  japonica 
dropped  over  one  of  her  temples.  The  lady  who 
brought  her  chaperoned  her  during  the  evening,  as  if 
she  had  been  her  daughter,  and  under  the  excitement 
of  her  own  table  and  the  kindness  of  her  friends,  she 
sung  with  a  rapture  and  a  freshet  of  glory  (if  one  may 
borrow  a  word  from  the  Mississippi)  which  set  all 
hearts  on  fire.  She  surpassed  her  most  applauded 
hour  on  the  stage — for  it  was  worth  her  while.  The 
audience  was  composed,  almost  exclusively,  of  those 
who  are  not  only  cultivated  judges,  but  who  some- 
j  times  repay  delight  with  a  present  of  diamonds. 

Lablache  shook  the  house  to  its  foundations  in  his 
turn  ;  Rubini  ran  through  his  miraculous  compass 
with  the  ease,  truth,  and  melody,  for  which  his  singing 
's  unsurpassed  ;  Tamburini  poured  his  rich  and  even 
fulness  on  the  ear,  and  Russian  Ivanhoff,  the  one 
southern  singing-bird  who  has  come  out  of  the  north, 
wire-drew  his  fine  and  spiritual  notes,  till  they  who  bad 
been  flushed,  and  tearful,  and  silent,  when  the  others 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


195 


had  sang,  drowned  his  voice  in  the  poorer  applause 
of  exclamation  and  surprise. 

The  concert  was  over  by  twelve,  the  gold  and  silver 
paper  bills  of  the  performance  were  turned  into  f;ms,  and 
everyone  was  waiting  till  supper  should  be  announced 
— the  prima  donna  still  sitting  by  her  friend,  but  sur 
rounded  by  foreign  attaches,  and  in  the  highest  elation 
at  her  own  success.  The  doors  of  an  inner  suite  of 
rooms  were  thrown  open  at  last,  and  Grisi's  cordon  of 
admirers  prepared  to  follow  her  in  and  wait  on  her  at 
supper.  At  this  moment,  one  of  the  powdered  menials 
of  the  house  stepped  up  and  informed  her  very  respect 
fully  that  supper  was  prepared  in  a  separate  room  for 
the  singers  ! 

Medea,  in  her  most  tragic  hour,  never  stood  so 
absolutely  the  picture  of  hate  as  did  Grisi  for  a  single 
instant,  in  the  centre  of  that  aristocratic  crowd.  Her 
chest  swelled  and  rose,  her  lips  closed  over  her  snowy 
teeth,  and  compressed  till  the  blood  left  them,  and,  for 
myself,  I  looked  unconsciously  to  see  where  she  would 
strike.  I  knew,  then,  that  there  was  more  than  fancy 
— there  was  nature  and  capability  of  the  real — in  the 
imaginary  passions  she  plays  so  powerfully.  A  laugh 
of  extreme  amusement  at  the  scene  from  the  high 
born  woman  who  had  accompanied  her,  suddenly 
turned  her  humor,  and  she  stopped  in  the  midst  of  a 
muttering  of  Italian,  in  which  I  could  distinguish 
only  the  terminations,  and,  with  a  sort  of  theatrical 

?uickness  of  transition,  joined  heartily  in  her  mirth, 
t  was  immediately  proposed  by  this  lady,  however, 
that  herself  and  their  particular  circle  should  join  the 
insulted  prima  donna  at  the  lower  table,  and  they  suc 
ceeded  by  this  manoeuvre  in  retaining  Rubini  and  the 
others,  who  were  leaving  the  house  in  a  most  un 
equivocal  Italian  fury. 

I  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  be  included  in  the 
invitation,  and,  with  one  or  two  foreign  diplomatic 
men,  I  followed  Grisi  and  her  amused  friend  to  a 
small  room  on  a  lower  floor,  that  seemed  to  be  the 
housekeeper's  parlor.  Here  supper  was  set  for  six 
(including  the  man  who  had  played  the  piano),  and 
on  the  side-table  stood  every  variety  of  wine  and  fruit, 
and  there  was  nothing  in  the  supper,  at  least,  to  make 
us  regret  the  table  we  had  left.  With  a  most  im 
perative  gesture  and  rather  an  amusing  attempt  at 
English,  Grisi  ordered  the  servants  out 'of  the  room, 
and  locked  the  door,  and  from  that  moment  the  con 
versation  commenced  and  continued  in  their  own 
musical,  passionate,  and  energetic  Italian.  My  long 
residence  in  that  country  h;id  made  me  at  home  in  it ; 
every  one  present  spoke  it  fluently  ;  and  I  had  an 
opportunity  I  might  never  have  again,  of  seeing  with 
what  abandonment  these  children  of  the  sun  throw 
aside  rank  and  distinction  (yet  without  forgetting  it), 
and  join  with  those  who  are  their  superiors  in  every 
circumstance  of  life,  in  the  gayeties  of  a  chance  hour. 

Out  of  their  own  country  these  singers  would  prob 
ably  acknowledge  no  higher  lank  than  that  of  the  kind 
and  gifted  lady  who  was  their  guest ;  yet,  with  the 
briefest  apology  at  finding  the  room  too  cold  after  the 
heat  of  the  concert,  they  put  on  their  cloaks  and  hats 
as  a  safeguard  to  their  lungs  (more  valuable  to  them 
than  to  others)  ;  and  as  most  of  the  cloaks  were  the 
worse  for  travel,  and  the  hats  opera-hats  with  two 
corners,  the  grotesque  contrast  with  the  diamonds  of 
one  lady,  and  the  radiant  beauty  of  the  other,  may 
easily  be  imagined. 

Singing  should  be  hungry  work,  by  the  knife  and 
fork  they  played  ;  and  between  the  excavations  of 
truffle  pies,  and  the  bumpers  of  champagne  and  bur 
gundy,  the  words  were  few.  Lablache  appeared  to  be 
an  established  droll,  and  every  syllable  he  found  time 
to  utter  was  received  with  the  most  unbounded  laughter. 
Rubini  could  not  recover  from  the  slight  he  conceived 
put  upon  him  and  his  profession  by  the  separate  table; 
and  he  continually  reminded  Grisi,  who  by  this  time 


had  quite  recovered  her  good  humor,  that,  the  night 
before,  supping  at  Devonshire  house,  the  duke  of 
Wellington  had  held  her  gloves  on  one  side,  while  his 
grace,  their  host  attended  to  her  on  the  other. 

"  E  vero  /"  said  IvanholF,  with  a  look  of  modest  ad 
miration  at  the  prima  donna. 

"jB  vero,  e  bravo!"  cried  Tamburini,  with  his  sepul 
chral-talking  tone,  much  deeper  than  his  singing. 

" Si,  si,  si,  bravo /"  echoed  all  the  company;  and 
the  haughty  and  happy  actress  nodded  all  round  with 
a  radiant  smile,  and  repeated,  in  her  silver  tones, 
"  Grazie  !  cari  amid  !  grazie  .'" 

As  the  servants  had  been  turned  out,  the  removal 

;  of  the  first  course  was  managed  in  pic-nic  fashion  ; 

and  when  the  fruit  and  fresh  bottles  of  wine  were  set 

upon  the  table  by  the  attaches,  and  younger  gentle- 

|  men,  the  health  of  the  princess  who  honored  them  by 

her  presence  was  proposed  in  that  language,  which,  it 

\  seems  to  me,  is  more  capable  than  all  others  of  ex- 

|  pressing  affectionate  and  respectful  devotion.     All  un- 

I  covered  and  stood  up,  and  Grisi,  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 

|  kissed   the  hand  of  her  benefactress  and  friend,  and 

drank  her  health  in  silence. 

It  is  a  polite  and  common  accomplishment  in  Italy 
to  improvise  in  verse,  and  the  lady  I  speak  of  is  well 
;  known  among  her  immediate  friends  for  a  singular 
1  facility  in  this  beautiful  art.  She  reflected  a  moment 
!  or  two  with  the  moisture  in  her  eyes,  and  then  com- 
;  menced,  low  and  soft,  a  poem,  of  which  it  would  be 
|  difficult,  nay  impossible,  to  convey,  in  English,  an 
j  idea  of  its  music  and  beauty.  It  took  us  back  to  Italy, 
I  to  its  heavenly  climate,  its  glorious  arts,  its  beauty  and 
'•  its  ruins,  and  concluded  with  a  line  of  which  I  remein- 
I  her  the  sentiment  to  have  been,  "  out  of  Italy  every 
land  is  exile  /" 

The  glasses  were  raised  as  she  ceased,  and  every 

I  one  repeated  after  her,  "  Fuori  d1  Italia  tutto  e  esilio  .'" 

•'  Ma  /"  cried  out  the  fat  Lablache,  holding  up  his 

!  glass  of  champagne,  and  looking  through  it  with  one 

'  eye,    '•  siarno  ben  esiliati  qua  .'"  and,  with  a  word  of 

i  drollery,  the  party  recovered  its  gayer  tone,  and  the 

humor  and  wit  flowed  on  brilliantly  as  before. 

The  house  had  long  been  still,  and  the  last  carriage 
I  belonging  to  the  company  above  stairs  had  rolled  from 
the  door,  when  Grisi  suddenly  remembered  a  bird  that 
|  she  had  lately  bought,  of  which  she  proceeded  to  give 
j  us  a  description,  that  probably   penetrated    to   every 
j  corner  of  the  silent  mansion.     It  was  a  mocking-bird, 
I  that  had  been  kept  two  years  in  the  opera-house,  and 
between  rehearsal  and  performance  had  learned  parts 
,  of  everything  it  had  overheard.     It  was  the  property 
j  of  the  woman  who  took  care  of  the  wardrobes.     Grisi 
I  had  accidentally  seen  it,  and  immediately  purchased 
';  it  for  two  guineas.     How  much  of  embellishment  there 
j  was  in  her  imitations  of  her  treasure  1  do  not  know; 
j  but  certainly  the  whole  power  of  her  wondrous  voice, 
I  passion,  and  knowledge  of  music,  seemed  drunk  up  at 
once  in  the  wild,  various,  difficult,  and  rapid  mixture 
I  of  the  capricious  melody  she  undertook.     First  came, 
without  the  passage  which  it  usually  terminates,  the 
\  long,  throat-down,  gurgling,  water-toned  trill,  in  which 
!  Rubini  (but  for  the  bird  and  its  mistress,  it  seemed  to 
I  me)  would  have  been  inimitable :  then,  right  upon  it, 
,  as  if  it  were  the  beginning  of  a  bar,  and   in   the   most 
unbreathing   continuity,   followed   a   brilliant   passage 
from  the  Barber  of  Seville,  run   into   the   passionate 
prayer  of  Anna  Bolena  in  her  madness,  and  followed 
by  the  air  of  "  Suoni  la  tromba  intrepida,"  the  tremen 
dous  duet  in   the  Puritani,  between   Tamburini  and 
Lablache.     Up  to  the  sky,  and   down  to   the   earth 
again — away  with  a  note  of  the  wildest  gladness,  and 
back  upon  a  note  of  the  most  touching  melancholy — 
if  the  bird  but  half  equals  the  imitation  of  his  mistress, 
he  were  worth  the  jewel  in  a  sultan's  turban. 

"Giulia!"   "Giulietta!"'   "  GiulieUina !"  cried   out 
|  one  and  another,  as  she  ceased,  expressing  in  their 


196 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


Italian  diminutives,  the  love  and  delight  she  had  in 
spired  by  her  incomparable  execution. 

The  stillness  of  the  house  in  the  occasional  pauses 
of  conversation  reminded  the  gay  party,  at  last,  that  it 
was  wearing  late.  The  door  was  unlocked,  and  the 
half-dozen  sleepy  footmen  hanging  about  the  hall  were 
despatched  for  the  cloaks  and  carriages ;  the  drowsy 
porter  was  roused  from  his  deep  leathern  dormeuse, 
and  opened  the  door — and  broad  upon  the  street  lay 
the  cold  gray  light  of  a  summer's  morning.  I  declined 
an  offer  to  be  set  down  by  a  friend's  cab,  and  strolled 
off  to  Hyde  Park  to  surprise  myself  with  a  sunrise; 
balancing  the  silent  rebuke  in  the  fresh  and  healthy 
countenances  of  early  laborers  going  to  their  toil, 
against  the  effervescence  of  a  champagne  hour,  which, 
since  such  come  so  rarely,  may  come,  for  me,  with 
what  untimeliness  they  please. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    STREETS    OF    LONDON. 

IT  has  been  said,  that  "few  men  know  how  to  take 
a  walk."  In  London  it  requires  some  experience  to 
know  where  to  take  a  walk.  The  taste  of  the  peram 
bulator,  the  hour  of  the  day,  and  the  season  of  the 
year,  would  each  affect  materially  the  decision  of  the 
question. 

If  you  are  up  early — I  mean  early  for  London — say 
ten  o'clock — we  would  start  from  your  hotel  in  Bond 
street,  and  hastening  through  Regent  street  and  the 
Quadrant  (deserts  at  that  hour),  strike  into  the  zigzag 
of  thronged  alleys,  cutting  traversely  from  Coventry 
street  to  Covent  Garden.  The  horses  on  the  cab 
stand  in  the  Haymarket  "  are  at  this  hour  asleep." 
The  late  supper-eaters  at  Dubourg's  and  the  Cafe  dt 
VEurope  were  the  last  infliction  upon  their  galled 
withers,  and  while  dissipation  slumbers  they  may  find 
an  hour  to  hang  their  heads  upon  the  bit,  and  forget 
gall  and  spavin  in  the  sunshiny  drowse  of  morning. 
The  cabman,  too,  nods  on  his  perch  outside,  careless 
of  the  custom  of  "them  as  pays  only  their  fare,"  and 
quite  sure  not  to  get  "a  gemman  to  drive"  at  that  un 
seasonable  hour.  The  "  waterman"  (called  a  "  water 
man,"  as  he  will  tell  you,  "  because  he  gives  hay  to 
the  'orses")  leans  against  the  gas-lamp  at  the  corner, 
looking  with  a  vacant  indifference  of  habit  at  the 
splendid  coach  with  its  four  blood  bays  just  starting  from 
the  Brighton  coach-office  in  the  Crescent.  The  side 
walk  of  Coventry  street,  usually  radiant  with  the 
flaunting  dresses  of  the  fail  and  vicious,  is  now  sober 
with  the  dull  habiliments  of  the  eaily-stirring  and  the 
poor.  The  town  (for  this  is  town,  not  city)  beats  its 
more  honest  pulse.  Industry  alone  is  abroad. 

Rupert  street  on  the  left  is  the  haunt  of  shabby- 
genteel  poverty.  To  its  low-doored  chop-houses  steal 
the  more  needy  loungers  of  Regent  street,  and  in  con 
fined  and  greasy,  but  separate  and  exclusive  boxes, 
they  eat  their  mutton-chop  and  potato,  unseen  of  their 
gayer  acquaintances.  Here  comes  the  half-pay  of 
ficer,  whose  half-pay  is  halved  or  quartered  with  wife 
and  children,  to  drink  his  solitary  half-pint  of  sherry, 
and  over  a  niggardly  portion  of  soup  and  vegetables, 
recall,  as  well  as  he  may  in  imagination,  the  gay  din 
ners  at  mess,  and  the  companions  now  grown  cold — in 
death  or  worldliness !  Here  comes  the  sharper  out 
of  luck,  the  debtor  newly  out  of  prison.  And  here 
comes  many  a  "gay  fellow  about  town,"  who  will  dine 
to-morrow,  or  may  have  dined  yesterday,  at  a  table  of 
unsparing  luxury,  but  who  now  turns  up  Rupert  street 
at  seven,  cursing  the  mischance  that  draws  upon  his 
own  slender  pocket  for  the  dinner  of  to-day.  Here 
are  found  the  watchful  host  and  the  suspicious  waiter 
—the  closely-measured  wine,  and  the  more  closely- 


measured  attention — the  silent  and  shrinking  compa 
ny,  the  close-drawn  curtain,  the  suppressed  call  for 
the  bill,  the  lingering  at  the  table  of  those  who  value 
the  retreat  and  the  shelter  to  recover  from  the  embar 
rassing  recognition  and  the  objectless  saunter  through 
the  streets.  The  ruin,  the  distress,  the  despair,  that 
wait  so  closely  upon  the  heels  of  fashion,  pass  here 
with  their  victims.  It  is  the  last  step  within  the 
bounds  of  respectability.  They  still  live  "  at  the  West 
end,"  while  they  dine  in  Rupert  street.  They  may 
still  linger  in  the  park,  or  stroll  in  Bond  street,  till 
their  better-fledged  friends  flit  to  dinner  at  the  clubs, 
and  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  luxurious  tables  and 
the  gay  mirth  they  so  bitterly  remember,  sit  down  to 
an  ill-dressed  meal,  and  satisfy  the  calls  of  hunger  in 
silence.  Ah,  the  outskirts  of  the  bright  places  in  life 
are  darker  for  the  light  that  shines  so  near  them  ! 
How  much  sweeter  is  the  coarsest  meal  shared  with 
the  savage  in  the  wilderness,  than  the  comparative 
comfort  of  cooked  meats  and  wine  in  a  neighborhood 
like  this! 

Come  through  this  narrow  lane  into  Leicester 
square.  You  cross  here  the  first  limit  of  the  fashion 
able  quarter.  The  Sabloniere  hotel  is  in  this  square; 
but  you  may  not  give  it  as  your  address  unless  you 
are  a  foreigner.  This  is  the  home  of  that  most  mis 
erable  fish  out  of  water — a  Frenchman  in  London. 
A  bad  French  hotel,  and  two  or  three  execrable 
French  restaurants,  make  this  spot  of  the  metropolis 
the  most  habitable  to  the  exiled  habitue  of  the  Palais 
Royal.  Here  he  gets  a  mocking  imitation  of  what,  iu 
any  possible  degree,  is  better  than  the  sacre  biftek,  or 
the  half-raw  mutton-chop  and  barbarous  boiled  potato  ! 
Here  he  comes  forth,  if  the  sunshine  perchance  for 
one  hour  at  noon,  and  paces  up  and  down  on  the  side 
walk,  trying  to  get.  the  better  of  his  bile  and  his  bad 
breakfast.  Here  waits  for  him  at  three,  the  shabby, 
but  most  expensive  remise  cab,  hired  by  the  day  for 
as  much  as  would  support  him  a  month  in  Paris. 
Leicester  square  is  the  place  for  conjurors,  bird- 
fanciers,  showmen,  and  generally  for  every  foreign 
novelty  in  the  line  of  nostrums  and  marvels.  If  there 
is  a  dwarf  in  London,  or  a  child  with  two  heads,  or  a 
learned  pig,  you  will  see  une  or  all  in  that  building,  so 
radiant  with  placards,  and  so  thronged  with  beggars. 

Come  on  through  Cranbourne  alley.  Old  clothes, 
second-hand  stays,  idem  shawls,  capes,  collars,  and 
ladies'  articles  of  ornamental  wear  generally  :  cheap 
straw-bonnets,  old  books,  gingerbread,  und  stationery .' 
Look  at  this  once-expensive  and  finely-worked  muslin 
cape !  What  fair  shoulders  did  it  adorn  when  these 
dingy  flowers  were  new — when  this  fine  lace-edging 
bounded  some  heaving  bosom,  perhaps,  like  frost-work 
on  the  edge  of  a  snow-drift.  It  has  been  the  property 
of  some  minion  of  elegance  and  wealth,  vicious  or  vir 
tuous,  and  by  what  hard  necessity  came  it  here  ?  Ten 
to  one,  could  it  speak,  its  history  would  keep  us  stand 
ing  at  this  shop  window,  indifferent  alike  to  the  curi 
ous  glances  of  these  passing  damsels  and  the  gentle 
eloquence  of  the  Jew  on  the  other  side,  who  pays  us 
the  unflattering  compliment  of  suggesting  an  improve 
ment  in  our  toilet  by  the  purchase  of  the  half-worn 
habiliments  he  exposes- 

I  like  Cranbourne  alley,  because  it  reminds  me  of 
Venice.  The  half-daylight  between  the  high  and 
overhanging  roofs,  the  just  audible  hum  of  voices  and 
occupation  from  the  different  shops,  the  shuffling  of 
hasty  feet  over  the  smooth  flags,  and  particularly  the 
absence  of  horses  and  wheels,  make  it  (in  all  but  the 
damp  air  and  the  softer  speech)  a  fair  resemblance  to 
those  close  passages  in  the  rear  of  the  canals  between 
St.  Mark's  and  the  Rialto.  Then  I  like  studying  a 
pawnbroker's  window,  and  I  like  ferreting  in  the  old 
book-stalls  that  abound  here.  It  is  a  good  lesson  in 
humility  for  an  author  to  see  what  he  can  be  bought 
for  in  Cranbourne  alley.  Some  "  gentle  reader,"  who 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


J97 


has  paid  a  guinea  and  a  half  for  you,  has  resold  you 
for  two-aud-sixpence.  For  three  shillings  you  may 
have  the  three  volumes,  "  as  good  as  new,"  and  the 
shopman,  by  his  civility,  pleased  to  be  rid  of  it  on  the 
terms.  If  you  would  console  yourself,  however,  buy 
Milton  for  one-and-sixpence,  and  credit  your  vanity 
with  the  eighteen-pence  of  the  remainder. 

The  labyrinth  of  alleys  between  this  and  Covent  ' 
Garden,  are  redolent  of  poverty  and   pot-houses.     In  j 
crossing   St.  Martin's  lane,  life  appears  to   have   be-  ! 
come  suddenly  a  struggle  and  a  calamity.     Turbulent  ! 
and   dirty  women   are  everywhere  visible  through  the  ; 
open  windows;  the  half-naked  children  at  the   doors  | 
look  already  care-worn  and  incapable  of  a  smile ;  and 
the  men  throng  the  gin-shops,  bloated,  surly,  and  re 
pulsive.     Hurry  through  this  leprous  spot  in  the  vast 
body  of  London,  and  let  us  emerge  in  the  Strand. 

You  would  think  London  Strand  the  main  artery 
of  the  world.     I  suppose  there  is  no  thoroughfare  on 
the  face  of  the  earth  where  the  stream  of  human  life  . 
runs   with  a   tide   so   overwhelming.     In   any   other 
street  in  the  world  you  catch  the  eye  of  the  passer-by,  j 
In  the  Strand,  no  man  sees  another  except  as  a  solid 
body,  whose  contact  is  to  be  avoided.     You  are  safe 
nowhere  on  the  pavement  without  all  the  vigilance  of  j 
your  senses.     Omnibuses  and   cabs,  drays,  carriages, 
wheelbarrows,  and    porters,  beset  the  street.     News- 
pnper-hawkers,  pickpockets,  shop-boys,  coal-heavers, 
and  a  perpetual  and  selfish  crowd  dispute  the  sidewalk,  jj 
If  you  venture  to   look   at  a  print  in  a  shop-window,  | 
you   arrest  the  tide  of  passengers,  who  immediately  I 
walk  over  you  ;  and,  if  you  stop  to  speak  with  a  friend,  | 
who  by  chance  has  run  his  nose  against  yours  rather  j 
than   another  man's,  you   impede   the  way,   and   are  < 
made  to  understand  it  by  the  force  of  jostling.     If  you  j 
would  get  into  an  omnibus  you  are  quarrelled  for  by 
half-a-dozen  who  catch  your  eye  at  once,  and  after  \ 
using  all  your  physical  strength  and  most  of  your  dis-  ! 
crimination,  you  are  most  probably  embarked  in  the 
wrong  one,  and   are   going   at  ten  miles  the  hour  to  j 
Bbtckwell,    when    you    are   bound    to    Islington.     A  j 
Londoner  passes  his  life  in  learning  the  most  adroit  j 
mode  of  threading  a  crowd,  and  escaping  compulsory  , 
journeys  in  cabs  and  omnibuses;  and  dine  with  any  ; 
man  in  that  metropolis  from  twenty-five  to  sixty  years  i 
of  age,  and  he  will  entertain  you.  from  the  soup  to  the 
Curac/oa,  with  his  hair-breadth  escapes  and  difficulties 
with  cads  and  coach-drivers. 


CHAPTER  III. 


A  LONDONER,  if  met  abroad,  answers  very  vaguely 
any  questions  you  may  be  rash  enough  to  put  to  him 
about  "  the  city."  Talk  to  him  of  "town,"  and  he 
would  rather  miss  seeing  St.  Peter's,  than  appear  ig 
norant  of  any  person,  thing,  custom,  or  fashion,  con 
cerning  whom  or  which  you  might  have  a  curiosity. 
It  is  understood  all  over  the  world  that  the  "  city"  of 
London  is  that  crowded,  smoky,  jostling,  omnibus  and 
cab-haunted  portion  of  the  metropolis  of  England 
which  lies  east  of  Temple  Bar.  A  kind  of  debatable 
country,  consisting  of  the  Strand,  Covent  Garden,  and  j 
Tottenham  Court  road,  then  intervenes,  and  west  of  j 
these  lies  what  is  called  "  the  town."  A  transit  from  j 
one  to  the  other  by  an  inhabitant  of  either  is  a  matter  j 
of  some  forethought  and  provision.  If  milord,  in 
Carlton  Terrace,  for  example,  finds  it  necessary  to 
visit  his  banker  in  Lombard  street,  he  orders — not  the 
blood  bay  and  the  cane  tilbury  which  he  is  wont  to 
drive  in  the  morning — but  the  crop  roadster  in  the 
cab,  with  the  night  harness,  and  Poppet  his  tiger  in 
plain  hat  and  gaiters.  If  the  banker  iu  Lombard 


street,  on  the  contrary,  emerges  from  the  twilight  of 
his  counting-house  to  make  a  morning  call  on  the 
wife  of  some  foreign  correspondent,  lodging  at  the 
Clarendon,  he  steps  into  a  Piccadilly  omnibus,  not  in 
the  salt-and-pepper  creations  of  his  Cheapside  tailor, 
but  (for  he  has  an  account  with  Stultz  also  for  the 
west-end  business)  in  a  claret-colored  frock  of  the  last 
fashion  at  Crockford's,  a  fresh  hat  from  New  Bond 
street,  and  (if  he  is  young)  a  pair  of  cherished  boots 
from  the  Rue  St.  Honore.  He  sits  very  clear  of  his 
neighbors  on  the  way,  and,  getting  out  at  the  crossing 
at  Farrance's,  the  pastry  cook,  steps  in  and  indulges 
in  a  soup,  and  then  walks  slowly  past  the  clubs  to  his 
rendezvous,  at  a  pace  that  would  ruin  his  credit  irre 
vocably  if  practised  a  mile  to  the  eastward.  The  dif 
ference  between  the  two  migrations  is,  simply,  that 
though  the  nobleman  affects  the  plainness  of  the  city, 
he  would  not  for  the  world  be  taken  for  a  citizen ; 
while  the  junior  partner  of  the  house  of  Firkins  and 
Co.  would  feel  unpleasantly  surprised  if  he  were  not 
supposed  to  be  a  member  of  the  clubs,  lounging  to  a 
late  breakfast. 

There  is  a  "  town"  manner,  too,  and  a  "  city"  man 
ner,  practised  with  great  nicety  by  all  who  frequent 
both  extremities  of  London.  Nothing  could  be  in 
more  violent  contrast,  for  example,  than  the  manner 
of  your  banker  when  you  dine  with  him  at  his  coun 
try-house,  and  the  same  person  when  you  meet  him 
on  the  narrow  sidewalk  in  Throgmorton  street.  If  you 
had  seen  him  first  in  his  suburban  retreat,  you  would 
wonder  how  the  deuce  such  a  cordial,  joyous,  spare- 
nothing  sort  of  good  fellow  could  ever  reduce  himself 
to  the  cautious  proportions  of  Change  alley.  If  you 
met  him  first  in  Change  alley,  on  the  contrary,  you 
would  wonder,  with  quite  as  much  embarrassment, 
how  such  a  cold,  two-fingered,  pucker-browed  slave 
of  mammon  could  ever,  by  any  license  of  interpreta 
tion,  be  called  a  gentleman.  And  when  you  have 
seen  him  in  both  places,  and  know  him  well,  if  he  is 
a  favorable  specimen  of  his  class,  you  will  be  aston 
ished  still  more  to  see  how  completely  he  will  sustain 
both  characters — giving  you  the  cold  shoulder,  in  a 
way  that  half  insults  you,  at  twelve  in  the  morning, 
and  putting  his  home,  horses,  cellar,  and  servants, 
completely  at  your  disposal  at  four  in  the  afternoon. 
Two  souls  inhabit  the  banker's  body,  and  each  is  ap 
parently  sole  tenant  in  turn.  As  the  Hampstead  early 
coach  turns  the  corner  by  St.  Giles's,  on  its  way  to 
the  bank,  the  spirit  of  gain  enters  into  the  bosom  of 
the  junior  Firkins,  ejecting,  till  the  coach  passes  the 
same  spot  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  the  more  gentle 
manly  inhabitants.  Between  those  hours,  look  to 
Firkins  for  no  larger  sentiment  than  may  be  written 
upon  the  blank  lines  of  a  note  of  hand,  and  expect  no 
courtesy  that  would  occupy  the  head  or  hands  of  the 
junior  partner  longer  than  one  second  by  St.  Paul's. 
With  the  broad  beam  of  sunshine  that  inundates  the 
returning  omnibus  emerging  from  Holborn  into  Tot 
tenham  Court  road,  the  angel  of  port  wine  and  green 
fields  passes  his  finger  across  Firkins's  brow,  and 
presto!  the  man  is  changed.  The  sight  of  a  long 
and'narrow  strip  of  paper,  sticking  from  his  neighbor's 
pocket,  depreciates  that  person  in  his  estimation,  he 
criticises  the  livery  and  riding  of  the  groom  trotting 
past,  says  some  very  true  things  of  the  architecture  of 
the  new  cottage  on  the  roadside,  and  is  landed  at  the 
end  of  his  own  shrubbery,  as  pleasant  and  joyous- 
looking  a  fellow  as  you  would  meet  on  that  side  of 
London.  You  have  ridden  out  to  dine  with  him,  and 
as  he  meets  you  on  the  lawn,  there  is  still  an  hour  to 
dinner,  and  a  blood  horse  spatters  round  from  the  sta 
bles,  which  you  are  welcome  to  drive  to  the  devil  if 
you  like,  accompanied  either  by  Mrs.  Firkins  or  him 
self;  or,  if  you  like  it  better,  there  are  Mrs.  Firkins's 
two  ponies,  and  the  chaise  holds  two  and  the  tiger. 
Ten  to  one  Mrs.  Firkins  is  a  pretty  woman,  and  has 


198 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


her  whims,  and  when  you  are  fairly  on  the  road,  she 
proposes  to  leave  the  soup  and  champagne  at  home 
to  equalize  their  extremes  of  temperature,  drive  to 
Whitehall  Stairs,  take  boat  and  dine,  extempore,  at 
Richmond.  Arid  Firkins,  to  whom  it  will  be  at  least 
twenty  pounds  out  of  pocket,  claps  his  hands  and 
says — "  By  Jove,  it's  a  bright  thought !  touch  up  the 
near  pony,  Mrs.  Firkins."  And  away  you  go,  Firkins 
amusing  himself  the  whole  way  from  Hampstead  to 
Richmond,  imagining  the  consternation  of  his  cook 
and  butler  when  nobody  comes  to  dine. 

There  is  an  aristocracy  in  the  city,  of  course,  and 
Firkins  will  do  business  with  twenty  persons  in  a  day 
whom  he  could  never  introduce  to  Mrs.  Firkins.  The 
situation  of  that  lady  with  respect  to  her  society  is 
(she  will  tell  you  in  confidence)  rather  embarrassing. 
There  are  many  very  worthy  persons,  she  will  say, 
who  represent  large  sums  of  money  or  great  interests 
in  trade,  whom  it  is  necessary  to  ask  to  the  Lodge, 
but  who  are  far  from  being  ornamental  to  her  new 
blue  satin  boudoir.  She  has  often  proposed  to  Fir 
kins  to  have  them  labelled  in  tens  and  thousands  ac 
cording  to  their  fortunes  ;  that  if,  by  any  unpleasant 
accident,  Lord  Augustus  should  meet  them  there,  he 
might  respect  them  like  =  in  algebra,  for  what  they 
stand  for.  But  as  it  is,  she  is  really  never  safe  in  cal 
culating  on  a  societe  choisie  to  dine  or  sup.  When 
Hook  or  Smith  is  just  beginning  to  melt  out,  or  Lady 
Priscilla  is  in  the  middle  of  a  charade,  in  walks  Mr. 
Snooks,  of  the  foreign  house  of  Snooks,  Son,  and 
Co. — "  unexpectedly  arrived  from  Lisbon,  and  run 
down  without  ceremony  to  call  on  his  respectable  cor 
respondent." 

"  Isn't  it  tiresome  ?" 

"  Very,  my  dear  madam  !  But  then  you  have  the 
happiness  of  knowing  that  you  promote  very  essen 
tially  your  husband's  interests,  and  when  he  has  made 
a  plum  — 

"  Yes,  very  true;  and  then,  to  be  sure,  Firkins  has 
had  to  build  papa  a  villa,  and  buy  my  brother  Wilfred 
a  commission,  and  settle  an  annuity  on  my  aunt,  and 
fit  out  my  youngest  brother  Bob  to  India  ;  and  when  I 
think  of  what  he  does  for  my  family,  why  I  don't  mind 
making  now  and  then  a  sacrifice  ;  but,  after  all,  it's  a 
great  evil  not  to  be  able  to  cultivate  one's  own  class 
of  society." 

And  so  murmurs  Mrs.  Firkins,  who  is  the  prettiest  \ 
and  sweetest  creature  in  the  world,  and  really  loves 
the  husband  she  married  for  his  fortune  ;  but  as  the  I 
prosperity  of  Hainan  was  nothing  while  Mordecaj  sat  i 
at  the  gate,  it  is  nothing  to  Mrs.  Firkins  that  her  fa 
ther  lives  in  luxury,   that  her  brothers  are  portioned 
off,  and  that  she  herself  can  have  blue  boudoirs  and 
pony-chaises  ad  libitum,  while  Snooks,  Son,  and  Co., 
may  at  any  moment   break   in  upon   the   charade  of 
Lady  Priscilla  ! 

There  is  a   class  of  business  people  in   London, 
mostly  bachelors,  who  have  wisely  declared  themselves 
independent  of  the  West  End,  and  live  in  a  style  of 
their  own  in  the  dark  courts  and  alleys  about  the  Ex-  I 
change,  but  with  a  luxury  not  exceeded  even  in  the 
silken  recesses  of   May  Fair.     You  will  sometimes  j 
meet  at  the  opera  a  young  man  of  decided  style,  un 
exceptionable  in  his  toilet,  and  quiet  and  gentleman-  j 
like  in  his  address,  who  contents  himself  with  the  side  | 
alley  of  the  pit,  and  looks  at  the  bright  circles  of  beau-  i 
ty  and  fashion  about  him  with  an  indifference  it  is  dif 
ficult  to  explain.     Make  his  acquaintance  by  chance,  j 
and  he  takes  you  home  to  supper  in  a  plain  chariot  on  j 
the  best  springs  Long  Acre  can  turn  out ;  and  while  i 
you  are  speculating  where,  in  the  name  of  the  prince 
of  darkness,   these   narrow  streets  will  bring  you  to, 
you  are  introduced  through  a  small  door  into  saloons,  ! 
perfect  in  taste  and  luxury,  where,  ten  to  one,  you  sup 
with  the  prima  donna,  or  la  premiere  danseuse,  but 
certainly  with  the  most  polished  persons  of  your  own 


sex,  not  one  of  whom,  though  you  may  have  passed  a 
life  io  London,  you  ever  met  in  society  before.  There 
are,  I  doubt  not,  in  that  vast  metropolis,  hundreds  of 
small  circles  of  society,  composed  thus  of  persons 
refined  by  travel  and  luxury,  whose  very  existence  is 
unsuspected  by  the  fine  gentleman  at  the  West  End, 
but  who,  in  the  science  of  living  agreeably,  are  almost 
as  well  entitled  to  rank  among  the  cognoscenti  as  Lord 
Sefton  or  the  "  member  for  Finsbury." 


CHAPTER  IV. 


You  return  from  your  ramble  in  "  the  city"  by  two 
o'clock.  A  bright  day  "  toward,"  and  the  season  in 
its  palmy  time.  The  old  veterans  are  just  creeping 
out  upon  the  portico  of  the  United  Service  club,  hav 
ing  crammed  "The  Times"  over  their  late  breakfast, 
and  thus  prepared  their  politics  against  surprise  for 
the  day ;  the  broad  steps  of  the  Athenreum  are  as  yet 
unthronged  by  the  shuffling  feet  of  the  literati,  whose 
morning  is  longer  and  more  secluded  than  that  of  idler 
men,  but  who  will  be  seen  in  swarms,  at  four,  entering 
that  superb  edifice  in  company  with  the  employes  and 
politicians  who  affect  their  society.  Not  a  cab  stands 
yet  at  the  "Travellers,"  whose  members,  noble  or 
fashionable,  are  probably  at  this  hour  in  their  dres 
sing-gowns  of  brocade  or  shawl  of  the  orient,  smoking 
a  hookah  over  Balzac's  last  romance,  or  pursuing  at 
this  (to  them)  desert  time  of  day  some  adventure  which 
waited  upon  their  love  and  leisure.  It  is  early  yet  for 
the  park;  but  the  equipages  you  will  see  by-and-by 
"in  the  ring"  are  standing  now  at  Howell  and  James's, 
and  while  the  high-bred  horses  are  fretting  at  the 
door,  and  the  liveried  footmen  lean  on  their  gold- 
headed  sticks  on  the  pavement,  the  fair  creature  whose 
slightest  nod  these  trained  minions  and  their  fine- 
limbed  animals  live  to  obey,  sits  upon  a  three-legged 
stool  within,  and  in  the  voice  which  is  a  spell  upon  all 
hearts,  and  with  eyes  to  which  rank  and  genius  turn 
like  Persians  to  the  sun,  discusses  with  a  pert  clerk 
the  quality  of  stockings  ! 

Look  at  these  equipages  and  their  appointments  ! 
Mark  the  exquisite  balance  of  that  claret-bodied  chariot 
upon  its  springs — the  fine  sway  of  its  sumptuous  ham 
mer-cloth  in  which  the  un-smiling  coachman  sits 
buried  to  the  middle — the  exact  fit  of  the  saddles,  set 
ting  into  the  curve  of  the  horses'  backs  so  as  not  break, 
to  the  most  careless  eye,  the  fine  lines  which  exhibit 
action  and  grace !  See  how  they  stand  together, 
alert,  fiery,  yet  obedient  to  the  weight  of  a  silken 
thread  ;  and  as  the  coachman  sees  you  studying  his 
turn-out,  observe  the  imperceptible  feel  of  the  reins 
and  the  just-visible  motion  of  his  lips,  conveying  to 
the  quick  ears  of  his  horses  the  premonitory,  and,  to 
us,  inaudible  sound,  to  which,  without  drawing  a 
hair's  breadth  upon  the  traces,  they  paw  their  fine 
hoofs,  and  expand  their  nostrils  impatiently !  Come 
nearer,  and  find  a  speck  or  a  raised  hair,  if  you  can, 
on  these  glossy  coats  !  Observe  the  nice  fitness  of 
the  dead-black  harness,  the  modest  crest  upon  the 
panel,  the  delicate  picking  out  of  white  in  the  wheels, 
and,  if  you  will  venture  upon  a  freedom  in  manners, 
look  in  through  the  window  of  rose-teinled  glass,  and 
see  the  splendid  cushions  and  the  costly  and  perfect 
adaptation  of  the  interior.  The  twinmated  footmen 
fly  to  the  carriage-door,  and  the  pomatumed  clerk  who 
has  enjoyed  a  tele-d-tete  for  which  a  prince-royal  might 
sigh,  and  an  ambassador  negotiate  in  vain,  hands  in 
his  parcel.  The  small  foot  presses  on  the  carpeted 
step,  the  airy  vehicle  yields  lightly  and  recovers  from 
the  slight  weight  of  the  descending  form,  the  coach 
man  inclines  his  ear  for  the  half-suppressed  order 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


199 


from  the  footman,  and  off  whirls  the  admirable  struc 
ture,  compact,  true,  steady,  but  magically  free  and 
fast — as  if  horses,  footmen,  and  chariot  were  but  the 
parts  of  some  complicated  centaur — some  swift-moving 
monster  upon  legs  and  wheels  ! 

Walk  on  a  little  farther  to  the  Quadrant.  Here 
commences  the  most  thronged  promenade  in  London. 
These  crescent  colonnades  are  the  haunt  of  foreigners 
on  the  lookout  for  amusement,  and  of  strangers  in  the 
metropolis  generally.  You  will  seldom  find  a  town- 
bred  man  there,  for  he  prefers  haunting  his  clubs;  or, 
if  he  is  not  a  member  of  them,  he  avoids  lounging 
much  in  the  Quadrant,  lest  he  should  appear  to  have 
no  other  resort.  You  will  observe  a  town  dandy 
getting  fidgety  after  his  second  turn  in  the  Quadrant, 
while  you  will  meet  the  same  Frenchman  there  from 
noon  till  dusk,  bounding  his  walk  by  those  columns  as 
if  they  were  the  bars  of  a  cage.  The  western  side 
toward  Piccadilly  is  the  thoroughfare  of  the  honest 
passer-by  ;  but  under  the  long  portico  opposite,  you 
will  meet  vice  in  every  degree,  and  perhaps  more 
beauty  than  on  any  other  pave,  in  the  world.  It  is 
given  up  to  the  vicious  and  their  followers  by  general 
consent.  To  frequent  it,  or  to  be  seen  loitering  there 
at  all,  is  to  make  but  one  impression  on  the  mind  of 
those  who  may  observe  you. 

The  two  sides  of  Regent  street  continue  to  partake 
of  this  distinction  to  the  end.  Go  up  on  the  left,  and  | 
you  meet  the  sober  citizen  perambulating  with  his 
wife,  the  lady  followed  by  her  footman,  the  grave  and 
the  respectable  of  all  classes.  Go  up  on  the  other, 
and  in  color  and  mien  it  is  the  difference  between  a 
grass-walk  and  a  bed  of  tulips.  What  proof  is  here 
that  beauty  is  dangerous  to  its  possessor !  It  is  said 
commonly  of  Regent  street,  that  it  shows  more  beauty 
in  an  hour  than  could  be  found  in  all  the  capitals  of 
the  continent.  It  is  the  beauty,  however,  of  brilliant 
health — of  complexion  and  freshness,  more  than  of 
sentiment  or  classic  correctness.  The  English  features, 
at  least  in  the  middle  and  lower  ranks,  are  seldom 
good,  though  the  round  cheek,  the  sparkling  lip,  the 
soft  blue  eyes  and  hair  of  dark  auburn,  common  as 
health  and  youth,  produce  the  effect  of  high  and  al 
most  universal  beauty  on  the  eye  of  the  stranger.  The 
larest  thing  in  these  classes  is  a  finely-turned  limb, 
and  to  the  clumsiness  of  their  feet  and  ankles  must  be 
attributed  the  want  of  grace  usually  remarked  in  their 
movements. 

Regent  street  has  appeared  to  me  the  greatest  and 
most  oppressive  solitude  it)  the  world.  In  a  crowd  of 
business  men,  otHn  the  thronged  and  mixed  gardens  j 
of  the  continent,  the  pre-occupation  of  others  is  less 
attractive,  or  at  least,  more  within  our  reach,  if  we 
would  share  in  it.  Here,  it  is  wealth  beyond  com-  j 
petition,  exclusiveness  and  indifference  perfectly  un- 
approachable.  In  the  cold  and  stern  mien  ^of  the 
practised  Londoner,  it  is  difficult  for  a  stranger  not  to 
read  distrust,  and  very  difficult  for  a  depressed  mind 
not  to  feel  a  marked  repulsion.  There  is  no  solitude, 
alter  all,  like  the  solitude  of  cities. 

"  O  dear,  dear  London"  (says  the  companion  of 
Asmodeus  on  his  return  from  France),  "dear  even  in 
October  !  Regent  street,  1  salute  you  !  Bond  street, 
my  good  fellow,  how  are  you  ?  And  you,  oh,  beloved 
Oxford  street,  whom  the  opium-eater  called  'stony 
hearted,'  and  whom  I,  enting  no  opium,  and  speaking 
as  I  find,  shall  ever  consider  the  most  kindly  and  ma 
ternal  of  all  streets — the  street  of  the  middle  classes — 
busy  without  uproar,  wealthy  without  ostentation. 
Ah,  the  pretty  ankles  that  trip  along  thy  pavement ! 
Ah!  the  odd  country-cousin  bonnets  that  peer  into 
thy  windows,  which  are  lined  with  cheap  yellow  shawls, 
price  one  pound  four  shillings,  marked  in  the  corner  ! 
Ah  !  the  brisk  young  lawyers  flocking  from  their  quar 
ters  at  the  back  of  Holborn !  Ah !  the  quiet  old  ladies, 
living  in  Duchess  street,  and  visiting  thee  with  their 


eldest  daughters  in  the  hope  of  a  bargain  !  Ah,  the 
bumpkins  from  Norfolk  just  disgorged  by  the  Bull  and 
Mouth — the  soldiers — the  milliners — the  Frenchmen 
— the  swindlers — the  porters  with  four-post  beds  on 
their  backs,  who  add  the  excitement  of  danger  to  that  of 
amusement !  The  various  shifting,  motley  group  that 
belong  to  Oxford  street,  and  Oxford  street  alone !  What 
thoroughfares  equal  thee  in  the  variety  of  human 
specimens  !  in  the  choice  of  objects  for  remark,  satire, 
admiration!  Besides,  the  other  streets  seem  chalked 
out  for  a  sect — narrow-minded  and  devoted  to  a  coterie. 
Thou  alone  art  catholic — all-receiving.  Regent  street 
belongs  to  foreigners,  cigars,  and  ladies  in  red  silk, 
whose  characters  are  above  scandal.  Bond  street  be 
longs  to  dandies  and  picture-dealers.  St.  James's 
street  to  club  loungers  and  young  men  in  the  guards, 
with  mustaches  properly  blackened  by  the  cire  of 
Mr.  Delcroix;  but  thou,  Oxford  street,  what  class  can 
especially  claim  thee  as  its  own  ?  Thou  mockest  at 
oligarchies  ;  thou  knowest  nothing  of  select  orders  ! 
Thou  art  liberal  as  air — a  chartered  libertine;  accept 
ing  the  homage  of  all,  and  retaining  the  stamp  of 
none.  And  to  call  thee  'stony-hearted!' — certainly 
thou  art  so  lo  beggars — to  people  who  have  not  the 
WHEREWITHAL.  But  thou  wouldst  not  be  so  respect- 
able  if  thou  wert  not  capable  of  a  certain  reserve  to 
paupers.  Thou  art  civil  enough,  in  all  conscience, 
to  those  who  have  a  shilling  in  their  pocket — those 
who  have  not,  why  do  they  live  at  all  ?" 


CHAPTER  V. 


IT  is  near  four  o'clock,  and  in  Bond  street  you 
might  almost  walk  on  the  heads  of  livery-servants — 
at  every  stride  stepping  over  the  heads  of  two  ladies 
and  a  dandy  exclusive.  Thoroughfare  it  is  none,  for 
the  carriages  are  creeping  on,  inch  by  inch,  the  blood- 
horses  "  marking  time,"  the  coarhman  watchful  for 
his  panels  and  whippletrees,  and  the  lady  within  her 
silken  chariot,  lounging  back,  with  her  eyes  upon  the 
passing  line,  neither  impatient  nor  surprised  at  the 
delay,  for  she  came  there  on  purpose.  Between  the 
swaying  bodies  of  the  carriages,  hesitating  past,  she 
receives  the  smiles  and  recognitions  of  all  her  male 
acquaintances  ;  while  occasionally  a  female  ally  (for 
allies  against  the  rest  of  the  sex  are  as  necessary  in 
society  to  women,  as  in  war  to  monarchs) — occasion 
ally,  I  say,  a  female  ally  announced  by  the  crest  upon 
the  blinker  of  an  advancing  horse,  arrives  opposite  her 
window,  and,  with  only  the  necessary  delay  in  passing, 
they  exchange,  perhaps,  inquiries  for  health,  but,  cer 
tainly,  programmes,  comprehensive  though  brief,  for 
the  prosecution  of  each  other's  loves  or  hates.  Occa 
sionally  a  hack  cab,  seduced  into  attempting  Bond 
street  by  some  momentary  opening,  finds  itself  closed 
in,  forty  deep,  by  chariots,  butckas,  landaus,  and  fam 
ily  coaches  ;  and  amid  the  imperturbable  and  unan- 
swermg  whips  of  the  hammercloth,  with  a  passenger 

I  who  is  losing  the  coach  by  the  delay,  he  must  wait, 
will-he-nill-he,  till  some  "pottering"  dowager  has 
purchased  the  old  lord  his  winter  flannels,  or  till  the 
countess  of  Loiter  has  said  all  she  has  to  say  to  the 
guardsman  whom  she  has  met  accidentally  at  Pluck- 
rose,  the  perfumer's.  The  three  tall  fellows,  with 
gold  sticks,  would  see  the  entire  plebeian  population 
of  London  thrice-sodden  in  vitriol,  before  they  would 
advance  miladi's  carriage  a  step,  or  appear  to  possess 
eyes  or  ears  for  the  infuriated  cabman. 

Bond  street,  at  this  hour,  is  a  study  for  such  ob- 

I  servers,  as,  having  gone  through  an  apprenticeship  of 
criticism  upon  all  the  other  races  and  grades  of  men 
and  gentlemen  in  the  world,  are  now  prepared  to  study 


200 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


their  species  in  its  highest  fashionable  phase — that  of 
"nice  persons"  at  the"  West  End.  The  Oxford-street 
"swell,"  and  the  Regent-street  dandy,  if  seen  here, 
are  out  of  place.  The  expressive  word  "quiet"  (with 
its  present  London  signification),  defines  the  dress, 
manner,  bow,  and  even  physiognomy,  of  every  true 
denizen  of  St.  James's  and  Bond  street.  The  great 
principle  among  men  of  the  clubs,  in  all  these  partic 
ulars,  is  to  subdue — to  deprive  their  coats,  hats,  and 
manners,  of  everything  sufficiently  marked  to  be  cari 
catured  by  the  satirical  or  imitated  by  the  vulgar. 
The  triumph  of  style  seems  to  be  that  the  lines  which 
define  it  shall  be  imperceptible  to  the  common  eye — 
that  it  shall  require  the  difficult  education  which  cre 
ates  it  to  know  its  form  and  limit.  Hence  an  almost 
universal  error  with  regard  to  English  gentlemen — 
that  they  are  repulsive  and  cold.  With  a  thousand 
times  the  heart  and  real  politeness  of  the  Frenchman, 
they  meet  you  with  the  simple  and  unaffected  address 
which  would  probably  be  that  of  shades  in  Elysium, 
between  whom  (we  may  suppose)  there  is  no  longer 
etiquette  or  concealment.  The  only  exceptions  to 

this  rule  in  London,  are,  first  and  alone,  Count , 

whose  extraordinary  and  original  style,  marked  as  it 
is,  is  inimitable  by  any  man  of  less  brilliant  talents 
and  less  beauty  of  person,  and  the  king's  guardsmen, 
who  are  dandies  by  prescriptive  right,  or,  as  it  were, 
professionally.  All  other  men  who  are  members  of 
Brooks's  and  the  Traveller's,  and  frequent  Bond  street 
in  the  flush  of  the  afternoon,  are  what  would  be  called 
in  America,  plain,  unornamental,  and,  perhaps,  ill- 
dressed  individuals,  who  would  strike  you  more  by  the 
absence  than  the  possession  of  all  the  peculiarities 
which  we  generally  suppose  marks  a  "  picked  man  of 
countries."  In  America,  particularly,  we  are  liable  to 
error  on  this  point,  as,  of  the  great  number  of  our 
travellers  for  improvement,  scarce  one  in  a  thousand 
remains  longer  in  London  than  to  visit  the  tower  and 
the  Thames  tunnel.  The  nine  hundred  and  ninety- 
nine  reside  principally,  and  acquire  all  they  get  of  for 
eign  manner  and  style,  at  Paris — the  very  most  artifi 
cial,  corrupt,  and  affected  school  for  gentlemen  in  the 
polite  world. 

Prejudice  against  any  one  country  is  an  illiberal 
feeling,  which  common  reflection  should,  and  which 
enlightened  travel  usually  does,  entirely  remove. 
There  is  a  vulgar  prejudice  against  the  English  in 
almost  all  countries,  but  more  particularly  in  ours, 
which  blinds  its  entertainers  to  much  that  is  admira 
ble,  and  deprives  them  of  the  good  drawn  from  the 
best  models.  The  troop  of  scurrilous  critics,  the  class 
of  English  bagmen,  and  errant  vulgarians  of  all  kinds, 
and  the  industriously-blown  coals  of  old  hostilities, 
are  barriers  which  an  educated  mind  may  well  over 
look,  and  barriers  beyond  which  lie,  no  doubt,  the  best 
examples  of  true  civilization  and  refinement  the  world 
ever  saw.  But  we  are  getting  into  an  essay  when  we 
should  be  turning  down  Bruton  street,  on  our  way  to 
the  park,  with  all  the  fashion  of  Bond  street  and  May 
Fair. 

May  Fair  !  what  a  name  for  the  core  of  dissipated 
and  exclusive  London!  A  name  that  brings  with  it 
only  the  scent  of  crushed  flowers  in  a  green  field,  of  a 
pole  wreathed  with  rose,  booths  crowded  with  dancing 
peasant-girls,  and  nature  in  its  holyday!  This — to 
express  the  costly,  the  courtlike,  the  so-called  "  heart 
less"  precinct  of  fashion  and  art,  in  their  most  authen 
tic  and  envied  perfection.  Mais,  les  extremes  se  tou- 
client,  and,  perhaps,  there  is  more  nature  in  May  Fair 
than  in  Rose  Cottage  or  Honeysuckle  Lodge. 

We  stroll  on  through  Berkeley  square,  by  Chester 
field  and  Curzon  streets  to  the  park  gate.  What  an 
aristocraiic  quiet  reigns  here  !  How  plain  are  the  ex 
teriors  of  these  houses :  how  unexpressive  these  doors, 
without  a  name,  of  the  luxury  and  high-born  pride 
within !  At  the  open  window  of  the  hall  sit  the  butler 


and  footman,  reading  the  morning  paper,  while  they 
wait  to  dispense  the  "not  at  home"  to  callers  not  dis 
appointed.  The  rooks  are  noisy  in  the  old  trees  of 
Chesterfield  house.  The  painted  window-screens  of 
the  probably  still-slumbering  Count ,  in  his  bach 
elor's  den,  are  closely  drawn,  and,  as  we  pass  Seymour 
place,  a  crowd  of  gay  cabs  and  diplomatic  chariots, 
drawn  up  before  the  dark-green  door  at  the  farther  ex 
tremity,  announce  to  you  the  residence  of  one  whose 
morning  and  evening  levees  are  alike  thronged  by  dis 
tinction  and  talent — the  beautiful  Lady . 

This  short  turn  brings  us  to  the  park,  which  is  rap 
idly  filling  with  vehicles  of  every  fashion  and  color, 
and  with  pedestrians  and  horsemen  innumerable.  No 
hackney-coach,  street-cab,  cart,  or  pauper,  is  allowed 
to  pass  the  porters  at  the  several  gates  :  the  road  is 
macadamized  and  watered,  and  the  grass  within  the 
ring  is  fresh  and  verdant.  The  sun  here  triumphs 
partially  over  the  skirt  of  London  smoke,  which  sways 
backward  and  forward  over  the  chimneys  of  Park  lane, 
and,  as  far  as  it  is  possible  so  near  the  dingy  halo  of 
the  metropolis,  the  gay  occupants  of  these  varied  con 
veyances  "take  the  air." 

Let  us  stand  by  the  railing  a  moment,  and  see  what 
comes  by.  This  is  the  field  of  display  for  the  coach 
man,  who  sits  upon  his  sumptuous  hammercloth, 
and  takes  more  pride  in  his  horses  than  their  owner, 
and  considers  them,  if  not  like  his  own  honor  and 
blood,  very  like  his  own  property.  Watch  the  delicate 
handling  of  his  ribands,  the  affected  nonchalance  of 
his  air,  and  see  how  perfectly,  how  admirably,  how 
beautifully,  move  his  blood  horses,  and  how  steadily 
and  well  follows  the  compact  carriage  !  Within  (it  is 
a  dark-green  calcche,  and  the  liveries  are  drab,  with 
red  edgings)  sits  the  oriental  form  and  bright  spiritual 
face  of  a  banker's  wife,  the  daughter  of  a  noble  race, 
who  might  have  been,  but  was  not,  sacrificed  in  "  mar 
rying  into  the  finance,"  and  who  soars  up  into  the  sky 
of  happiness,  like  the  unconscious  bird  that  has  es 
caped  the  silent  arrow  of  the  savage,  as  if  her  destiny 
could  not  but  have  been  thus  fulfilled.  Who  follows? 
D'Israeli,  alone  in  his  cab;  thoughtful,  melancholy, 
disappointed  in  his  political  schemes,  and  undervaluing 
his  literary  success,  and  expressing,  in  his  scholar-like 
and  beautiful  profile,  as  he  passes  us,  both  the  thirst 
at  his  heart  and  the  satiety  at  his  lips.  The  livery  of 
his  "  tiger"  is  neglected,  and  he  drives  like  a  man  who 
has  to  choose  between  running  and  being  run  against, 
1 1  and  takes  that  which  leaves  him  the  most  leisure  for  re 
flection.  Poor  D'Israeli !  With  a  kind  and  generous 
heart,  talents  of  the  most  brilliant  <C?der,  an  ambition 
which  consumes  his  soul,  and  a  father  who  expects 
everything  from  his  son ;  lost  for  the  want  of  a  tact 
common  to  understandings  fathoms  deep  below  his 
own,  and  likely  to  drive  in  Hyde  Park  forty  years 
hence,  if  he  die  not  of  the  corrosion  of  disappointment, 
no  more  distinguished  than  now,  and  a  thousand  times 
more  melancholy. 

An  open  barouche  follows,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  dark 
bays,  the  coachman  and  footman  in  suits  of  plain  gray, 
and  no  crest  on  the  panels.  A  lady,  of  remarkable 
small  person,  sits,  with  the  fairest  foot  ever  seen,  just 
peeping  from  under  a  cashmere,  on  the  forward  cush 
ion,  and  from  under  her  peculiarly  plain  and  small 
bonnet  burn,  in  liquid  fire,  the  most  lambent  and 
spiritual  eyes  that  night  and  sleep  ever  hid  from  the 
world.  She  is  a  niece  of  Napoleon,  married  to  an 
English  nobleman  ;  and  beside  her  sits  her  father, 
who  refused  the  throne  of  Tuscany,  a  noble-looking 
man,  with  an  expression  of  calm  and  tranquil  resigna 
tion  in  his  face,  unusually  plain  in  his  exterior,  and 
less  alive  than  most  of  the  gay  promenaders  to  the 
bright  scene  passing  about  him.  He  will  play  in  the 
charade  at  his  daughter's  soiree  in  the  evening,  how 
ever,  and  forget  his  exile  and  his  misfortunes ;  for  he 
is  a  fond  father  and  a  true  philosopher. 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


201 


CHAPTER  VI. 


IF  you  dine  with  all  the  world  at  seven,  you  have 
still  an  hour  or  more  for  Hyde  Park,  and  "  Rotten 
Row;"  this  half  mile  between  Oxford  street  and  Pic 
cadilly,  to  which  the  fashion  of  London  confines  itself, 
as  if  the  remainder  of  the  bright  green  park  were  for 
bidden  ground,  is  now  fuller  than  ever.  There  is  the 
advantage  in  this  condensed,  drive,  that  you  are  sure  to 
see  your  friends  here,  earlier  or  later,  in  every  day — 
(for  wherever  you  are  to  go  with  horses,  the  conclu 
sion  of  the  order  to  the  coachman  is,  "  home  by  the 
park") — and  then  if  there  is  anything  new  in  the  way 
of  an  arrival,  a  pretty  foreigner,  or  a  fresh  face  from 
the  country,  some  dandy's  tiger  leaves  his  master  at 
the  gate,  and  brings  him  at  his  club,  over  his  coffee, 
all  possible  particulars  of  her  name,  residence,  con 
dition,  and  whatever  other  circumstances  fall  in  his 

way.     By  dropping   in   at  Lady 's  soiree  in  the 

evening,  if  you  were  interested  in  the  face,  you  may 
inform  yourself  of  more  than  you  would  have  drawn 
in  a  year's  acquaintance  from  the  subject  of  your  cu 
riosity.     Malapropos  to   my   remark,   here    comes  a 
turn-out,  concerning  which  and  its  occupant  I  have 
made  many  inquiries  in  vain — the  pale-colored  chariot, 
with  a  pair  of  grays,  dashing  toward  us  from  the  Sey 
mour  gate.     As  it  comes  by  you  will  see,  sitting  quite 
in  the  corner,  and  in  a  very  languid  and  elegant  atti 
tude,  a  slight  woman  of  perhaps  twenty-four,  dressed 
in   the  simplest  white  cottage-bonnet  that  could  be  | 
made,  and,  with  her  head  down,  looking  up  through 
heavy  black  eyelashes,  as  if  she  but  waited  till  she  had  ! 
passed  a  particular  object,  to  resume  some  engrossing  j 
revery.     Her  features  are  Italian,  and   her  attitude,  j 
always  the  same  indolent  one,  has  also  a  redolence  of  ] 
that  land   of  repose;    but  there  has  been  an  English  | 
taste,  and  no  ordinary  one,  in  the  arrangement  of  that  I 
equipage  and  its  dependants ;  and  by  the  expression, 
never  mistaken  in  London,  of  the  well-appointed  me 
nials,  you  may  be  certain  that  both   master  and  mis 
tress  (if  master  there  be),  exact  no  common  deference. 
She  is  always  alone,  and  not  often  seen  in  the  park  ; 
and  whenever  I  have  inquired  of  those  likely  to  know, 
I  found  that  she  had  been  observed,  but  could  get  no 
satisfactory  information.     She  disappears  by  the  side 
toward  the  Regent's  park,  and  when  once  out  of  the 
gate,  her  horses  are  let  off  at  a  speed  that  distances  j 
all  pursuit  that  would  not  attract  observation.     There  i 
is  a  look  of"  Who  the  deuce  can  it  be  ?"  in  the  faces  j 
of  all  the  mounted  dandies,  wherever  she  passes,  for  | 
it  is  a  face  which  once  seen  is  not  easily  thought  of 
with  indifference,  or  forgotten.     Immense  as  London 
is,   a   woman   of  anything  like   extraordinary   beauty 
would  find  it  difficult  to  live  there  incognito  a'week  ; 
and  how  this  fair  incomprehensible  has  contrived  to 
elude  the  curiosity  of  Hyde-park  admiration,  for  nearly 
two  years,  is  rather  a  marvel.     There  she  goes,  how 
ever,  and  without  danger  of  being  arrested  for  a  flying 
highwayman  you  could  scarcely  follow. 

It  is  getting  late,  and,  as  we  turn  down  toward  the 
clubs,  we  shall  meet  the  last  and  most  fashionable 
comers  to  the  park.  Here  is  a  horseman,  surrounded 
with  half  a  dozen  of  the  first  young  noblemen  of  Eng 
land.  He  rides  a  light  bay  horse  with  dark  legs, 
whose  delicate  veins  are  like  the  tracery  of  silken 
threads  beneath  the  gloss  of  his  limbs,  and  whose 
small,  animated  head  seems  to  express  the  very  es 
sence  of  speed  and  fire.  He  is  the  most  beautiful 
park  horse  in  England  ;  and  behind  follows  a  high 
bred  milk-white  pony,  ridden  by  a  small,  faultlessly- 
dressed  groom,  who  sits  the  spirited  and  fretting  crea 
ture  as  if  he  anticipated  every  movement  before  the 
fine  hoof  rose  from  the  ground.  He  rides  admirably, 


but  his  master  is  more  of  a  study.  A  luxuriance  of 
black  curls"escapes  from  the  broad  rim  of  a  peculiar 
hat,  and  forms  a  relief  to  the  small  and  sculpture-like 
profile  of  a  face  as  perfect,  by  every  rule  of  beauty,  as 
the  Greek  Antinous.  It  would  be  too  feminine  but 
for  the  muscular  neck  and  broad  chest  from  which 
the  head  rises,  and  the  indications  of  great  personal 
strength  in  the  Herculean  shoulders.  His  loose  coat 
would  disguise  the  proportions  of  a  less  admirable 
figure ;  but,  au  resle,  his  dress  is  without  fold  or 
wrinkle,  and  no  figurante  of  the  ballet  ever  showed 
finer  or  more  skilfully  developed  limbs.  He  is  one 
of  the  most  daring  in  (his  country  of  bold  riders  ;  but 
modifies  the  still'  English  school  of  equestrianism, 
with  the  ease  and  grace  of  that  of  his  own  country. 
His  manner,  though  he  is  rather  Angtomane,  is  in 
striking  contrast  to  the  grave  and  quiet  air  of  his  com 
panions  ;  and  between  his  recognitions,  right  and  left, 
to  the  passing  promenaders,  he  laughs  and  amuses 
himself  with  the  joyous  and  thoughtless  gayety  of  a 
child.  Acknowledged  by  all  his  acquaintances  to  pos 
sess  splendid  talents,  this  "  observed  of  all  observers" 
is  a  singular  instance  of  a  modern  Sybarite — content 
to  sacrifice  time,  opportunity,  and  the  highest  advan 
tages  of  mind  and  body,  to  the  pleasure  of  the  moment. 
He  seems  exempt  from  all  the  usual  penalties  of  such 
a  career.  Nothing  seems  to  do  its  usual  work  on  him 
— care,  nor  exhaustion,  nor  recklessness,  nor  the  dis 
approbation  of  the  heavy-handed  opinion  of  the  world. 
Always  gay,  always  brilliant,  ready  to  embark  at  any 
moment,  or  at  any  hazard,  in  anything  that  will  amuse 
an  hour,  one  wonders  how  and  where  such  an  un 
wonted  meteor  will  disappear. 

But  here  comes  a  carriage  without  hammercloth  or 
liveries;  one  of  those  shabby-genteel  conveyances, 
hired  by  the  week,  containing  three  or  four  persons  in 
the  highest  spirits,  all  talking  and  gesticulating  at  once. 
As  the  carriage  passes  the  "  beau-knot"  (as  ,  and 
his  inseparable  troop  are  sometimes  called),  one  or 
two  of  the  dandies  spur  up,  and  resting  their  hands  on 
the  windows,  offer  the  compliments  of  the  day  to  the 
only  lady  within,  with  the  most  earnest  looks  of  ad 
miration.  The  gentlemen  in  her  company  become 
silent,  and  answer  to  the  slight  bows  of  the  cavaliers 
with  foreign  monosyllables,  and  presently  the  coach 
man  whips  up  once  more,  the  horsemen  drop  off,  and 
the  excessive  gayety  of  the  party  resumes  its  tone. 
You  must  have  been  struck,  as  the  carriage  passed, 
with  the  brilliant  whiteness  and  regularity  of  the  lady's 
teeth,  and  still  more  with  the  remarkable  play  of  her 
lips,  which  move  as  if  the  blood  in  them  were  im 
prisoned  lightning.  (The  figure  is  strong,  but  nothing 
else  conveys  to  my  own  mind  what  I  am  trying  to  de 
scribe.)  Energy,  grace,  fire,  rapidity,  and  a  capabili 
ty  of  utter  abandoment  to  passion  and  expression,  live 
visibly  on  those  lips.  Her  eyes  are  magnificent.  Her 
nose  is  regular,  with  nostrils  rimmed  round  with  an 
expansive  nerve,  that  gives  them  constantly  the  kind 
of  animation  visible  in  the  he;id  of  a  fiery  Arab.  Her 
complexion  is  one  of  those  which,  dark  and  wanting 
in  brilliance  by  day,  light  up  at  night  with  an  alabaster 
fairness ;  and  when  the  glossy  black  hair,  which  is 
now  put  away  so  plainly  under  her  simple  bonnet, 
falls  over  her  shoulders  in  heavy  masses,  the  contrast 
is  radiant.  The  gentlemen  in  that  carriage  are  Rubin i, 
Lablache,  and  a  gentleman  who  passes  for  the  lady's 
uncle  ;  and  the  hidy  is  Julia  Grini. 

The  smoke  over  the  heart  of  the  city  begins  to 
thicken  into  darkness,  the  gas-lamps  are  shooting  up, 
bright  and  star-like,  along  the  Kensington  road,  and 
the  last  promenaders  disappear.  And  now  the  world 
of  London,  the  rich  and  gay  portion  of  it  at  least, 
i  enjoy  that  which  compensates  them  for  the  absence 
of  the  bright  nights  and  skies  of  Italy — a  climate 
within  doors,  of  comfort  and  luxury,  unknown  under 
brighter  heavens. 


202 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ISLE    OF    WIGHT RTDE. 

"  INSTEAD  of  parboiling  you  with  a  soiree  or  a  din 
ner,"  said  a  sensible  and  kind  friend,  who  called  on  us 
at  Ryde,  "  I  shall  make  a  pic-nic  to  Netley."  And  on 
a  bright,  breezy  morning  of  June,  a  merry  party  of 
some  twenty  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  green  Isle  of 
Wight  shot  away  from  the  long  pier,  in  one  of  the 
swift  boats  of  those  waters,  with  a  fair  wind  for  South 
ampton. 

Ryde  is  the  most  American-looking  town  I  have 
seen  abroad;  a  cluster  of  white  houses  and  summery 
villas  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  leaning  up  from  the 
sea.  Geneva,  on  the  Seneca  lake,  resembles  it.  It 
is  a  place  of  baths,  boarding-houses,  and  people  of 
damaged  constitutions,  with  very  select  society,  and 
quiet  and  rather  primitive  habils.  The  climate  is  de- 
liciously  soft,  and  the  sun  seems  always  to  shine 
there. 

As  we  got  out  into  the  open  channel,  I  was  assisting 
the  skipper  to  tighten  his  bowline,  when  a  beautiful 
ship,  in  the  distance,  putting  about  on  a  fresh  track, 
caught  the  sun  full  on  her  snowy  sails,  and  seemed  to 
start  like  an  apparition  from  the  sea. 

"  She's  a  liner,  sir !"  said  the  bronzed  boatman,  sus 
pending  his  haul  to  give  her  a  look  of  involuntary  ad 
miration. 

"An  American  packet,  you  mean?" 

"They're  the  prettiest  ships  afloat,  sir,"  he  contin 
ued,  "  and  the  smartest  handled.  They're  out  to  New 
York,  and  back  again,  before  you  can  look  round, 
a'most.  Ah,  I  see  her  flag  now — stars  and  stripes. 
Can  you  see  it,  sir?" 

"Are  the  captains  Englishmen,  principally?"  I 
asked. 

"No,  sir!  all  '  calculators ;'  sharp  as  a  needle!" 

"Thank  you,"  said  I;  "  I  am  a  calculator  too!" 

The  conversation  ceased,  and  I  thought  from  the 
boatman's  look,  that  he  had  more  respect  than  love 
for  us.  The  cloud  of  snowy  sail  traversed  the  breadth 
of  the  channel  with  the  speed  of  a  bird,  wheeled  again 
upon  her  opposite  tack,  and  soon  disappeared  from 
view,  taking  with  her  the  dove  of  my  imagination  to 
return  with  an  olive-branch  from  home.  It  must  be 
a  cold  American  heart  whose  strings  are  not  swept  by 
that  bright  flag  in  a  foreign  land,  like  a  harp  with  the 
impassioned  prelude  of  the  master. 

Cowes  was  soon  upon  our  lee,  with  her  fairy  fleet 
of  yachts  lying  at  anchor — Lord  Yarborough's  frigate- 
looking  craft  asleep  amid  its  dependant  brood,  with  all 
its  fine  tracery  of  rigging  drawn  on  a  cloudless  sky,  the 
picture  of  what  it  is,  and  what  all  vessels  seem  to  me 
a  thing  for  pleasure  only.  Darting  about  like  a  swal 
low  on  the  wing,  a  small,  gayly-painted  sloop-yacht, 
as  graceful  and  slender  as  the  first  bow  of  the  new 
moon,  played  off  the  roadstead  for  the  sole  pleasure 
of  motion,  careless  whither ;  and  meantime  the  low- 
fringed  shores  of  the  Southampton  side  grew  more 
and  more  distinct,  and  before  we  had  well  settled  upon 
our  cushions,  the  old  tower  of  the  abbey  lay  sharp 
over  the  bow. 

We  enjoyed  the  first  ramble  through  the  ruins  the 
better,  that  to  see  them  was  a  secondary  object.  The 
first  was  to  select  a  grassy  spot  for  our  table.  Thread 
ing  the  old  unroofed  vaults  with  this  errand,  the  pause 
of  involuntary  homage  exacted  by  a  sudden  burst  upon 
an  arch  or  a  fretted  window,  was  natural  and  true  ;  and 
for  those  who  are  disturbed  by  the  formal  and  trite 
enthusiasm  of  companions  who  admire  by  a  prompter, 
this  stalking-horse  of  another  pursuit  was  not  an  in 
different  advantage. 

The  great  roof  over  the  principal  nave  of  the  abbey 
has  fallen  in,  and  lies  in  rugged  and  picturesque  masses 


within  the  Gothic  shell — windows,  arches,  secret'stair- 
cases,  and  gray  walls,  all  breaking  up  the  blue  sky 
around,  but  leaving  above,  for  a  smooth  and  eternal 
roof,  an  oblong  and  ivy-fringed  segment  of  the  blue 
plane  of  heaven.  It  seems  to  rest  on  those  crumbling 
corners  as  you  stand  within. 

We  selected  a  rising  bank  under  the  shoulder  of  a 
rock,  grown  over  with  moss  and  ivy,  and  following  the 
suggestion  of  a  pretty  lover  of  the  picturesque,  the 
shawls  and  cloaks,  with  their  bright  colors,  were 
thrown  over  the  nearest  fragments  of  the  roof,  and  every 
body  unbonneted  and  assisted  in  the  arrangements.  An 
old  woman  who  sold  apples  outside  the  walls  was  em 
ployed  to  build  a  fire  for  our  teakettle  in  a  niche 
where,  doubtless,  in  its  holier  days,  had  stood  the 
effigy  of  a  saint ;  and  at  the  pedestals  of  a  cluster  of 
slender  columns  our  attendants  displayed  upon  a  table 
a  show  of  pasties  and  bright  wines,  that,  if  there  be 
monkish  spirits  who  walk  at  Netley,  we  have  added  a 
poignant  regret  to  their  purgatories,  that  their  airy 
stomachs  can  be  no  more  vino  ciboque  gravali. 

We  were  doing  justice  to  a  pretty  shoulder  of  lamb, 
with  mint  sauce,  when  a  slender  youth  who  had  been 
wandering  around  with  a  portfolio,  took  up  an  artist's 
position  in  the  farther  corner  of  the  ruins,  and  began 
to  sketch  the  scene.  I  mentally  felicitated  him  on  the 
accident  that  had  brought  him  to  Netley  at  that  par 
ticular  moment,  for  a  prettier  picture  than  that  before 
him  an  artist  could  scarce  have  thrown  together.  The 
inequalities  of  the  floor  of  the  abbey  provided  a  mossy 
table  for  every  two  or  three  of  the  gayly-dressed  ladies, 
and  there  they  reclined  in  small  and  graceful  groups, 
their  white  dresses  relieved  on  the  luxuriant  grass, 
and  between  them,  half  buried  in  moss,  the  sparkling 
glasses  full  of  bright  wines,  and  an  air  of  ease  and 
grace  over  all,  which  could  belong  only  to  the  two 
extremes  of  Arcadian  simplicity,  or  its  high-bred  im 
itation.  We  amused  ourselves  with  the  idea  of  ap 
pearing,  some  six  months  after,  in  the  middle  ground 
of  a  landscape,  in  a  picturesque  annual  ;  and  I  am 
afraid  that  I  detected,  on  the  first  suggestion  of  the 
idea,  a  little  unconscious  attitudinizing  in  some  of  the 
younger  members  of  the  party.  It  was  proposed  that 
the  artist  should  be  invited  to  take  wine  with  us  ;  but 
as  a  rosy-cheeked  page  donned  his  gold  hat  to  carry 
our  compliments,  the  busy  draughtsman  was  joined 
by  one  or  two  ladies  not  quite  so  attractive-looking  as 
himself,  but  evidently  of  his  own  party,  and  our  mes 
senger  was  recalled.  Sequitur — they  who  would  find 
adventure  should  travel  alone. 

The  monastic  ruins  of  England  derive  a  very  pecu 
liar  and  touching  beauty  from  the  bright  veil  of  ivy 
which  almost  buries  them  from  the  sun.  This  con 
stant  and  affectionate  mourner  draws  from  the  moist 
ure  of  the  climate  a  vividness  and  luxuriance  which  is 
found  in  no  other  land.  Hence  the  remarkable  love 
liness  of  Netley — a  quality  which  impresses  the  visit- 
ers  to  this  spot,  far  more  than  the  melancholy  usually 
inspired  by  decay. 

Our  gayety  shocked  some  of  the  sentimental  people 
rambling  about  the  ruins,  for  it  is  difficult  for  those 
who  have  not  dined  to  sympathize  with  the  mirth  of 
those  who  have.  How  often  we  mistake  for  sadness 
the  depression  of  an  empty  stomach !  How  differently 
authors  and  travellers  would  write,  if  they  commenced 
the  day,  instead  of  ending  it,  with  meats  and  wine!  I 
was  led  to  these  reflections  by  coming  suddenly  upon 
i  young  lady  and  her  companion  (possibly  her  lover), 
n  climbing  a  ruined  staircase  sheathed  within  the 
wall  of  the  abbey.  They  were  standing  at  one  of  the 
windows,  quite  unconscious  of  my  neighborhood,  and 
looking  down  upon  the  gay  party  of  ladies  below,  who 
were  still  amid  the  debris  of  the  feast  arranging  their 
bonnets  for  a  walk. 

1  What  a  want  of  soul,"  said  the  lady,  "to  be  eat 
ing  and  drinking  in  such  a  place !" 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


203 


"Some  people  have  no  souls,"  responded  the  gentle 
man. 

After  this  verdict,  I  thought  the  best  thing  I  could 
do  was  to  take  care  of  my  body,  and  I  very  carefully 
backed  down  the  old  staircase,  which  is  probably  more 
hazardous  now  than  in  the  days  when  it  was  used  to 
admit  damsels  and  haunches  of  venison  to  the  reverend 
fathers. 

I  reached  the  bottom  in  safety,  and  informed  my 
friends  that  they  had  no  souls,  but  they  manifested 
the  usual  unconcern  on  the  subject,  and  strolled  away 
through  the  echoing  arches,  in  search  of  new  points 
of  view  and  fresh  wild-flowers.  "  Commend  me  at 
least,"  I  thought,  as  1  followed  on,  "to  those  whose 
pulses  can  be  quickened  even  by  a  cold  pie  and  a  glass 
of  champagne.  Sadness  and  envy  are  sown  thickly 
enough  by  any  wayside." 

We  were  embarked  once  more  by  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon,  and  with  a  head  wind,  but  smooth  water  and 
cool  temperature,  beat  back  to  Ryde.  If  the  young 
lady  and  her  lover  have  forgiven  or  forgotten  us,  and 
the  ghosts  of  Netley,  frocked  or  petticoated,  have 
taken  no  umbrage,  1  have  not  done  amiss  in  marking 
the  day  with  a  stone  of  the  purest  white.  How  much 
more  sensible  is  a  party  like  this,  in  the  open  air,  and 
at  healthy  hours,  than  the  untimely  and  ceremonious 
civilities  usually  paid  to  strangers.  If  the  world  would 
mend  by  moralising,  however,  we  should  have  had  a 
Utopia  long  ago. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

COMPARISON      OF     THE     CLIMATK     OF     EUROPE     AND 
AMERICA. 

ONE  of  Hazlitt's  nail-driving  remarks  is  to  the  effect 
that  he  should  like  very  well  to  pass  the  whole  of  his  life 
in  travelling,  if  he  could  anywhere  borrow  another  life 
to  spend  afterward  at  home.  How  far  action  is  neces 
sary  to  happiness,  and  how  far  repose — how  far  the 
appetite  for  novelty  and  adventure  will  drive,  and  how 
far  the  attractions  of  home  and  domestic  comfort  will 
recall  us — in  short,  what  are  the  precise  exactions  of 
the  antagonist  principles  in  our  bosoms  of  curiosity 
and  sloth,  energy  and  sufferance,  hope  and  memory — 
are  questions  which  each  one  must  settle  for  himself, 
and  which  none  can  settle  but  he  who  has  passed  his 
life  in  the  eternal  and  fruitless  search  alter  the  happi 
est  place,  climate,  and  station. 

Contentment  depends  upon  many  things  within  our 
own  control,  but,  with  a  certain  education,  it  depends 
partly  upon  things  beyond  it.  To  persons  delicately 
constituted  or  delicately  brought  up,  and  to  all  idle 
persons,  the  principal  ingredient  in  the  cup  of  ^enjoy- 
ment  is  climate  ;  and  Providence,  that  consults  '•  the 
greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number,"  has  made 
the  poor  and  the  roughly-nurtured  independent  of  the 
changes  of  the  wind.  Those  who  have  the  misfortune 
to  be  delicate  as  well  as  poor — those,  particularly,  for 
whom  there  is  no  hope  but  in  a  change  of  clime,  but 
whom  pitiless  poverty  compels  to  languish  in  vain 
after  the  reviving  south,  are  happily  few  ;  but  they 
have  thus  much  more  than  their  share  of  human  ca 
lamity. 

In  throwing  together  my  recollections  of  the  cli 
mates  with  which  1  have  become  acquainted  in  other 
lands,  I  am  aware  that  there  is  a  greater  difference  of 
opinion  on  this  subject  than  on  most  others.  A  man 
who  has  agreeable  society  about  him  in  Montreal,  but 
who  was  without  friends  in  Florence,  would  be  very 
likely  to  brin^  the  climate  in  for  its  share  of  the  dif 
ference,  and  prefer  Canada  to  Italy;  and  health  and 
circumstances  of  all  kinds  affect,  in  no  slight  degree, 
ovr  susceptibility  to  skies  and  atmosphere.  But  it  is 


sometimes  interesting  to  know  the  impressions  of  oth 
ers,  even  though  they  agree  not  with  our  own  ;  and  I 
will  only  say  of  mine  on  this  subject,  that  they  are  so 
far  likely  to  be  fair,  as  I  have  been  blessed  with  the 
same  perfect  health  in  all  countries,  and  have  been 
happy  alike  in  every  latitude  and  season. 

It  is  almost  a  matter  of  course  to  decry  the  climate 
of  England.     The  English  writers  themselves  talk  of 
i  the  suicidal  months  ;  and  it  is  the  only  country  where 
I  part  of  the  livery  of  a  mounted   groom  is  his  master's 
1  great-coat  strapped  about  his  waist.     It  is  certainly  a 
\  damp  climate,  and  the  sun  shines  less  in  England  than 
i  in  most  other  countries.     But  to  persons  of  full  habit 
this  moisture  in  the  air  is  extremely  agreeable  ;  and 
]  the  high  condition  of  all   animals  in  England,  from 
!  man  downward,   proves  its  healthfulness.     A  stranger 
who   has   been   accustomed  to  a  brighter  sky,  will,  at 
j  first,  find  a  gloom  in  the  gray  light  so  characteristic  of 
an  English  atmosphere;   but  this  soon  wears  off,  and 
;  he  finds  a   compensation,   as  far  as  the  eye  is  con- 
!  cerned,  in  the  exquisite  softness  of  the  verdure,  and 
I   the  deep  and  enduring  brightness  of  the  foliage.    The 
i  effect  of  this  moisture  on  the  skin  is  singularly  grate- 
1  ful.     The  pores  become  accustomed  to  a  healthy  ac 
tion,  which  is  unknown  in  other  countries ;  and  the 
bloom  by  which  an  English  complexion  is  known  all 
over  the  world  is  the  index  of  an  activity  in  this  im 
portant  part  of  the  system,  which,  when  first  experi 
enced,  is  almost  like  a  new  sensation.     The  transition 
to  a  dry  climate,  such  as  ours,  deteriorates  the  condi 
tion  and  quality  of  the  skin,  and  produces  a  feeling, 
if  I  may  so  express  it,  like  that  of  being  glazed.     It  is 
a  common  remark  in  England,  that  an  officer's  wife 
and  daughters  follow  his  regiment  to  Canada  at  the 
expense  of  their  complexions  ;  and  it  is  a  well-known 
fact  that  the  bloom  of  female  beauty  is,  in  our  coun 
try,  painfully  evanescent. 

The  climate  of  America  is,  in  many  points,  very 
different  from  that  of  France  and  Great  Britain.  In 
the  middle  and  northern  states,  it  is  a  dry,  invigora 
ting,  bracing  climate,  in  which  a  strong  man  may  do 
more  work  than  in  almost  any  other,  and  which  makes 
continual  exercise,  or  occupation  of  some  sort,  abso 
lutely  necessary.  With  the  exception  of  the  "Indian 
summer,"  and  here  and  there  a  day  scattered  through 
i  the  spring  and  the  hot  months,  there  is  no  weather 
:  tempered  so  finely  that  one  would  think  of  passing 
the  day  in  merely  enjoying  it,  and  life  is  passed,  by 
1  those  who  have  the  misfortune  to  be  idle,  in  continual 
and  active  dread  of  the  elements.  The  cold  is  so 
acrid,  and  the  heat  so  sultry,  and  the  changes  from 
one  to  the  other  are  so  sudden  and  violent,  that  no 
enjoyment  can  be  depended  upon  out-of-doors,  and 
no  system  of  clothing  or  protection  is  good  for  a  day 
together.  He  who  has  full  occupation  for  head  and 
hand  (as  by  far  the  greatest  majority  of  our  country 
men  have)  jnay  live  as  long  in  America  as  in  any  por 
tion  of  the  globe — vide  the  bills  of  mortality.  He 
whose  spirits  lean  upon  the  temperature  of  the  wind, 
or  whose  nerves  require  a  genial  and  constant  atmo 
sphere,  may  find  more  favorable  climes  ;  and  the  hab 
its  and  delicate  constitutions  of  scholars  and  people 
of  sedentary  pursuits  generally,  in  the  United  States, 
prove  the  truth  of  the  observation. 

The  habit  of  regular  exercise  in  the  open  air,  which 
is  found  to  be  so  salutary  in  England,  is  scarcely  pos 
sible  in  America.  It  is  said,  and  said  truly,  of  the 
first,  that  there  is  no  day  in  the  year  when  a  lady  may 
not  ride  comfortably  on  horseback  ;  but  with  us,  the 
extremes  of  heat  and  cold,  and  the  tempestuous  char 
acter  of  our  snows  and  rains,  totally  forbid,  to  a  deli 
cate  person,  anything  like  regularity  in  exercise.  The 
consequence  is,  that  the  habit  rarely  exists,  and  the 
high  and  glowing  health  so  common  in  England,  and 
consequent,  no  doubt,  upon  the  equable  character  of 
the  climate  in  some  measure,  is  with  us  sufficiently 


204 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


rare  to  excite  remark.  "  Very  English-looking,"  is  a 
common  phrase,  and  means  very  healthy-looking. 
Still  our  people  last — and  though  I  should  define  the 
English  climate  as  the  one  in  which  the  human  frame 
is  in  the  highest  condition,  t  should  say  of  America, 
that  it  is  the  one  in  which  you  could  get  the  most 
work  out  of  it. 

Atmosphere,  in  England  and  America,  is  the  first 
of  the  necessaries  of  life.  In  Italy,  it  is  the  first  of  its 
luxuries.  We  breathe  in  America,  and  walk  abroad, 
without  thinking  of  these  common  acts  but  as  a  means 
of  arriving  at  happiness.  In  Italy,  to  breathe  and  to 
walk  abroad  are  themselves  happiness.  Day  after  day 
— week  after  week — month  after  month — you  wake 
with  the  breath  of  flowers  coming  in  at  your  open 
window,  and  a  sky  of  serene  and  unfathomable  blue, 
and  mornings  and  evenings  of  tranquil,  assured,  heav 
enly  purity  and  beauty.  The  few  weeks  of  the  rainy 
season  are  forgotten  in  these  long  halcyon  months  of 
sunshine.  No  one  can  have  lived  in  Italy  a  year,  who 
remembers  anything  but  the  sapphire  sky  and  the 
kindling  and  ever-seen  stars.  You  grow  insensibly  to 
associate  the  sunshine  and  moonlight  only  with  the 
fountain  you  have  lived  near,  or  the  columns  of  the 
temple  you  have  seen  from  your  window,  for  on  no 
objects  in  other  lands  have  you  seen  their  light  so 
constant. 

I  scarce  know  how  to  convey,  in  language,  the  effect 
of  the  climate  of  Italy  on  mind  and  body.  Sitting 
here,  indeed,  in  the  latitude  of  thirty-nine,  in  the 
middle  of  April,  by  a  warm  fire,  and  with  a  cold  wind 
whistling  at  the  window,  it  is  difficult  to  recall  it,  even 
to  the  fancy.  I  do  not  know  whether  life  is  pro 
longed,  but  it  is  infinitely  enriched  and  brightened,  by 
the  delicious  atmosphere  of  Italy.  You  rise  in  the 
morning,  thanking  Heaven  for  life  and  liberty  to  go 
abroad.  There  is  a  sort  of  opi;ite  in  the  air,  which 
makes  idleness,  that  would  be  the  vulture  of  Prome 
theus  in  America,  the  dove  of  promise  in  Italy.  It  is 
delicious  to  do  nothing — delicious  to  stand  an  hour 
looking  at  a  Savoyard  and  his  monkey — delicious  to 
sit  away  the  long,  silent  noon,  in  the  shade  of  a  col 
umn,  or  on  the  grass  of  a  fountain — delicious  to  be 
with  a  friend  without  the  interchange  of  an  idea — to 
dabble  in  a  book,  or  look  into  the  cup  of  a  flower. 
You  do  not  read,  for  you  wish  to  enjoy  the  weather. 
You  do  not  visit,  for  you  hate  to  enter  a  door  while 
the  weather  is  so  fine.  You  lie  down  unwillingly  for 
your  siesta  in  the  hot  noon,  for  you  fear  you  may 
oversleep  the  first  coolness  of  the  long  shadows  of 
sunset.  The  fancy,  meantime,  is  free,  and  seems  lib 
erated  by  the  same  languor  that  enervates  the  severer 
faculties ;  and  nothing  seems  fed  by  the  air  but 
thoughts,  which  minister  to  enjoyment. 

The  climate  of  Greece  is  very  much  that  of  Italy. 
The  Mediterranean  is  all  beloved  of  the  sun.  Life 
has  a  value  there,  of  which  the  rheumatic,  shivering, 
snow-breasting,  blue-devilled  idler  of  northern  regions 
has  no  shadow,  even  in  a  dream.  No  wonder  Dante 
mourned  and  languished  for  it.  No  wonder  at  the 
sentiment  I  once  heard  from  distinguished  lips — Fuori 
d?  Italia  tutto  e.  esiiio. 

This  appears  like  describing  a  Utopia  ;  but  it  is 
tvhat  Italy  seemed  to  me.  I  have  expressed  myself 
much  more  to  my  mind,  however,  in  rhyme,  for  a 
prose  essay  is,  at  best,  but  a  cold  medium. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

"  OWE-P'UN'-FIVE  outside,  sir,  two  p'un'  in." 
It  was  a  bright,  calm  afternoon  in  September,  prom 
ising  nothing  but  a  morrow  of  sunshine  and  autumn, 


!  when  I  stepped  in  at  the  '•  White  Horse  Cellar,"  in 
|  Piccadilly,  to  take  my  place  in  the  Tantivy  coach  for 
Stratford-on-Avon.  Preferring  the  outside  of  the 
coach,  at  least  by  as  much  as  the  difference  in  the 
prices,  and  accustomed  from  long  habit  to  pay  dearest 
for  that  which  most  pleased  me,  I  wrote  myself  down 
for  the  outside,  and  deposited  my  two  pounds  in  the 
horny  palm  of  the  old  ex-coachman,  retired  from  the 
box,  and  playing  clerk  in  this  dingy  den  of  parcels  and 
|  portmanteaus.  Supposing  my  business  concluded,  I 
stood  a  minute  speculating  on  the  weather-beaten, 
cramp-handed  old  Jehu  before  me,  and  trying  to  rec 
oncile  his  ideas  of  "retirement  from  office"  with  those 
of  his  almost  next  door  neighbor,  the  hero  of  Strath- 
fieldsaye. 

I  had  mounted  the  first  stair  toward  daylight,  when 
a  touch  on  the  shoulder  with  the  end  of  a  long  whip 
— a  technical  "reminder,"  which  probably  came  easier 
to  the  old  driver  than  the  phrasing  of  a  sentence  to  a 
"  gemman" — recalled  me  to  the  cellar. 

"  Fifteen  shillin',  sir,"  said  he  laconically,  pointing 
with  the  same  expressive  exponent  of  his  profession 
to  the  change  for  my  outside  place,  which  1  had  left 
lying  on  the  counter. 

"  You  are  at  least  as  honest  as  the  duke,"  I  solilo 
quised,  as  I  pocketed  the  six  bright  and  substantial 
half-crowns. 

I  was  at  the  "  White  Horse  Cellar"  again  the  fol 
lowing  morning  at  six,  promising  myself  with  great 
sincerity  never  to  rely  again  on  the  constancy  of  an 
English  sky.  It  rained  in  torrents.  The  four  inside 
places  were  all  taken,  and  with  twelve  fellow-outsides, 
J  mounted  to  the  wet  seat,  and  begging  a  little  straw 
by  way  of  cushion  from  the  ostler,  spread  my  um 
brella,  abandoned  my  knees  with  a  single  effort  of 
mind  to  the  drippings  of  the  driver's  weather-proof 
upper  Benjcim^i,  and  away  we  sped.  I  was  "due"  at 
the  house  of  a  hospitable  catholic  baronet,  a  hundred 
and  two  miles  from  London,  at  the  dinner-hour  of  that 
day,  and  to  wait  till  it  had  done  raining  in  England  is 
to  expect  the  millennium. 

London  in  the  morning — I  mean  the  poor  man's 
morning,  daylight — is  to  me  matter  for  the  most 
speculative  and  intense  melancholy.  Hyde  park  in 
the  sunshine  of  a  bright  afternoon,  glittering  with 
equipages  and  gay  with  the  Aladdin  splendors  of  rank 
and  wealth,  is  a  scene  which  sends  the  mercurial  quali 
ties  of  the  blood  trippingly  through  the  veins.  But 
Hyde  park  at  daylight  seen  from  Piccadilly  through 
fog  and  rain,  is  perhaps,  of  all  contrasts,  to  one  who 
has  frequented  it  in  its  bright  hours,  the  most  dispirit 
ing  and  dreary.  To  remember  that  behind  the  barri 
caded  and  wet  windows  of  Apsley  house  sleeps  the 
hero  of  Waterloo — that  under  these  crowded  and  fog- 
wrapped  houses  lie,  in  their  dim  chambers  breathing 
of  perfume  and  luxury,  the  high-born  and  nobly- 
moulded  creatures  who  preserve  for  the  aristocracy 
of  England  the  palm  of  the  world's  beauty — to  remem 
ber  this,  and  a  thousand  other  associations  linked  with 
the  spot,  is  not  at  all  to  diminish,  but  rather  to  deepen, 
the  melancholy  of  the  picture.  Why  is  it  that  the 
deserted  stage  of  a  theatre,  the  echo  of  an  empty  ball 
room,  the  loneliness  of  a  frequented  promenade  in 
untimely  hours — any  scene,  in  short,  of  gayety  gone 
by  but  remembered — oppresses  and  dissatisfies  the 
heart !  One  would  think  memory  should  re-brighten 
and  re-populate  such  places. 

The  wheels  hissed  through  the  shallow  pools  in  the 
Macadam  road,  the  regular  pattering  of  the  small 
hoofs  in  the  wet  carriage-tracks  maintained  its  quick 
and  monotonous  beat  on  the  ear ;  the  silent  driver  kept 
his  eye  on  the  traces,  and  "reminded"  now  and  then 
with  but  the  weight  of  his  slight  lash  a  lagging  wheeler 
or  leader,  and  the  complicated  but  compact  machine 
of  which  the  square  foot  that  I  occupied  had  been  so 
nicely  calculated,  sped  on  its  ten  miles  in  the  hour 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


205 


with  the  steadfastness  of  a  star  in  its  orbit,  aud  as  in 
dependent  of  clouds  and  rain. 

"_Es<  ce  (/ne  monsieur  parle  Francois  1"  asked  at  the 
end  of  the  first  st:ige  my  right-hand  neighbor,  a  little 
gentleman,  of  whom  I  had  hitherto  only  remarked  that 
he  was  holding  on  to  the  iron  railing  of  the  seat  with 
great  tenacity. 

Having  admitted  in  an  evil  moment  that  I  had  been 
in  France,  I  was  first  distinctly  made  to  understand  j 
that  my  neighbor  was  on  his  way  to  Birmingham 
purely  far  pleasure,  and  without  the  most  distant  ob 
ject  of  business — a  point  on  which  he  insisted  so  long, 
and  recurred  to  so  often,  that  he  succeeded  at  last  in 
persuading  me  that  he  was  doubtless  a  candidate  for 
the  French  clerkship  of  some  exporter  of  buttons. 
After  listening  to  an  amusing  dissertation  on  the  rash 
ness  of  committing  one's  life  to  an  English  stage 
coach,  with  scarce  room  enough  for  the  perch  of  a 
parrot,  and  a  velocity  so  diablemcnt  dangcrcux,  I  tired 
of  my  Frenchman  ;  and,  since  I  could  not  have  my 
own  thoughts  in  peace,  opened  a  conversation  with  a 
straw-bonnet  and  shawl  on  my  left — the  property,  I 
soon  discovered,  of  a  very  smart  lady's  maid,  very  in 


dignant  at  having  been  made  to  change  places  with         "  The  carriage  has  been  waiting  some  time  for  you, 
Master  George,  who,  with  his  mother  and  her  mistress,   i  sir,"  s 


should  be  the  landlady.  Having  expected  to  see  a 
rosy  little  Mrs.  Boniface,  with  a  brown  pinafore  and 
worsted  mittens,  I  made  up  my  mind  at  once  that  the 
inn  had  changed  mistresses.  On  the  right  of  the  old- 
fashioned  entrance  blaeed  cheerily  the  kitchen  fire, 
and  with  my  enthusiasm  rather  dashed  by  my  disap 
pointment,  I  stepped  in  to  make  friends  with  the  cook, 
and  get  a  little  warmth  and  information. 

"  So  your  old  mistress  is  dead,  Mrs.  Cook,"  said  I, 
rubbing  my  hands  with  great  satisfaction  between  the 
fire  and  a  well-roasted  chicken. 

"  Lank,  sir,  no,  she  isn't  !"  answered  the  rosy  lass, 
pointing  with  a  dredging-box  to  the  same  respectable 
lady  in  black  who  was  just  entering  to  look  after  me. 

"I  beg  pardon,  sir,"  she  said,  dropping  a  cour 
tesy  ;  "  but  are  you  the  gentleman  expected  by  Sir 
Charles ?" 

"Yes,  madam.  And  can  you  tell  me  anything  of 
your  predecessor  who  had  the  inn  in  the  days  of 
Washington  Irving?" 

She  dropped  another  courtesy,  and  drew  up  her 
thin  person  to  its  full  height,  while  a  smile  of  gratified 
vanity  stole  out  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 


ere  dry  and  comfortable  inside.  She  "would  not 
have  minded  the  outside  place,1'  she  said,  "  for  there 
were  sometimes  very  agreeable  gentlemen  on  the  out 
side,  very  ! — but  she  had  been  promised  to  go  inside, 
and  had  dressed  accordingly  ;  and  it  was  very  pro 
voking  to  spoil  a  nice  new  shawl  and  best  bonnet,  just 
because  a  great  school-boy,  that  had  nothing  on  that 
would  damage  chose  not  to  ride  in  the  rain." 

"  Very  provoking,  indeed  !"  I  responded,  letting  in 
the  rain  upon  myself  unconsciously,  in  extending  my  i 
umbrella  forward  so  as  to  protect  her  on  the  side  of 
the  wind. 

"  We  should  have  gone  down  in  the  carriage,  sir,"  j 
she  continued,  edging  a  little  closer  to  get  the  full  ad 
vantage  of  my  umbrella  ;   "  but  John  the  coachman 
has  got  the  hinfluenzy,  and  my  missis  wo'n't  be  driven 


he  said,  with  a  softer  tone  than  that  in  which 
.he  had  hitherto  addressed  me;   "  and  you  will  hardly 

j  be  at  C in  time  for  dinner.     You  will  be  coming 

over  to-morrow  or  the  day  after,  perhaps,  sir;  and 
then,  if  you  would  honor  my  little  room  by  taking  a 
cup  of  tea  with  me,  I  should  be  pleased  to  tell  you  all 
about  it,  sir." 

I  remembered  a  promise   I   had   nearly  forgotten, 
that  I  would  reserve  my  visit  to  Stratford  till  I  could 

be   accompanied  by  Miss  J.  P ,  whom  I  was  to 

have  the  honor  of  meeting  at  my  place  of  destina 


and  promising  an  early  acceptance  of  the  kind  land 
lady's  invitation,  I  hurried  on  to  my  appointment  over 
the  fertile  hills  of  Warwickshire. 

I  was  established  in  one  of  those  old  Elizabethan 
country-houses,  which,  with  their  vast  parks,  their 
self-sufficing  resources  of  subsistence  and  company, 

by  no  other  coachma'n  ;  she's"  as  obstinate  as  a  mule,  j  and  the  absolute  deference  shown  on  all  sides  to  the 
sir.  And  that  isn't  all  I  could  tell,  sir;  but  I  scorns  |  lord  of  the  manor,  give  one  the  impression  rather  of  a 
to  hurt  the  character  of  one  of  my  own  sex."  And  j  little  kingdom  with  a  castle  in  its  heart,  than  of  an 
the  pretty  abigail  pursed  up  her  red  lips,  and  looked  j  abode  for  a  gentleman  subject.  The  house  itself 
determined  not  to  destroy  her  mistress's  character —  (called,  like  most  houses  of  this  size  and  consequence 

in  Warwickshire,  a  "  Court,")  was  a  Gothic,  half- 
castellated  square,  with  four  round  towers,  and  in 
numerable  embrasures  and  windows;  two  wings  in 
front,  probably  more  modern  than  the  body  of  the 
house,  and  again  two  long  wings  extending  to  the  rear, 
at  right  angles,  and  enclosing  a  flowery  and  formal 
parterre.  There  had  been  a  trench  about  it,  now 


unless  particularly  requested. 

I  detest  what  may  be  called  a  proper  road-book — 
even  would  it  be  less  absurd  than  it  is  to  write  one  on 
a  country  so  well  conned  as  England. 

I  shall  say  nothing,  therefore,  of  Marlow,  which 
looked  the  picture  of  rural  loveliness  though  seen 
through  fog,  nor  of  Oxford,  of  which  all  I  remembe 


is  that   I  dined  there  with  my  teeth  chattering,  and 
lin.     All  England  is  lovely 


filled  up,  and  at  a  short  distance  from  the  house  stood 
a  polyangular  and  massive  structure,  well  calculated 
for  defence,  and  intended  as  a  strong-hold  for  the  re- 


my  knees  saturated  with  rain. 

to  the  wild  eye  of  an  American  unused  to  high  cukiva-  j 

tion  ;  and  though  my  enthusiasm  was  somewtiat  damp,  |j  treat  of  the  family  and  tenants  in  more  troubled  times. 

I  arrived  at  the  Abridge  over  the  Avon,  blessing  England  ;j  One  of  these  rear  wings  enclosed  a  catholic  chapel, 

sufficiently  for  its  beauty,  and  much  more  for  the  speed  1 1  for  the  worship  of  the  baronet  and  those  of  his  tenants 

of  its  coaches. 

The  Avon,  above  and  below  the  bridge,  ran  brightly 
along  between  low  banks,  half  sward,  half  meadow  ; 


who  professed  the  same  faith  ;  while  on  the  northern 
I  side,  between  the  house  and  the  garden,  stood  a  large 
protestant  stone  church,  with  a  turret  and  spire,  both 


and  on  the  other  side  lay  the  native  town  of  the  im-  |  chapel  and  church,  with  the 


clergyman  and  priest, 
favored   by  the 


mortal  wool-comber— a  gay  cheerful-looking  village,  i[  dependant  on  the  estate,  and   equally  favor 
narrowing  in  the  centre  to  a  closely-built  street,  across  ;  liberal  and  high-minded  baronet.     The  tenantry  torm- 

ed  two  considerable  congregations,  and  lived  and  wor- 
shipped  side  by  side,  with  the  most  perfect  harmony 

an  instance  of  real  Christianity,  in  my  opinion,  which 

the  angels  of  heaven  might  come  down  to  see.  A 
lovely  rural  graveyard  for  the  lord  and  tenants,  and  a 
secluded  lake  below  the  garden,  in  which  hundreds  of 
wild  ducks  swam  and  screamed  unmolested,  completed 

the  outward  features  of  C court. 

There  are  noble  houses  in  England,  with  a  door 
communicating  from  the  dining-room  to  the  stables, 
that  the  master  and  his  friends  may  see  their  favorites, 


which  swung,  broad  and  fair,  the  sign  of  the  "  Red  : 
horse."  More  ambitious  hotels  lay  beyond,  and  '. 
broader  streets  ;  but  while  Washington  Irving  is  re 
membered  (and  that  will  be  while  the  language  lasts),  j 
the  quiet  inn  in  which  the  great  Geoffrey  thought 
and  wrote  of  Shakspere  will  be  the  altar  of  the  pil-  • 
grim's  devotions. 

My  baggage  was  set  down,  the  coachman  and  guard 

tipped  their  hats  for  a  shilling,  and,  chilled  to  the  bone, 

I  raised  my  hat  instinctively  to  the  courtesy  of  a  slender 

gentlewoman  in  black,  who,  by  the  keys  at  her  girdle, 

14 


206 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


after  dinner,  without  exposure  to  the  weather.  In  the 
place  of  this  rather  bizarre  luxury,  the  oak-panelled 

and  spacious  dining-hall  of  C is  on  a  level  with 

the  organ  loft  of  the  chapel,  and  when  the  cloth  is  re 
moved,  the  large  door  between  is  thrown  open,  and 
the  noble  instrument  pours  the  rich  and  thrilling 
music  of  vespers  through  the  rooms.  When  the 
service  is  concluded,  and  the  lights  on  the  altar  ex 
tinguished,  the  blind  organist  (an  accomplished  musi 
cian,  and  a  tenant  on  the  estate),  continues  his  volun 
taries  in  the  dark  until  the  hall-door  informs  him  of 
the  retreat  of  the  company  to  the  drawing-room. 
There  is  not  only  refinement  and  luxury  in  this 
beautiful  arrangement,  but  food  for  the  soul  and 
heart. 

I  chose  my  room  from  among  the  endless  vacant 
but  equally  luxurious  chambers  of  the  rambling  old 
house  ;  my  preference  solely  directed  by  the  portrait 
of  a  nun,  one  of  the  family  in  ages  gone  by — a  picture 
full  of  melancholy  beauty,  which  hung  opposite  the 
window.  The  face  was  distinguished  by  all  that  in 
England  marks  the  gentlewoman  of  ancient  and  pure 
descent ;  and  while  it  was  a  woman  with  the  more 
tender  qualities  of  her  sex  breathing  through  her  fea 
tures,  it  was  still  a  lofty  and  sainted  sister,  true  to  her 
cross,  and  sincere  in  her  vows  and  seclusion.  It  was 
the  work  of  a  master,  probably  Vandyke,  and  a  picture 
in  which  the  most  solitary  man  would  find  company 
and  communion.  On  the  other  walls,  and  in  most  of 
the  other  rooms  and  corridors,  were  distributed  por 
traits  of  the  gentlemen  and  soldiers  of  the  family,  most 
of  them  bearing  some  resemblance  to  the  nun,  but 
differing,  as  brothers  in  those  wild  times  may  be  sup 
posed  to  have  differed,  from  the  gentle  creatures  of  the 
blood,  nursed  in  the  privacy  of  peace. 


CHAPTER  X. 

VISIT    TO    STRATFORD-ON-AVON SHAKSPERE. 

ONE  of  the  first  visits  in  the  neighborhood  was  nat 
urally  to  Stratford-on-Avon.  It  lay  some  ten  miles 
south  of  us,  and  I  drove  down,  with  the  distinguished 
literary  friend  I  have  before  mentioned,  in  the  car 
riage  of  our  kind  host,  securing,  by  the  presence  of 
his  servants  and  equipage,  a  degree  of  respect  and  at 
tention  which  would  not  have  been  accorded  to  us  in 
our  simple  character  of  travellers.  The  prim  mistress 
of  the  "Red  Horse,"  in  her  close  black  bonnet  and 
widow's  weeds,  received  us  at  the  door  with  a  deeper 
courtesy  than  usual,  and  a  smile  of  less  wintry  formal 
ity;  and  proposing  to  dine  at  the  inn,  and  "suck  the 
brain"  of  the  hostess  more  at  our  leisure,  we  started 
immediately  for  the  house  of  the  wool-comber — the 
birthplace  of  Shakspere. 

Stratford  should  have  been  forbidden  ground  to 
builders,  masons,  shopkeepers,  and  generally  to  all 
people  of  thrift  and  whitewash.  It  is  now  rather  a 
smart  town,  with  gay  calicoes,  shawls  of  the  last  pat 
tern,  hardware,  and  millinery,  exhibited  in  all  their 
splendor  down  the  widened  and  newer  streets ;  and 
though  here  and  there  remains  a  glorious  old  gloomy 
and  inconvenient  abode,  which  looks  as  if  Shakspere 
might  have  taken  shelter  under  its  eaves,  the  gayer 
features  of  the  town  have  the  best  of  it,  and  flaunt  their 
gaudy  and  unrespected  newness  in  the  very  windows 
of  that  immortal  birthplace.  I  stepped  into  a  shop  to 
inquire  the  way  to  it. 

"Shiksper's  'ouse,  sir?  Yes,  sir!"  said  a  dapper 
clerk,  with  his  hair  astonished  into  the  most  impossi 
ble  directions  by  force  of  brushing;  "keep  to  the 
right,  sir !  Shiksper  lived  in  the  wife  'ouse,  sir — the 
'ouse,  you  see  beyond,  with  the  windy  swung  up,  sir." 

A  low,  old-fashioned  house,  with  a  window  sus- 


pended  on  a  hinge,  newly  whitewashed  and  scrubbed, 
stood  a  little  up  the  street.  A  sign  over  the  door  in 
formed  us  in  an  inflated  paragraph,  that  the  immortal 
Will  Shakspere  was  born  under  this  roof,  and  that  an 
old  woman  within  would  show  it  to  us  for  a  considera 
tion.  It  had  been  used  until  very  lately,  I  had  been 
told,  for  a  butcher's  shop. 

A  "garrulous  old  lady"  met  us  at  the  bottom  of  the 
narrow  stair  leading  to  the  second  floor,  and  began — 
not  to  say  anything  of  Shakspere — but  to  show  us  the 
names  of  Byron,  Moore,  Rogers,  &c.,  written  among 
thousands  of  others  on  the  wall!  She  had  worn  out 
Shakspere  !  She  had  told  that  story  till  she  was  tired 
of  it!  or  (what,  perhaps,  is  more  probable)  most 
people  who  go  there  fall  to  reading  the  names  of  the 
visiters  so  industriously,  that  she  has  grown  to  think 
some  of  Shakspere's  pilgrims  greater  than  Shakspere. 
"Was  this  old  oaken  chest  here  in  the  days  of 
Shakspere,  madam?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,  and  here's  the  name  of  Byron — here  with 
a  capital  B.  Here's  a  curiosity,  sir." 
"And  this  small  wooden  box?" 
"Made  of  Shakspere's  mulberry,  sir.  I  had  sich  a 
time  about  that  box,  sir.  Two  young  gemrnen  were 
here  the  other  day — just  run  up,  while  the  coach  was 
changing  horses,  to  see  the  house.  As  soon  as  they 
were  gone  I  misses  the  box.  Oft' scuds  my  son  to  the 
'  Red  Horse,'  and  there  they  sat  on  the  top  looking  as 
innocent  as  may  be.  '  Stop  the  coach,'  says  my  son. 
'  What  do  you  want  ?'  says  the  driver.  '  My  mother's 
mulberry-box  ! — Shakspere's  mulberry-box  ! — One  of 
them  'ere  young  men's  got  it  in  his  pocket.'  And 
true  enough,  sir,  one  on  'em  had  the  imperence  to 
take  it  out  of  his  pocket,  and  flings  it  into  my  son's 
face  ;  and  you  know  the  coach  never  stops  a  minnit  for 
nothing,  sir,  or  he'd  a'  smarted  for  it." 

Spirit  of  Shakspere  !  dost  thou  not  sometimes  walk 

alone  in  this  humble  chamber !     Must  one's  inmost 

soul  be  fretted  and  frighted  always  from  its  devotion 

by  an  abominable  old  woman  ?     Why  should  not  such 

lucrative  occupations  be  given  in  charity  to  the  deaf 

I  and  dumb  ?     The  pointing  of  a  finger  were  enough  in 

i  such  spots  of  earth  ! 

I  sat  down  in  despair  to  look  over  the  book  of  visit- 
i  era,  trusting  that  she  would  tire  of  my  inattention. 
As  it  was  of  no  use  to  point  out  names  to  those  who 
!  would  not  look,  however,  she  commenced  a  long  story 
i  of  an  American  who  had  lately  taken  the  whim  to 
|  sleep  in  Shakspere's  birth-chamber.  She  had  shaken 
i  him  down  a  bed  on  the  floor,  and  he  had  passed  the 
i  night  there.  It  seemed  to  bother  her  to  comprehend 
j  why  two  thirds  of  her  visitors  should  be  Americans — • 
j  a  circumstance  that  was  abundantly  proved  by  the 
books. 

It  was  only  when  we  were  fairly  in  the  street  that  I 
began  to  realize  that  I  had  seen  one  of  the  most  glori 
ous  altars  of  memory — that  deathless  Will  Shakspere, 
the  mortal,  who  was,  perhaps  (not  to  speak  profanely), 
next  to  his  Maker,  in  the  divine  faculty  of  creation, 
first  saw  the  light  through  the  low  lattice  on  which 
we  turned  back  to  look. 

The  single  window  of  the  room  in  which  Scott  died 
at  Abbotsford,  and  this  in  the  birth-chamber  of  Shak 
spere,  have  seemed  to  me  almost  marked  with  the 
touch  of  the  fire  of  those  great  souls — for  I  think  we 
have  an  instinct  which  tells  us  on  the  spot  where 
mighty  spirits  have  come  or  gone,  that  they  came  and 
went  with  the  light  of  heaven. 

We  walked  down  the  street  to  see  the  house  where 
Shakspere  lived  on  his  return  to  Stratford.  It  stands 
at  the  corner  of  a  lane,  not  far  from  the  church  where 
he  was  buried,  and  is  a  newish  un-Shaksperian  looking 
place — no  doubt,  if  it  be  indeed  the  same  house,  most 
|  profanely  and  considerably  altered.  The  present  pro 
prietor  or  occupant  of  the  house  or  site  took  upon 
himself  some  time  since  the  odium  of  cutting  down 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


207 


the  famous  mulberry-tree  planted  by  the  poet's  hand 
in  the  garden. 

I  forgot  to  mention  in  the  beginning  of  these  notes 
that  two  or  three  miles  before  coming  to  Stratford  we 
passed  through  Shottery,  where  Anne  Hathaway  lived. 
A  nephew  of  the  excellent  baronet  whose  guests  we 
were  occupies  the  house.  I  looked  up  and  down  the 
green  lanes  about  it,  and  glanced  my  eye  round  upon 
the  hills  over  which  the  sun  has  continued  to  set  and 
the  moon  to  ride  in  her  love-inspiring  beauty  ever 
since.  There  were  doubtless  outlines  in  the  landscape 
which  had  been  followed  by  the  eye  of  Shakspere 
when  coming,  a  trembling  lover,  to  Shottrey — doubt 
less,  teints  in  the  sky,  crops  on  the  fields,  smoke- 
wreaths  from  the  old  homesteads  on  the  high  hill 
sides,  which  are  little  altered  now.  How  daringly  the 
imagination  plucks  back  the  past  in  such  places ! 
How  boldly  we  ask  of  fancy  and  probability  the  thou 
sand  questions  we  would  put,  if  we  might,  to  the  magic 
mirror  of  Agrippa  ?  Did  that  great  mortal  love  timid 
ly,  like  ourselves?  Was  the  passionate  outpouring 
of  his  heart  simple,  and  suited  to  the  humble  condition 
of  Anne  Hathaway,  or  was  it  the  first  fiery  coinage  of 
Romeo  and  Othello?  Did  she  know  the  immortal 
honor  and  light  poured  upon  woman  by  the  love  of 
genius  ?  Did  she  know  how  this  common  and  often- 
est  terrestrial  passion  becomes  fused  in  the  poet's  bo 
som  with  celestial  fire,  and,  in  its  wondrous  elevation 
and  purity,  ascends  lambently  and  musically  to  the 
very  stars  ?  Did  she  coy  it  with  him?  Was  she  a 
woman  to  him,  as  commoner  mortals  find  woman — ca 
pricious,  tender,  cruel,  intoxicating,  cold — everything 
by  changes  impossible  to  calculate  or  foresee  ?  Did 
he  walk  home  to  Stratford,  sometimes,  despairing,  in 
perfect  sick-heartedness,  of  her  affection,  and  was  he 
recalled  by  a  message  or  a  lover's  instinct  to  find  her 
weeping  and  passionately  repentant? 

How  natural  it  is  by  such  questions  and  specula 
tions  to  betray  our  innate  desire  to  bring  the  lofty 
spirits  of  our  common  mould  to  our  own  inward  level — 
to  seek  analogies  between  our  affections,  passions,  appe 
tites,  and  theirs — to  wish  they  might  have  been  no  more 
exalted,  no  more  fervent,  no  more  worthy  of  the  adora 
ble  love  of  woman  than  ourselves !  The  same  temper 
that  prompts  the  depreciation,  the  envy,  the  hatred, 
exercised  toward  the  poet  in  his  lifetime,  mingles,  not 
inconsiderably,  in  the  researches  so  industriously  prose 
cuted  after  his  death  into  his  youth  and  history.  To 
be  admired  in  this  world,  and  much  more  to  be  beloved 
for  higher  qualities  than  his  fellow-men,  insures  to 
genius  not  only  to  be  persecuted  in  life,  but  to  be 
ferreted  out  with  all  his  frailties  and  imperfections 
from  the  grave. 

The  church  in  which  Shakspere  is  buried  stands 
near  the  banks  of  the  Avon,  and  is  a  most  picturesque 
and  proper  place  of  repose  for  his  ashes.  AJJ  avenue 
of  small  trees  and  vines,  ingeniously  overlaced,  ex 
tends  from  the  street  to  the  principal  door,  and  the 
interior  is  broken  up  into  that  confused  and  accidental 
medley  of  tombs,  pews,  cross-lights,  and  pillars,  for 
which  the  old  churches  of  England  are  remarkable. 
The  tomb  and  effigy  of  the  great  poet  lie  in  an  inner 


chapel,  and  are  as  described  in  every  traveller's  book. 
I  will  not  take  up  room  with  the  repetition. 

It  gives  one  an  odd  feeling  to  see  the  tomb  of  his 
wife  and  daughter  beside  him.  One  does  not  realize 
before,  that  Shakspere  had  wife,  children,  kinsmen, 
like  other  men — that  there  were  those  who  had  a  right 
to  lie  in  the  same  tomb;  to  whom  he  owed  the  chari- 
•ies  of  life;  whom  he  may  have  benefited  or  offended; 
who  may  have  influenced  materially  his  destiny,  or 
he  theirs  ;  who  were  the  inheritors  of  his  household 
goods,  his  wardrobe,  his  books — people  who  looked 
on  him — on  Shakspere — as  a  landholder,  a  renter  of  a 
pew,  a  townsman  ;  a  relative,  in  short,  who  had  claims 
upon  them,  not  for  the  eternal  homage  due  to  celestial 


I  inspiration,  but  for  the  charity  of  shelter  and  bread 
'  had  he  been  poor,  for  kindness  and  ministry  had  he 
been  sick,  for  burial  and  the  tears  of  natural  affection 
when  he  died.  It  is  painful  and  embarrassing  to  the 
mind  to  go  to  Stratford — to  reconcile  the  immortality 
and  the  incomprehensible  power  of  genius  like  Shak- 
spere's,  with  the  space,  tenement,  and  circumstance 
of  a  man  !  The  poet  should  be  like  the  sea-bird,  seen 
only  on  the  wing — his  birth,  his  slumber,  and  his 
death,  mysteries  alike. 

I  had  stipulated  with  the  hostess  that  my  baggage 
should  be  put  into  the  chamber  occupied  by  Wash 
ington  Irving.  I  was  shown  into  it  to  dress  for  dinner 
— a  small  neat  room,  a  perfect  specimen,  in  short,  of 
an  English  bedroom,  with  snow-white  curtains,  a  look 
ing-glass  the  size  of  the  face,  a  well-polished  grate 
and  poker,  a  well-fitted  carpet,  and  as  muc$  light  as 
heaven  permits  to  the  climate. 

Our  dinner  for  two  was  served  in  a  neat  parlor  on 
the  same  floor — an  English  inn  dinner— simple,  neat, 
and  comfortable,  in  the  sense  of  that  word  unknown  in 
other  countries.     There  was  just  fire  enough,  in  the 
!  grate,  just  enough  for  two  in  the  different  dishes,  a 
servant  who  was  just  enough  in  the  room,  and  just 
civil  enough— in  short,  it  was,  like  everything  else  in 
that  country  of  adaptation  and  fitness,  just  what  was 
i  ordered  and  wanted,  and  no  more. 

The  evening  turned  out  stormy,  and  the  rain  pat 
tered  merrily  against  the  windows.  The  shutters  were 
closed,  the  fire  blazed  up  with  new  brightness,  the 
well-fitted  wax  lights  were  set  on  the  table  ;  and  when 
the  dishes  were  removed,  we  replaced  the  wine  with  a 
i  tea-tray,  and  sent  for  the  hostess  to  give  us  her  com 
pany  and  a  little  gossip  over  our  cups. 

Nothing  could   be  more  nicely  understood  and  de- 
I  fined  than  the  manner  of  English  hostesses  generally 
j  in  such  situations,  and  of  Mrs.  Gardiner  particularly 
!  in  this.     Respectful  without  servility,   perfectly  sure 
j  of  the  propriety  of  her  own  manner  and  mode  of  ex- 
i  pression,   yet   preserving   in  every  look  and  word  the 
|  proper  distinction  between  herself  and  her  guests,  she 
;  insured  from  them  that  kindness  and  ease  of  commu 
nication  which  would  make  a  long  evening  of  social 
conversation  pass,  not  only  without  embarrassment  on, 
either  side,  but  with  mutual  pleasure  and  gratification. 
"I  have  brought  up,  mem,"  she  said,  producing  a 
well-polished  poker  from  under  her  black  apron,  be 
fore  she  took   the  chair  set  for  her  at  the  table — "I 
have  brought  up  a  relic  for  you  to  see,  that  no  money 
would  buy  from  me." 

She  turned  it  over  in  my  hand,  and  I  read  on  one 
of  the  flat  sides  at  the  bottom — "GEOFFREY  CRAYON'S 
SCEPTRE." 

"  Do  you  remember  Mr.  Irving,"  asked  my  friend, 
"or  have  you  supposed,  since  reading  his  sketch  of 
Stratford-on-Avon,  that  the  gentleman  in  number 
three  might  be  the  person  ?" 

The  hostess  drew  up  her  thin  figure,  and  the  ex 
pression  of  a  person  about  to  compliment  herself  stole 
into  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"  Why,  you  see,  mem,  I  am  very  much  in  the  habit 
of  observing  my  guests,  and  I  think  I  may  say  I  knows 


a  superior  gentleman  when  I  sees  him.  If  you  re 
member,  mem"  (and  she  took  down  from  the  mantle- 
piece  a  much-worn  copy  of  the  Sketch-Book),  "Geof 
frey  Crayon  tells  the  circumstance  of  my  stepping  in 
when  it  was  getting  late,  and  asking  if  he  had  rung. 
I  knows  it  by  that,  and  then  the  gentleman  I  mean 
was  an  American,  and  I  think,  mem,  besides"  (and  she 
hesitated  a  little,  as  if  she  was  about  to  advance  an 
original  and  rather  venturesome  opinion) — "  I  think 
I  can  see  that  gentleman's  likeness  all  through  this 
book." 

A  truer  remark  or  a  more  just  criticism  was  per 
haps  never  made  on  the  Sketch-Book.  We  smiled, 
and  Mrs.  Gardiner  proceeded  : — 


208 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


"  I  was  in  and  out  of  the  coffee-room  the  night  he 
arrived,  mem,  and  I  sees  directly  by  his  modest  ways 
and  timid  look  that  he  was  a  gentleman,  and  not  fit 
company  for  the  other  travellers.  They  were  all  young 
men,  sir,  and  business  travellers,  and  you  know,  mem, 
ignorance  takes  the  advantage  of  modest  merit,  and  af 
ter  their  dinner  they  were  very  noisy  and  rude.  So,  I 
says  to  Sarah,  the  chambermaid,  says  I,  '  That  nice 
gentleman  can't  get  near  the  fire,  and  you  go  and  light 
a  fire  in  number  three,  and  he  shall  sit  alone,  and  it 
shan't  cost  him  nothing,  for  I  like  the  look  on  him.' 
Well,  mem,  he  seemed  pleased  to  be  alone,  and  after 
his  tea,  he  puts  his  legs  up  over  the  grate,  and  there 
he  sits  with  the  poker  in  his  hand  till  ten  o'clock. 
The  other  travellers  went  to  bed,  and  at  last  the  house 
was  as  still  as  midnight,  all  but  a  poke  in  the  grate 
now  and  then  in  number  three,  and  every  time  I  heard 
it,  I  jumped  up  and  lit  a  bed-candle,  for  I  was  getting 
very  sleepy,  and  I  hoped  he  was  getting  up  to  ring  for  | 
a  light.  Well,  mem,  I  nodded  and  nodded,  and  still 
no  ring  at  the  bell.  At  last  I  says  to  Sarah,  says  I, 
'  Go  into  number  three,  and  upset  something,  for  I  am 
sure  that  gentleman  has  fallen  asleep.' — '  La,  ma'am,' 
says  Sarah,  '  I  don't  dare.' — '  Well,  then,'  says  I,  '  I'll 
go.'  So  I  opens  the  door,  and  I  says,  'If  you  please, 
sir,  did  you  ring  ?' — little  thinking  that  question  would 
ever  be  written  down  in  such  a  beautiful  book,  mem. 
He  sat  with  his  feet  on  the  fender  poking  the  fire,  and 
a  smile  on  his  face,  as  if  some  pleasant  thought  was 
in  his  mind.  'No,  ma'am,'  says  he,  'I  did  not.'  I 
shuts  the  door,  and  sits  down  again,  for  I  hadn't  the 
heart  to  tell  him  that  it  was  late,  for  he  was  a  gentle 
man  not  to  speak  rudely  to,  mem.  Well,  it  was  past 
twelve  o'clock,  when  the  bell  did  ring.  'There,'  says 
I  to  Sarah,  '  thank  Heaven  he  has  done  thinking,  and 
\ve  can  go  to  bed.'  So  he  walked  up  stairs  with  his 
light,  and  the  next  morning  he  was  up  early  and  off 
to  the  Shakspere  house,  and  he  brings  me  home  a  box  i 
of  the  mulberry-tree,  and  asks  me  if  I  thought  it  was  1 
genuine,  and  said  it  was  for  his  mother  in  America,  \ 
And  I  loved  him  still  more  for  that,  and  I'm  sure  I  j 
prayed  she  might  live  to  see  him  return." 

"I  believe  she  did,  Mrs.  Gardiner;  but  how  soon  j 
after  did  you  set  aside  the  poker  ?" 

"  Why,  sir,  you  see  there's  a  Mr.  Vincent  that 
comes  here  sometimes,  and  he  says  to  me  one  day —  : 
'  So,  Mrs.  Gardiner,  you're  finely  immortalized.  Read 
that.'  So  the  minnit  I  read  it,  I  remembered  who  it  f 
was,  and  all  about  it,  and  I  runs  and  gets  the  number 
three  poker,  and  locks  it  up  safe  and  sound,  and  by- 
and-by  I  sends  it  to  Brummagem,  and  has  his  name 
engraved  on  it,  and  here  you  see  it,  sir — and  I  wouldn't 
take  no  money  for  it." 

I  had  never  the  honor  to  meet  or  know  Mr.  Irving, 
and  I  evidently  lost  ground  with  the  hostess  of  the 
"Red  Horse"  for  that  misfortune.  I  delighted  her, 
however,  with  the  account  which  I  had  seen  in  a  late 
newspaper,  of  his  having  shot  a  buffalo  in  the  prairies 
of  the  west;  and  she  soon  courtesied  herself  out,  and 
left  me  to  the  delightful  society  of  the  distinguished 
lady  who  had  accompanied  me.  Among  all  my  many 
loiterings  in  many  lands,  I  remember  none  more  in 
tellectually  pure  and  gratifying,  than  this  at  Stratford- 
on-Avon.  My  sleep,  in  the  little  bed  consecrated  by 
the  slumbers  of  the  immortal  Geoffrey,  was  sweet  and 
light ;  and  I  write  myself  his  debtor  for  a  large  share 
of  the  pleasure  which  genius  like  his  lavishes  on  the 
world. 


CHAPTER  XI. 


CHARLECOTE. 


ONCE  more  posting  through  Shottery  and  Stratford- 
on-Avon,  on  the  road  to  Kenilworth  and  Warwick,  I 


felt  a  pleasure  in  becoming  an  habitue  in  Shakspere's 
town — in  being  recognised  by  the  Stratford  post-boys, 
known  at  the  Stratford  inn,  and  remembered  at  the 
toll-gates.  It  is  pleasant  to  be  welcomed  by  name 
anywhere  ;  but  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  it  is  a  recogni 
tion  by  those  whose  fathers  or  predecessors  were  the 
companions  of  Shakspere's  frolics.  Every  fellow  in 
a  slouched  hat — every  idler  on  a  tavern  bench — every 
saunterer  with  a  dog  at  his  heels  on  the  highway — 
should  be  a  deer-stealer  from  Charlecote.  You  would 
almost  ask  him,  "  Was  Will  Shakspere  with  you  last 
night  ?" 

The  Lucys  still  live  at  Charlecote,  immortalized 
by  a  varlet  poacher  who  was  tried  before  old  Sir 
Thomas  for  stealing  a  buck.  They  have  drawn  an 
apology  from  Walter  Savage  Landor  for  making  too 
free  with  the  family  history,  under  cover  of  an  im 
aginary  account  of  the  trial.  I  thought,  as  we  drove 
along  in  sight  of  the  fine  old  hall,  with  its  broad  park 
and  majestic  trees — very  much  as  it  stood  in  the 
days  of  Sir  Thomas,  I  believe — that  most  probably 
the  descendants  of  the  old  justice  look  even  now  upon 
Shakspere  more  as  an  offender  against  the  game-laws 
than  as  a  writer  of  immortal  plays.  I  venture  to  say, 
it  would  be  bad  tact  in  a  visiter  to  Charlecote  to  felici 
tate  the  family  on  the  honor  of  possessing  a  park  in 
which  Shakspere  had  stolen  deer — to  show  more  in 
terest  in  seeing  the  hall  in  which  he  was  tried  than  in 
the  family  portraits. 

On  the  road  which  I  was  travelling  (from  Stratford 
to  Charlecote)  Shakspere  had  been  dragged  as  a  cul 
prit.  What  were  his  feelings  before  Sir  Thomas  ! 
He  felt,  doubtless,  as  every  possessor  of  the  divine  fire 
of  genius  must  feel,  when  brought  rudely  in  contact 
with  his  fellow-men,  that  he  was  too  much  their  supe 
rior  to  be  angry.  The  humor  in  which  he  has  drawn 
Justice  Shallow  proves  abundantly  that  he  was  more 
amused  then  displeased  with  his  own  trial.  But  was 
there  no  vexation  at  the  moment?  A  reflection,  it 
might  be,  from  the  estimate  of  his  position  in  the 
minds  of  those  who  were  about  him — who  looked  on 
him  simply  as  a  stealer  of  so  much  venison.  Did  he 
care  for  Anne  Hathaway's  opinion  then  ? 

How  little  did  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  understand  the 
relation  between  judge  and  culprit  on  that  trial  !  How 
little  did  he  dream  he  was  sitting  for  his  picture  to  the 
pestilent  varlet  at  the  bar  ;  that  the  deer-stealer  could 
j  better  afford  to  forgive  him  than  he  the  deer-stealer  ! 
i  Genius  forgives,  or  rather  forgets,  all  wrongs  done  in 
i  ignorance  of  its  immortal  presence.  Had  Ben  Jonson 
made  a  wilful  jest  on  a  line  in  his  new  play,  it  would 
have  rankled  longer  than  fine  and  imprisonment  for 
deer-stealing.  Those  who  crowd  back  and  trample 
upon  men  of  genius  in  the  common  walk  of  life  ;  who 
cheat  them,  misrepresent  them,  take  advantage  of  their 
inattention  or  their  generosity  in  worldly  matters,  are 
sometimes  surprised  how  their  injuries,  if  not  them 
selves,  are  forgotten.  Old  Adam  Woodcock  might 
as  well  have  held  malice  against  Roland  Grame  for 
the  stab  in  the  stuffed  doublet  of  the  Abbot  of  Mis 
rule. 

•Yet,  as  I  might  have  remarked  in  the  paragraph 
gone  before,  it  is  probably  not  easy  to  put  conscious 
and  secret  superiority  entirely  between  the  mind  and 
the  opinions  of  those  around  who  think  differently. 
It  is  one  reason  why  men  of  genius  love  more  than 
the  common  share  of  solitude — to  recover  self-respect. 
In  the  midst  of  the  amusing  travesty  he  was  drawing 
in  his  own  mind  of  the  grave  scene  about  him,  Shak 
spere  possibly  felt  at  moments  as  like  a  detected  culprit 
as  he  seemed  to  the  gamekeeper  and  the  justice.  It 
is  a  small  penalty  to  pay  for  the  after  worship  of  the 
world !  The  ragged  and  proverbially  ill-dressed 
peasants  who  are  selected  from  the  whole  campagna, 
as  models  to  the  sculptors  of  Rome,  care  little  what 
is  thought  of  their  good  looks  in  the  Corso.  The 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


209 


disguised  proportions  beneath  their  rags  will  be  ad 
mired  in  deathless  marble,  when  the  noble  who  scarce 
deigns  their  possessor  a  look  will  lie  in  forgotten  dust 
under  his  stone  scutcheon. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

WARWICK    CASTLE. 

WERE  it  not  for  the  "  out-heroded"  descriptions  in 
the  guide-books,  one  might  say  a  great  deal  of  War 
wick  cnstle.  It  is  the  quality  of  overdone  or  ill-ex 
pressed  enthusiasm  to  silence  that  which  is  more 
rational  and  real.  Warwick  is,  perhaps,  the  best  kept 
of  all  the  famous  old  castles  of  England.  It  is  a  superb 
and  admirably-appointed  modern  dwelling,  in  the  shell, 
and  with  all  the  means  and  appliances  preserved,  of 
an  ancient  stronghold.  It  isa  curious  union,  too.  My 
lady's  maid  and  my  lord's  valet  coquet  upon  the  bar 
tizan,  where  old  Guy  of  Warwick  stalked  in  his  coat- 
of-mail.  The  London  cockney,  from  his  two  days' 
watering  at  Leamington,  stops  his  pony-chaise,  hired 
ai  half-a-crown  the  hour,  and  walks  Mrs.  Popkins 
over  the  old  draw-bridge  as  peacefully  as  if  it  were  the 
threshold  of  his  shop  in  the  Strand.  Scot  and  French 
man  saunter  through  fosse  and  tower,  and  no  ghost  of 
the  middle  ages  stalks  forth,  with  closed  visor,  to 
challenge  these  once  natural  foes.  The  powdered 
butler  yawns  through  an  embrasure,  expecting  "mila- 
di,"  the  countess  of  this  fair  domain,  who  in  one  day's 
posting  from  London  seeks  relief  in  Warwick  Castle 
from  the  routs  and  soirees  of  town.  What  would  old 
Guy  say,  or  the  "  noble  imp"  whose  effigy  is  among 
the  escutcheoned  tombs  of  his  fathers,  if  they  could 
rise  through  their  marble  slabs,  and  be  whirled  over  the 
drawbridge  in  a  post-chaise  ?  How  indignantly  they 
would  listen  to  the  reckoning  within  their  own  port 
cullis,  of  the  rates  for  chaise  and  postillion.  How 
astonished  they  would  be  at  the  butler's  bow,  and  the 
proffered  officiousness  of  the  valet.  "  Shall  I  draw 
off  your  lordship's  boots  ?  Which  of  these  new  vests 
from  Staub  will  your  lordship  put  on  for  dinner  ?" 

Among  the  pictures  at  Warwick,  I  was  interested 
by  a  portrait  of  Queen  Elizabeth  (the  best  of  that  sov 
ereign  I  ever  saw) ;  one  of  Machiavelli.  one  of  Essex, 
and  one  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney.  The  delightful  and 
gifted  woman  whom  1  had  accompanied  to  the  castle 
observed  of  the  latter,  that  the  hand  alone  expressed 
all  his  character.  I  had  often  made  the  remark  in 
real  life,  but  1  had  never  seen  an  instance  on  painting 
where  the  likeness  was  so  true.  No  one  could  doubt, 
who  knew  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  character,  that  it  was  a 
literal  portrait  of  his  hand.  In  our  day,  if  you  have 
an  artist  for  a  friend,  he  makes  use  of  you  while  you 
call,  to  "sit  for  the  hand"  of  the  portrait  on  Vis  easel. 
Having  a  preference  for  the  society  of  artists  myself, 
and  frequenting  their  studios  habitually,  I  know  of 
some  hundred  and  fifty  unsuspecting  gentlemen  on 
canvass,  who  have  procured  for  posterity  and  their 
children  portraits  of  their  own  heads  and  dress-coats 
to  be  sure,  but  of  the  hands  of  other  persons  ! 

The  head  of  Machiavelli  is,  as  is  seen  in  the  marble 
in  the  gallery  of  Florence:  small,  slender,  and  visibly 
"  made  to  creep  into  crevices."  The  face  is  impassive 
and  calm,  and  the  lips,  though  slight  and  almost  femi 
nine,  have  an  indefinable  firmness  and  character.  Es 
sex  is  the  bold,  plain,  and  blunt  soldier  history  makes 
him,  and  Elizabeth  not  unqueenly,  nor  (to  my  think 
ing)  of  an  uninteresting  countenance;  but,  with  all 
jhe  artist's  flattery,  ugly  enough  to  be  the  abode  of 
the  murderous  envy  that  brought  Mary  to  the  block. 

We  paid  our  five  shillings  for  having  been  walked 
through  the  marble  hall  of  Castle  Warwick,  and  the 
dressing-room  of  its  modern  lady,  and,  gratified  much 


more  by  our  visit  than  I  have  expressed  in  this  brief 
description,  posted  on  to  Kenilworth. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

KENILWORTH. 

ON  the  road  from  Warwick  to  Kenilworth,  I  thought 
more  of  poor  Pierce  Gaveston  than  of  Elizabeth  and 
her  proud  earls.  Edward's  gay  favorite  was  tried  at 
Warwick,  and  beheaded  on  Blacklow  hill,  which  we 
passed  soon  after  leaving  the  town.  He  was  executed 
in  June;  and  I  looked  about  on  the  lovely  hills  and 
valleys  that  surround  the  place  of  his  last  moments, 
and  figured  to  myself  very  vividly  his  despair  at  this 
hurried  leave-taking  of  this  bright  world  in  its  bright 
est  spot  and  hour.  Poor  Gaveston!  It  was  not  iu 
his  vocation  to  die  !  He  was  neither  soldier  nor  prel 
ate,  hermit  nor  monk.  His  political  sins,  for  which 
he  suffered,  were  no  offence  against  good-fellowship, 
and  were  ten  times  more  venial  than  those  of  the 
"  black  dog  of  Arden,"  who  betrayed  and  helped  to 
murder  him.  He  was  the  reckless  minion  of  a  king, 
but  he  must  have  been  a  merry  and  pleasant  fellow  ; 
and  now  that  the  world  (on  our  side  the  water  at  least), 
is  grown  so  grave,  one  could  go  back  with  Old  Mor 
tality,  and  freshen  the  epitaph  of  a  heart  that  took  life 
more  gayly. 

As  we  approached  the  castle  of  the  proud  Leices 
ter,  I  found  it  easier  to  people  the  road  with  the  flying 
Amy  Robsart  and  her  faithful  attendant,  with  Mike  Lam- 
bourne,  Flibbertigibbet,  Richard  Varney,  and  the  troop 
of  mummurs  and  players,  than  with  the  more  real 
characters  of  history.  To  assist  the  romance,  a  little 
Italian  boy,  with  his  organ  and  monkey,  was  fording 
the  brook  on  his  way  to  the  castle,  as  if  its  old  towers 
still  held  listeners  for  the  wandering  minstrel.  I 
tossed  him  a  shilling  from  the  carriage  window,  and 
while  the  horses  slowly  forded  the  brook,  asked  him 
in  his  own  delicious  tongue,  where  he  was  from. 

"  Son'  di  Fircnze,  signore  /" 

"And  where  are  you  going  ?" 

"Li!  alcastello." 

Come  from  Florence  and  bound  to  Kenilworth ! 
Who  would  not  grind  an  organ  and  sleep  under  a  hedge, 
to  answer  the  hail  of  the  passing  traveller  in  terms 
like  these  ?  I  have  seen  many  a  beggar  in  Italy, 
whose  inheritance  of  sunshine  and  leisure  in  that  de 
licious  clime  I  could  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to 
envy,  even  with  all  its  concomitants  of  uncertainty 
and  want;  but  here  was  a  bright-faced  and  inky-eyed 
child  of  the  sun,  with  his  wardrobe  and  means  upon 
his  back,  travelling  from  one  land  to  another,  and  loiter 
ing  wherever  there  was  a  resort  for  pleasure,  without 
a  friend  or  a  care  ;  and,  upon  my  life,  I  could  have 
donned  his  velveteen  jacket,  and  with  his  cheerful 
heart  to  button  it  over,  have  shouldered  his  organ, 
put  my  trust  iu  iforestieri,  and  kept  on  for  Kenilworth. 
There  really  is,  I  thought,  as  I  left  him  behind,  no 
prgfit  or  reward  consequent  upon  a  life  of  confinement 
and  toil  ;  no  moss  ever  gathered  by  the  unturned 
stone,  that  repays,  by  a  thousandth  part,  the  loss  of 
even  this  poor  boy's  share  of  the  pleasures  of  change. 
What  would  not  the  tardy  winner  of  fortune  give  to 
exchange  his  worn-out  frame,  his  unloveable  and 
furrowed  features,  his  dulled  senses,  and  his  vain 
regrets,  for  the  elastic  frame,  the  unbroken  spirits, 
and  the  redeemable,  yet  not  oppressive  poverty  of  this 
Florentine  rcguzzo  .'  The  irrecoverable  gem  of  youth 
is  too  often  dissolved,  like  the  pearl  of  Cleopatra,  in  a 
cup  which  thins  the  blood  and  leaves  disgust  upon 
the  lip. 

The  magnificent  ruins  of  Kenilworth  broke  in  upon 
my  moralities,  and  a  crowd  of  halt  and  crippled  ciceroni 


210 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


beset  the  carriage-door  as  we  alighted  at  the  outer  1 
tower.     The  neighborhood  of  the  Spa  of  Leamington,  i 
makes  Kenilworth   a   place  of  easy   resort ;  and   the 
beggars  of  Warwickshire  have  discovered  that  your  | 
traveller  is  more  liberal  of  his  coin  than  your  sitter-at-  i 
home.     Some  dozens  of  pony-chaises  and  small,  crop  j 
saddle-horses,  clustered  around   the  gate,  assured  us  | 
that  we  should  not   muse   alone  amid   the  ruins  of  j 
Elizabeth's  princely  gift  to  her  favorite.     We  passed  | 
into  the   tilt-yard,   leaving  on   our  left  the  tower  in 
which  Edward  was  confined,  now  the  only   habitable 
part  of  Kenilworth.     It  gives  a  comfortable  shelter  to  ' 
an  old  seneschal,  who  stands  where  the  giant  probably 
stood,  with  Flibbertigibbet   under  his  doublet  for  a  \ 
prompter  ;  but  it  is  not  the  tail  of  a  rhyme  that  serves 
now  for  a  passport. 

Kenilworth.  as  it  now  stands,  would  probably  dis 
enchant  almost  any  one  of  the  gorgeous  dreams  con 
jured  up  by  reading  Scott's  romance.  Yet  it  is  one 
of  tho  most  superb  ruins  in  the  world.  It  would  scarce 
be  complete  to  a  novel-reader,  naturally,  without  a 
warder  at  the  gate,  and  the  flashing  of  a  spear-point 
and  helmet  through  the  embrasures  of  the  tower.  A 
horseman  in  armor  should  puce  over  the  draw-bridge, 
and  a  squire  be  seen  polishing  his  cuiras  through 
the  opening  gate;  while  on  the  airy  bartizan  should 
be  observed  a  lady  in  hoop  and  farthingale,  philander 
ing  with  my  lord  of  Leicester  in  silk  doublet  and 
rapier.  In  the  place  of  this,  the  visiter  enters  Kenil 
worth  as  I  have  already  described,  and  stepping  out 
into  the  tilt-yard,  he  sees,  on  an  elevation  before  him, 
a  fretted  and  ivy-covered  ruin,  relieved  like  a  cloud- 
castle  on  the  sky  ;  the  bright  blue  plane  of  the  western 
heavens  shining  through  window  and  broken  wall, 
flecked  with  waving  and  luxuriant  leaves,  and  the 
crusted  and  ornamental  pinnacles  of  tottering  masonry 


inhabit  it.  If  I  read  Kenilworth  now,  I  see  Mike 
Lambourne  stealing  out,  not  from  the  ruined  postern 
which  I  clambered  through,  over  heaps  of  rubbish, 
but  from  a  little  gate  that  turned  noiselessly  on  its 
hinges,  in  the  unreal  castle  built  ten  years  ago  in  my 
brain. 

I  had  wandered  away  from  my  companion,  Miss 
Jane  Porter,  to  climb  up  a  secret  staircase  in  the  wall, 
rather  too  difficult  of  ascent  for  a  female  foot,  and 
from  my  elevated  position  I  caught  an  accidental  view 
of  that  distinguished  lady  through  the  arch  of  a  Gothic 
window,  with  a  background  of  broken  architecture  and 
foliage — presenting,  by  chance,  perhaps  the  most  fit 
ting  and  admirable  picture  of  the  authoress  of  the 
Scottish  Chiefs,  that  a  painter  in  his  brightest  hour 
could  have  fancied.  Miss  Porter,  with  her  tall  and 
striking  figure,  her  noble  face  (said  by  Sir  Martin  Shee 
to  have  approached  nearer  in  its  youth  to  his  beau 
ideal  of  the  female  features  than  any  other,  and  still 
possessing  the  remains  of  uncommon  beauty),  is  at  all 
times  a  person  whom  it  would  be  difficult  to  see  with 
out  a  feeling  of  involuntary  admiration.  But  standing, 
as  I  saw  her  at  that  moment,  motionless  and  erect,  in 
the  morning  dress,  with  dark  feathers,  which  she  has 
worn  since  the  death  of  her  beloved  and  gifted  sister, 
her  wrists  folded  across,  her  large  and  still  beautiful 
eyes  fixed  on  a  distant  object  in  the  view,  and  her 
nobly-cast  lineaments  reposing  in  their  usual  calm  and 
benevolent  tranquillity,  while,  around  and  above  her, 
lay  the  material  and  breathed  the  spirit  over  which  she 
had  held  the  first  great  mastery — it  was  a  tableau 
vivanl  which  I  was  sorry  to  be  alone  to  see. 

Was  she  thinking  of  the  great  mind  that  had  evoked 
the  spirits  of  the  ruins  she  stood  among — a  mind  in 
which  (by  Sir  Walter's  own  cos<  jssion)  she  had  first 
bared  the  vein  of  romance  which  breathed  so  freely 


and  sculpture  just  leaning  to   their  fall,  though  the  1  for    the   world's    delight?     Were    the   visions   which 


foundations  upon  which  they  were  laid,  one  would 
still  think,  might  sustain  the  firmament.  The  swelling 
root  of  a  creeper  has  lifted  that  arch  from  its  base, 
and  the  protruding  branch  of  a  chance-sprung  tree 
(sown  perhaps  by  a  field-sparrow)  has  unseated  the 
key-stone  of  the  next ;  and  so  perish  castles  and  repu 
tations,  the  masonry  of  the  human  hand,  and  the 
fabrics  of  human  forethought  ;  not  by  the  strength 
which  they  feared,  but  by  the  weakness  they  despised  ! 
Little  thought  old  John  of  Gaunt,  when  these  rudely- 
hewn  blocks  were  heaved  into  their  seat  by  his  hercu 
lean  workmen,  that,  after  resisting  fire  and  foe,  they 
would  be  sapped  and  overthrown  at  last  by  a  vine-ten 
dril  and  a  sparrow  ! 

Clinging  against  the  outer  wall,  on  that  side  of  the 
castle  overlooking  the  meadow,  which  was  overflowed 
for  the  aquatic  spots  of  Kenilworth,  stands  an  antique 
and  highly  ornamental  firephice,  which  belonged, 
doubtless,  to  the  principal  hall.  The  windows  on 
either  side  looking  forth  upon  the  fields  below,  must 
have  been  those  from  which  Elizabeth  and  her  train 
observed  the  feats  of  Arion  and  his  dolphin;  and  at  all 
times,  the  large  and  spacious  chimney-place,  from  the  ; 


sweep  with  such  supernatural  distinctness  and  rapidity 
through  the  imagination  of  genius — visions  of  which 
the  millionth  portion  is  probably  scarce  communicated 
to  the  world  in  a  literary  lifetime — were  Elizabeth's 
courtiers,  Elizabeth's  passions,  secret  hours,  inter 
views  with  Leicester — were  the  imprisoned  king's 
nights  of  loneliness  and  dread,  his  hopes,  his  indignant, 
but  unheeded  thoughts — were  all  the  possible  circum 
stances,  real  or  imaginary,  of  which  that  proud  castle 
might  have  been  the  scene,  thronging  in  those  few 
moments  of  re  very  through  her  fancy  ?  Or  was  her 
heart  busy  with  its  kindly  affections,  and  had  the 
beauty  and  interest  of  the  scene  but  awakened  a  thought 
i  of  one  who  was  most  wont  to  number  with  her  the 
sands  of  those  brighter  hours  ? 

Who  shall  say  ?  The  very  question  would  perhaps 
startle  the  thoughts  beyond  recall — so  elusive  are  even 
the  most  angelic  of  the  mind's  unseen  visitants? 

I  have  recorded  here  the  speculations  of  a  moment 
while  I  leaned  over  the  wall  of  Kenilworth,  but  as  1 


descended    by    the    giddy 


peal    of  rude 


laughter  broke  from  the  party  in  the  fosse  below,  and 
I  could   not  but  speculate  on  the  difference  between 


castle's  first  occupation  to  its  last,  must  have  been  the  ij  the  various  classes  whom  curiosity  draws  to  the  spot, 
centre  of  the  evening  revelry,  and  conversation  of  its  The  distinguished  mind  that  conceives  a  romance 
guests.  It  was  a  hook  whereon  to  hang  a  revery,  and  '"•  which  enchants  the  world,  comes  in  the  same  guise 
between  the  roars  of  vulgar  laughter  which  assailed  j  and  is  treated  but  with  the  same  respect  as  theirs, 
my  ears  from  a  party  lolling  on  the  grass  below,  I  con-  The  old  porter  makes  no  distinction  in  his  charge  of 
tri'ved  to  figure  to  myself,  with  some  distinctness,  the  ;|  ha!f-a-crown,  and  the  grocer's  wife  who  sucks  an 
personages  who  had  stood  about  it.  A  visit  to  Kenil-  !  orange  on  the  grass,  looks  at  the  dark  crape  hat  and 


worth,  without  the  deceptions  of  fancy,  would  be  as 
disconnected   from  our  previous   enthusiasm   on  the 


plain  exterior — her  only  standards — and  thinks  herself 
as  well  dressed,  and  therefore  equal  or  superior  to  the 


subject  as  from  any  other  scene  with  which  it  had  no     tall  lady,  whom  she  presumes  is  out  like  herself  01 
relation.     The  general  effect  at  first,  in  any  such  spot,     day's  pleasuring.     One  comes  and  goes  like  the  other, 


is  only  to  dispossess  us,  by  a  powerful  violence,  of  the  j 
cherished  picture  we  had  drawn  of  it  in  imagination  ; 


and   is  forgotten  alike  by  the  beggars  at  the  gate  and 
the  seneschal  within,  and  thus  invisibly  and  unsuspect 


it  is  only  after  the  real  recollection  has  taken  root  ;  ed,  before  our  very  eyes,  does  genius  gather  its  gold- 
and  ripened — after  months,  it  may  be — that  we  can  I  Jen  fruit,  and  while  ive  walk  in  a  plain  and  common- 
fully  bring  the  visionary  characters  we  have  drawn  to  |  place  world,  with  commonplace  and  sordid  thoughts 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


211 


and  feelings,  the  gifted  walk  side  by  side  with  us  in  a 
world  of  their  own— a  world  of  which  we  see  distant 
glimpses  in  their  after-creations,  and  marvel  in  what  i 
unsunned  mine  its  gems  of  thought  were  gathered  ! 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  VISIT  TO  DUBLIN  ABOUT    THE  TIME  OF  THE   QUEEN'S 
MARRIAGE. 

THE  usual  directions  for  costume,  in  the  corner  of 
the  court  card  of  invitation,  included,  on  the  occasion 
of  the  queen's  marriage,  a  wedding  favor,  to  be  worn 
by  ladies  on  the  shoulder,  and  by  gentlemen  on  the 
left  breast.  This  trifling  addition  to  the  dress  of  the 
individual  was  a  matter  of  considerable  importance  to 
the  milliners,  hatters,  etc.,  who,  in  a  sale  of  ten  or 
twelve  hundred  white  cockades  (price  from  two  dollars 
to  five)  made  a  very  pretty  profit.  The  power  of  giv 
ing  a  large  ball  to  the  more  expensive  classes,  and  or 
dering  a  particular  addition  to  the  costume — in  other 
words,  of  laying  a  tax  on  the  rich  for  the  benefit  of 
the  poor,  is  exercised  more  frequently  in  Ireland  than 
in  other  countries,  and  serves  the  double  purpose  of 
popularity  to  the  lord  lieutenant,  and  benefit  to  any 
particular  branch  of  industry  that  may  be  suffering 
from  the  decline  of  a  fashion. 

The  large  quadrangular  court-yard  of  the  castle 
rattled  with  the  tramp  of  horses'  feet  and  the  clatter  of 
sabres  and  spurs,  and  in  the  uncertain  glare  of  torches 
and  lamps,  the  gay  colors  and  glittering  arms  of  the 
mounted  guard  of  lancers  had  a  most  warlike  appear 
ance.  The  procession  which  the  guard  was  stationed 
to  regulate  and  protect,  rather  detracted  from  the  ro 
mantic  effect — the  greater  proportion  of  equipages 
being  the  covered  hack  cars  of  the  city — vehicles  of 
the  most  unmitigated  and  ludicrous  vulgarity.  A 
coffin  for  two,  set  on  its  end,  with  the  driver  riding  on 
the  turned-down  lid,  would  be  a  very  near  resemblance  ; 
and  the  rags  of  the  driver,  and  the  translucent  leanness 
of  his  beast,  make  it  altogether  the  most  deplorable 
of  conveyances.  Here  and  there  a  carriage  with 
liveries,  and  here  and  there  a  sedan-ch.iir  with  four 
stout  Milesian  calves  in  blue  stockings  trotting  under 
the  poles,  rather  served  as  a  foil  than  a  mitigation  of 
the  effect,  and  the  hour  we  passed  in  the  line,  edging 
slowly  toward  the  castle,  was  far  from  unfruitful  in 
amusement.  I  learned  afterward  that  even  those  who 
have  equipages  in  Dublin  go  to  court  in  hack  cars  as 
a  matter  of  economy — one  of  the  many  indications  of 
that  feeling  of  lost  pride  which  has  existed  in  Ireland 
since  the  removal  of  the  parliament. 

A  hall  and  staircase  lined  with  files  of  soldiers  is  not 
quite  as  festive  an  entrance  to  a  ball  as  the  n^ore  com 
mon  one  of  alleys  of  flowering  shrubs ;  but  with  a 
waltz  by  a  military  band  resounding  from  the  lofty 
ceiling,  I  am  not  sure  that  it  does  not  temper  the  blood 
as  aptly  for  the  spirit  of  the  hour.  It  was  a  rainy 
night,  and  the  streets  were  dark,  and  the  effect  upon 
myself  of  coming  suddenly  into  so  enchanted  a  scene 
— -arms  glittering  on  either  side,  and  a  procession  of 
uniforms  and  plumed  dames  winding  up  the  spacious 
gtairs — Was  thrilling,  even  with  the  chivalric  scenes  of 
Eglinton  fresh  in  niy  remembrance. 

At  the  head  of  the  ascent  we  entered  a  long  hall, 
lined  with  the  private  servants  of  Lord  Ebrington,  and 
the  ceremony  of  presentation  having  been  achieved  the 
week  before,  we  left  the  throne-room  on  the  right,  and 
passed  directly  to  St.  Patrick's  Hall,  the  grand  scene 
of  the  evening's  festivities.  This,  I  have  said  before, 
is  the  finest  ball-room  I  remember  in  Europe.  Twelve 
hundred  people,  seated,  dancing,  or  promenading, 
were  within  its  lofty  walls  on  the  night  whose  festivi 
ties  I  am  describing;  and  at  either  end  a  gallery,  sup 


ported  by  columns  of  marble,  contained  a  band  of 
music,  relieving  each  other  with  alternate  waltzes  and 
quadrilles.  On  the  long  sides  of  the  hall  were  raised 
tiers  of  divans,  filled  with  chaperons,  veteran  officers, 
and  other  lookers-on,  and  at  the  upper  end  was  raised 
a  platform  with  a  throne  in  the  centre,  and  seats  on 
either  side  for  the  family  of  the  lord  lieutenant  and  the 
more  distinguished  persons  of  the  nobility.  Lord 
Kbrington  was  rather  in  his  character  of  a  noble  host 
than  that  of  viceroy,  and  I  did  not  observe  him  once 
seated  under  his  canopy  of  state  ;  but  with  his  aids 
and  some  one  of  the  noble  ladies  of  his  family  on  his 
arm,  he  promenaded  the  hall  conversing  with  his  ac 
quaintances,  and  seemingly  enjoying  in  a  high  degree 
the  brilliant  gayety  of  the  scene.  His  dress,  by  the 
way,  was  the  simple  diplomatic  dress  of  most  conti 
nental  courts,  a  blue  uniform  embroidered  with  gold, 
the  various  orders  on  his  breast  forming  its  principal 
distinction.  I  seldom  have  seen  a  man  of  a  more 
calm  and  noble  dignity  of  presence  than  the  lord  lieu 
tenant,  and  never  a  face  that  expressed  more  strongly 
the  benevolence  and  high  purity  of  character  for  which 
he  is  distinguished.  In  person,  except  that  he  is 
taller,  he  bears  a  remarkably  close  resemblance  to  the 
Uuke  of  Wellington. 

We  can  scarcely  conceive,  in  this  country  of  black 
coats,  the  brilliant  effect  of  a  large  assembly  in  which 
there  is  no  person  out  of  uniform  or  court-dress — 
every  lady's  head  nodding  with  plumes,  and  every 
gentleman  in  military  scarlet  and  gold  or  lace  and 
embroidery.  I  may  add,  too,  that  in  this  country  of 
care-worn  and  pale  faces,  we  can  as  little  conceive  the 
effect  of  an  assembly  rosy  with  universal  health, 
habitually  unacquainted  with  care,  and  abandoned  with 
the  apparent  child-like  simplicity  of  high  breeding,  to 
the  inspiring  gayety  of  the  hour.  The  greater  con 
trast,  however,  is  between  a  nation  where  health  is  the 
first  care,  and  one  in  which  health  is  never  thought 
of  till  lost;  and  light  and  shade  are  not  more  con 
trasted  than  the  mere  general  effect  of  countenance 
in  one  and  in  the  other.  A  stranger  travelling  in  our 
country,  once  remarked  to  me  that  a  party  he  had  at 
tended  seemed  like  an  entertainment  given  in  the  con 
valescent  ward  of  a  hospital — the  ladies  were  so  pale 
and  fragile,  and  the  men  so  unjoyous  and  sallow.  And 
my  own  invariable  impression,  in  the  assemblies  I 
have  first  seen  after  leaving  my  own  country  was  a 
|  corresponding  one — that  the  men  and  women  had  the 
rosy  health  and  untroubled  gayety  of  children  round  a 
May-pole.  That  this  is  not  the  effect  of  climate,  I  do 
j  most  religiously  believe.  It  is  over-much  care  and  over 
much  carelessness — the  corroding  care  of  an  avid  temer 
ity  in  business,  and  the  carelessness  of  all  the  functions 
of  life  till  their  complaints  become  too  imperative  to 
be  disregarded.  But  this  is  a  theme  out  of  place. 

The  ball  was  managed  by  the  grand  chamberlain 
(Sir  William  Leeson),  and  the  aids-de-camp  of  the 
lord  lieutenant,  and  except  that  now  and  then  you 
were  reminded  by  the  movement  around  you  that  you 
stood  with  your  back  to  the  representative  of  royalty, 
there  was  little  to  draw  your  attention  from  the  attrac 
tions  of  the  dance.  Walt/,,  quadrille,  and  gallop,  fol 
lowed  each  other  in  giddy  succession,  and  "what  do 
you  think  of  Irish  beauty?"  had  been  asked  me  as 
often  as  "how  do  you  like  America  ?"  was  ever  mum 
bled  through  the  trumpet  of  Miss  Martineau,  when  I 
mounted  with  a  friend  to  one  of  the  upper  divans,  and 
tried,  what  is  always  a  difficult  task,  and  nowhere  so 
difficult  as  in  Ireland,  to  call  in  the  intoxicated  fancy, 
and  anatomize  the  chartn  of  the  hour. 

Moore's  remark  has  been  often  quoted — "  there  is 
!  nothing  like  an  Irish  woman  to  take  a  man  off  his 
i  feet;"  but  whether  this  figure  of  speech  was  suggested 
I  by  the  little  bard's  common  soubriquet  of  "Jump-up- 
I  and-kiss-me*  Tom  Moore,"  or  simply  conveyed  his 
•  The  name  of  a  small  flower,  common  in  Ireland. 


212 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


idea  of  the  bewildering  character  of  Irish  beauty,  it 
contains,  to  any  one  who  has  ever  travelled  (or  waltzed) 
in  that  country,  a  very  just,  as  well  as  realizing:  descrip 
tion.  Physically,  Irish  women  are  probably  the  finest 
race  in  the  world — I  mean,  taller,  better  limbed  and 
chested,  larger  eyed,  and  with  more  luxuriant  hair, 
and  freer  action,  than  any  other  nation  I  have  ob 
served.  The  Phoenicijan  and  Spanish  blood  which 
has  run  hundreds  of  years  in  their  veins,  slill  kindles 
its  dark  fire  in  their  eyes,  and  with  the  vivacity  of  the 
northern  mind  and  the  bright  color  of  the  northern 
skin,  these  southern  qualities  mingle  in  most  admira 
ble  and  superb  harmony.  The  idea  we  form  of  Ital 
ian  and  Grecian  beauty  is  never  realized  in  Greece  and 
Italy,  but  we  find  it  in  Ireland,  heightened  and  ex 
ceeded.  Cheeks  and  lips  of  the  delicacy  and  bright 
teint  of  carnation,  with  snowy  teeth,  and  hair  and  eye 
brows  of  jet,  are  what  we  shouM  look  for  on  the  palette 
of  Appelles,  could  we  recall  the  painter,  and  reanimate 
his  far-famed  models;  and  these  varied  charms,  united, 
fall  very  commonly  to  the  share  of  the  fair  Milesian 
of  the  upper  classes.  In  other  lands  of  dark  eyes,  the 
rareness  of  a  fine-grained  skin,  so  necessary  to  a  bru 
nette,  makes  beauty  as  rare — but  whether  it  is  the 
damp  softness  of  the  climate  or  the  infusion  of  Saxon 
blood,  a  coarse  skin  is  almost  never  seen  in  Ireland. 
I  speak  now  only  of  the  better-born  ranks  of  society, 
for  in  all  my  travels  in  Ireland,  I  did  not  chance  to 
see  even  one  peasant-girl  of  any  pretensions  to  good 
looks.  From  north  to  south,  they  looked,  to  me, 
coarse,  ill-formed,  and  repulsive. 

I  noticed  in  St.  Patrick's  Hall  what  1  had  remarked 
ever  since  I  had  been  in  the  country,  that  with  all 
their  beauty,  the  Irish  women  are  very  deficient  in 
what  in  England  is  called  style.  The  men,  on  the 
contrary,  were  particularly  comme  ilfaul,  and  as  they 
are  a  magnificent  race  (corresponding  to  such  mothers 
and  sisters),  I  frequently  observed  I  had  never  seen 
so  many  handsome  and  elegant  men  in  a  day.  When 
ever  I  saw  a  gentleman  and  lady  together,  riding, 
driving,  or  walking,  my  first  impression  was,  almost 
universally,  that  the  man  was  in  attendance  upon  a 
woman  of  an  inferior  class  to  his  own.  This  differ 
ence  may  be  partly  accounted  for  by  the  reduced  cir 
cumstances  of  the  gentry  of  Ireland,  which  keeps  the 
daughters  at  home|  that  the  sons  may  travel  and  im 
prove ;  but  it  works  differently  in  America,  where, 
spite  of  travel  and  every  other  advantage  to  the  con 
trary,  the  daughters  of  a  family  are  much  oftener 
lady-like  than  the  sons  are  gentleman-like.  After 
wondering  for  some  time,  however,  why  the  quick 
witted  women  of  Ireland  should  be  less  apt  than  those 
of  other  countries  in  catching  the  air  of  high  breeding 
usually  deemed  so  desirable,  I  began  to  like  them  bet 
ter  for  the  deficiency,  and  to  find  a  reason  for  it  in  the 
very  qualities  which  make  them  so  attractive.  Noth 
ing  could  be  more  captivating  and  delightful  than  the 
manners  of  Irish  women,  and  nothing,  at  the  same 
time,  could  be  more  at  war  with  the  first  principles  of 
English  high  breeding — coldness  and  relenu.  The 
frank,  almost  hilarious  "how  are  you?"  of  an  Irish 
girl,  her  whole-handed  and  cordial  grasp,  as  often  in 
the  day  as  you  meet  her,  the  perfectly  un-missy-ish, 
confiding,  direct  character  of  her  conversation,  are  all 
traits  which  would  stamp  her  as  somewhat  rudely  bred 
in  England,  and  as  desperately  vulgar  in  New  York 
or  Philadelphia. 

Modest  to  a  proverb,  the  Irish  woman  is  as  unsus 
pecting  of  an  impropriety  as  if  it  were  an  impossible 
thing,  and  she  is  as  fearless  and  joyous  as  a  midship 
man,  and  sometimes  as  noisy.  In  a  ball-room  she 
looks  ill-dressed,  not  because  her  dress  was  ill-put-on, 
but  because  she  dances,  not  glides,  sits  down  without 
care,  pulls  her  flowers  to  pieces,  and  if  her  head-dress 
incommodes  her,  gives  it  a  pull  or  a  push — acts  which 
would  be  perfect  insanity  at  Almack's.  If  she  is  of 


fended,  she  asks  for  an  explanation.  If  she  does  not 
understand  you,  she  confesses  her  ignorance.  If  she 
wishes  to  see  you  the  next  day,  she  tells  you  how  and 
when.  She  is  the  child  of  nature,  and  children  are 
not  "stylish."  The  niminy-piminy,  eye-avoiding, 
finger-tipped,  drawling,  don't-touch-rne  manner  of 
some  of  the  fashionable  ladies  of  our  country,  would 
amuse  a  cold  and  reserved  English  woman  sufficiently, 
but  they  would  drive  an  Irish  girl  into  hysterics.  1 
have  met  one  of  our  fair  country-people  abroad,  whose 
"Grecian  stoop,"  and  exquisitely  subdued  manner, 
was  invariably  taken  for  a  fit  of  indigestion. 

The  ball-supper  was  royally  sumptuous,  and  served 
in  a  long  hall  thrown  open  at  midnight ;  and  in  the 
gray  of  the  morning,  I  left  the  floor  covered  with 
waltzers,  and  confessed  to  an  Irish  friend,  that  I  never 
in  my  life,  not  even  at  Almack's,  had  seen  the  half  as 
much  true  beauty  as  had  brightened  St.  Patrick's  Hall 
at  the  celebration  of  the  queen's  marriage. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


CLOSING    SCENES    OF    THE    SESSION    AT  WASHINGTON. 


THE  paradox  of"  the  more  one  does,  the  more  one 
]  can  do,"  is  resolved  in  life  at  Washington  with  more 
success  than  I  have  seen  it  elsewhere.     The  inexora 
ble  bell  at  the  hotel  or  boarding-house  pronounces  the 
irrevocable  and  swift  transit  of  breakfast  to  all  sleepers 
after  eight.     The  elastic  depths  of  the  pillow  have 
scarcely  yielded  their  last  feather  to  the  pressure  of 
!  the  sleeper's  head,  before  the  drowse  is  rudely  shaken 
from  his  eyelids,  and  with  an  alacrity  which  surprises 
himself,  he  finds  his  toilet  achieved,  his  breakfast  over, 
and  himself  abroad  to  lounge  in  the  sunshine  till  the 
flag   waves  on  the  capitol.     He  would  retire  to   his 
chamber  to  read  during   these  two   or  three  vacant 
hours,  but  the  one  chair  in  his  pigeon-hole  creaks,  or 
has  no  back  or  bottom,  or  his  anthracite  fire  is  out,  or 
j   is  too  hot  for  the  size  of  the  room  :  or,  in  short,  Wash 
ington,  from  whatever  cause,  is  a  place  where  none 
read  except  those  who  stand  up  to  a  padlocked  news 
paper.     The  stars  and  stripes,  moving  over  the  two 
wings  of  the  capitol  at  eleven,  announce  that  the  two 
chambers  of  legislation  are  in  session,  and  the  hard- 
i  working  idler  makes  his  way  to   the  senate   or  the 
house.     He  lingers  in  the  lobby  awhile,  amused  with 
the   button-hole  seizers  plying  the  unwilling  ears  of 
members  with   their   claims,    or   enters   the    library, 
where  ladies  turn  over  prints,  and  enfilade,  witli  their 
battery   of  truant  eyes,   the  comers-in  at   the   green 
door.     He  then  gropes  up  the  dark  staircase  to  the 
senate  gallery,   and   stifles  in  the  pressure  of  a   hot 
'  gallery,  forgetting,  like  listeners  at  a  crowded  opera, 
j  that  bodily  discomfort  will  unlink  the  finest  harmonies 
j  of  song  or  oratory.    Thence  hedescends  to  the  rotunda 
to  draw  breath  and  listen  to  the  more  practical,  but 
i  quite  as  earnest  eloquence  of  candidates  for  patents  ; 
and  passes,  after  while,  to  the  crowded  gallery  of  the 
house,   where,   by  some  acoustic  phenomena  in   the 
construction  of  the  building,  the  voices  of  the  speakers 
comes  to  his  ear  as  articulate  as  water  from  a  narrow- 
necked   bottle.     "Small  blame  to  them !"  he  thinks, 
however:  for  behind  the  brexia  columns  are  grouped 
all  the  fair  forms  of  Washington  ;    and  in  making  his 
!  bow  to  two  hundred  despotic  lawgivers  in  feathers  and 
|  velvet,  he  is  readily  consoled  that  the  duller  legislators 
!  who  yield  to   their  sway  are  inaudible  and  forgotten. 
I  To  this  upper  house  drop  in,  occasionally,  the  younger 
I  or  gayer  members  of  the  lower,  bringing,  if  not  politi 
cal  scandal,  at  least  some  slight  resumcr  of  what  INJr. 
Somebody  is  beating  his  desk  about  below  ;  and  thus, 
I  crammed  with  the  day's  trifles  or  the  day's  business, 
I  and  fatigued  from  heel  to  eyelid,  our  idler  goes  home 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


213 


at  five  to  dress  for  dinner  and  the  night's  campaign, 
having  been  up  and  on  his  legs  for  ten  mortal  hours. 

Cold  water  and  a  little  silence  in  his  own  room  have 
rather  refreshed  him,  and  he  dines  at  six  with  a  party 
of  from  fifteen  to  twenty-five  persons.  He  discusses 
the  vital  interests  of  fourteen  millions  of  people  over 
a  glass  of  wine  with  the  man  whose  vote,  possibly, 
will  decide  their  destiny,  and  thence  hurries  to  a  ball 
room  crammed  like  a  perigord-pie,  where  he  pants, 
elbows,  eats  supper,  and  waltzes  till  three  in  the 
morning.  How  human  constitutions  stand  this,  and 
stand  ifdaily  and  nightly,  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  of  a  session,  may  well  puzzle  the  philosophy  of 
those  who  rise  and  breakfast  in  comfortable  leisure. 

I  joined  the  crowd  on  the  twenty-second  of  Februa 
ry,  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  president,  and  see  the 
cheese.     Whatever  veneration  existed  in  the  minds  of 
the   people  toward   the  former,  their  curiosity  in  ref-  { 
erence  to  the   latter   predominated,    unquestionably,  ij 
The   circular  jmve,  extending  from  the  gate  to   the  i 
White  House,  was  thronged  with  citizens  of  all  classes, 
those  coming  away  having  each  a  small  brown  paper  | 
parcel  and  a  very  strong  smell;  those  advancing  mani-  \ 
festing,  by  shakings  of  the  head  and  frequent  exclama-  j 
tions,  that  there  may  be  too  much  of  a  good  thing,  j 
and  particularly  of  a  cheese.     The  beautiful  portico  j 
was  thronged  with  boys  and  coach-drivers,  and  the 
odor  strengthened  with  every  step.     We  forced  our  | 
way  over  the   threshold,   and   encountered  an  atmo 
sphere,  to  which  the  mephitic  gas  floating  over  Aver- 
nus  must  be  faint  and  innocuous.     On  the  side  of  the 
hall  hung  a  rough  likeness  of  the  general,  emblazoned 
with   eagle   and  stars,  forming   a   background   to   the 
huge  tub  in  which  the  cheese  had  been  packed  ;  and 
in  the  centre  of  the  vestibule  stood  the  "fragrant  gift," 
surrounded  with  a  dense  crowd,  who,  without  crackers, 
or  even  "  malt  to  their  cheese,"  had,  in  two  hours, 
eaten  and   purveyed  away  fourteen  hundred  pounds  ! 
The  small  segment  reserved  for  the  president's  use 
counted  for  nothing  in  the  abstractions. 

Glad  to  compromise  for  a  breath  of  cheeselcss  air, 
we  desisted  from  the  struggle  to  obtain  a  sight  of  the 
table,  and  mingled  with  the  crowd  in  the  east  room. 
Here  were  diplomates  in  their  gold  coats  and  officers 
in  uniform,  ladies  of  secretaries  and  other  ladies, 
soldiers  on  volunteer  duty,  and  Indians  in  war-dress 
and  paint.  Bonnets,  feathers,  uniforms,  and  all — it 
was  rather  a  gay  assemblage.  I  remembered  the  de 
scriptions  in  travellers'  books,  and  looked  out  for 
millers  and  blacksmiths  in  their  working  gear,  and  for 
rudeness  and  vulgarity  in  all.  The  oiler  of  a  mam 
moth  cheese  to  the  public  was  likely  to  attract  to  the 
presidental  mansion  more  of  the  lower  class  than  would 
throng  to  a  common  levee.  Great-coats  there  were, 
and  not  a  few  of  them,  for  the  day  was  raw,  and  unless 
they  were  hung  on  the  palings  outside,  theyjpnust  re 
main  on  the  owners'  shoulders  ;  but,  with  a  single  ex 
ception  (a  fellow  with  his  coat  torn  down  his  back, 
possibly  in  getting  at  the  cheese),  I  saw  no  man  in  a 
dress  that  was  not  respectable  and  clean  of  its  kind, 
and  abundantly  fit  for  a  tradesman  out  of  his  shop. 
Those  who  were  much  pressed  by  the  crowd  put  their 
hats  on  ;  but  there  was  a  general  air  of  decorum 
which  would  surprise  any  one  who  had  pinned  his 
faith  on  travellers.  An  intelligent  Englishman,  very 
much  inclined  to  take  a  disgust  to  mobocracy,  ex 
pressed  to  me  great  surprise  at  the  decency  and  proper 
behavior  of  the  people.  The  same  experiment  in 
England,  he  thought,  would  result  in  as  pretty  a  riot 
as  a  paragraph-monger  would  desire  to  see. 

The  president  was  down  stairs  in  the  oval  reception 
room,  and,  though  his  health  would  not  permit  him 
to  stand,  he  sat  in  his  chair  for  two  or  three  hours,  and 
received  his  friends  with  his  usual  bland  and  dignified 
courtesy.  By  his  side  stood  the  lady  of  the  mansion, 
dressed  in  full  court  costume,  and  doing  the  honors 


of  her  place  with  a  grace  and  amenity  which  every  one 
felt,  and  which  threw  a  bloom  over  the  hour.  Gene 
ral  Jackson  retired,  after  a  while,  to  his  chamber,  and 
the  president-elect  remained  to  support  his  relative, 
and  present  to  her  the  still  thronging  multitude,  and 
by  four  o'clock  the  guests  were  gone,  and  the  "  ban 
quet  hall"  was  deserted.  Not  to  leave  a  wrong  im 
pression  of  the  cheese,  I  dined  afterward  at  a  table  to 
which  the  president  had  sent  a  piece  of  it,  and  found 
it  of  excellent  quality.  It  is  like  many  other  things, 
more  agreeable  in  small  quantities. 

Some  eccentric  mechanic  has  presented  the  presi 
dent  with  a  sulkey,  made  entirely  (except  the  wheels) 
of  rough-cut  hickory,  with  the  bark  on.  It  looks 
rude  enough,  but  has  very  much  the  everlasting  look 
of  old  Hickory  himself;  and  if  he  could  be  seen  dri 
ving  a  high-stepping,  bony  old  iron-gray  steed  in  it, 
any  passer  by  would  see  that  there  was  as  much  fitness 
in  the  whole  thing  as  in  the  chariot  of  Bacchus  and 
his  reeling  leopards.  Some  curiously-twisted  and 
gnarled  branches  have  been  very  ingeniously  turned 
into  handles  and  whip-box,  and  the  vehicle  is  compact 
and  strong.  The  president  has  left  it  to  Mr.  Van 
Buren. 

In  very  strong  contrast  to  the  sulkey,  stood  close  by, 
the  elegant  phaeton,  made  of  the  wood  of  the  old 
frigate  Constitution.  It  has  a  seat  for  two,  with  a 
driver's  box,  covered  with  a  superb  hammercloth,  and 
set  up  rather  high  in  front;  the  wheels  and  body  are 
low.  and  there  are  bars  for  baggage  behind  ;  altogeth 
er,  for  lightness  and  elegance,  it  would  be  a  creditable 
turn  out  for  Long  Acre.  The  material  is  excessively 
beautiful — a  fine-grained  oak,  polished  to  a  very  high 
degree,  with  its  colors  delicately  brought  out  by  a  coat 
of  varnish.  The  wheels  are  very  slender  and  light,  but 
strong,  and,  with  all  its  finish,  it  looks  a  vehicle  capa 
ble  of  a  great  deal  of  service.  A  portrait  of  the  Con 
stitution,  under  full  sail,  is  painted  on  the  panels. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE    INAUGURATION. 

WHILE  the  votes  for  president  were  being  counted 
in  the  senate,  Mr.  Clay  remarked  to  Mr.  Van  Buren, 
with  courteous  significance  : — 

"  It  is  a  cloudy  day,  sir!" 

"  The  sun  will  shine  on  the  fourth  of  March!"  was 
the  confident  reply. 

True  to  his  augury,  the  sun  shone  out  of  heaven 
without  a  cloud  on  the  inaugural  morning.  The  air 
was  cold,  but  clear  and  life-giving ;  and  the  broad 
avenues  of  Washington  for  once  seemed  not  too  large 
for  the  thronging  population.  The  crowds  who  had 
been  pouring  in  from  every  direction  for  several  days 
before,  ransacking  the  town  for  but  a  shelter  from  the 
night,  were  apparent  on  the  spacious  sidewalks  ;  and 
the  old  campaigners  of  the  winter  seemed  but  a  thin 
sprinkling  among  the  thousands  of  new  and  strange 
facts.  The  sun  shone  alike  on  the  friends  and  oppo 
nents  of  the  new  administration,  and,  as  far  as  one 
might  observe  in  a  walk  to  the  capitol,  all  were  made 
cheerful  alike  by  its  brightness.  It  was  another 
augury,  perhaps,  and  may  foretell  a  more  extended 
fusion  under  the  light  of  the  luminary  new  risen.  In 
a  whole  day  passed  in  a  crowd  composed  of  all  classes 
and  parlies,  1  heard  no  remark  that  the  president  would 
have  been  unwilling  to  hear. 

I  was  at  the  capitol  a  half  hour  before  the  proces 
sion  arrived,  and  had  leisure  to  study  a  scene  for 
which  I  was  not  at  all  prepared.  The  noble  staircase 
of  the  east  front  of  the  building  leaps  over  three 
arches,  under  one  of  which  carriages  pass  to  the  base 
ment  door ;  and,  as  you  approach  from  the  gate,  the 


214 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


eye  cuts  the  ascent  at  right  angles,  and  the  sky,  broken 
by  a  small  spire  at  a  short  distance,  is  visible  beneath. 
Broad  stairs  occur  at  equal  distances,  with  corre 
sponding  projections  ;  and  from  the  upper  platform  rise 
the  outer  columns  of  the  portico,  with  ranges  of  col 
umns  three  deep  extending  back  to  the  pilasters.  I 
had  often  admired  this  front  with  its  many  graceful 
columns,  and  its  superb  flight  of  stairs,  as  one  of  the 
finest  things  I  had  seen  in  the  world.  Like  the  effect 
of  the  assembled  population  of  Rome  waiting  to  re 
ceive  the  blessing  before  the  front  of  St.  Peter's,  how 
ever,  the  assembled  crowd  on  the  steps  and  at  the 
base  of  the  capitol  heightened  inconceivably  the  gran 
deur  of  the  design.  They  were  piled  up  like  the 
people  on  the  temples  of  Babylon  in  one  of  Martin's 
sublime  pictures — every  projection  covered,  and  an 
inexpressible  soul  and  character  given  by  their  pres 
ence  to  the  architecture.  Boys  climbed  about  the 
bases  of  the  columns,  single  figures  stood  on  the  posts 
of  the  surrounding  railings  in  the  boldest  relief  against 
the  sky;  and  the  wholesaling  was  exactly  what  Paul 
Veronese  would  have  delighted  to  draw.  I  stood  near 
an  accomplished  artist  who  is  commissioned  to  fill  one 
of  the  panels  of  the  rotunda,  and  I  can  not  but  hope 
he  may  have  chosen  this  magnificent  scene  for  his 
subject. 

The  republican  procession,  consisting  of  the  presi 
dents  and  their  families,  escorted  by  a  small  volunteer 
corps,  arrived  soon  after  twelve.  The  General  and 
Mr.  Van  Buren  were  in  the  constitution  phaeton, 
drawn  by  four  grays,  and  as  it  entered  the  gate,  they 
both  rode  uncovered.  Descending  from  the  carriage 
at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  a  passage  was  made  for  them 
through  the  dense  crowd,  and  the  tall  white  head  of 
the  old  chieftain,  still  uncovered,  went  steadily  up 
through  the  agitated  mass,  marked  by  its  peculiarity 
from  all  around  it. 

I  was  in  the  crowd  thronging  the  opposite  side  of 
the  court,  and  lost  sight  of  the  principal  actors  in  this 
imposing  drama,  till  they  returned  from  the  senate 
chamber.  A  temporary  platform  had  been  laid,  and 
railed  in  on  the  broad  stair  which  supports  the  por 
tico,  and,  for  all  preparation  to  one  of  the  most  impor 
tant  and  most  meaning  and  solemn  ceremonies  on 
earth — for  the  inauguration  of  a  chief  magistrate  over  a 
republic  of  fifteen  millions  of  freemen — the  whole  ad 
dition  to  the  open  air,  and  the  presence  of  the  people, 
was  a  volume  of  holy  writ.  In  comparing  the  impres 
sive  simplicity  of  this  consummation  of  the  wishes  of 
a  mighty  people,  with  the  tricked-out  ceremonial,  and  I 
hollow  show,  which  embarrass  a  corresponding  event 
in  other  lands,  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  that  the 
moral  sublime  was  here — that  a  transaction  so  impor 
tant,  and  of  such  extended  and  weighty  import,  could 
borrow  nothing  from  drapery  or  decoration,  and  that 
the  simple  presence  of  the  sacred  volume,  consecrating 
the  act,  spoke  more  thrillingly  to  the  heart  than  the 
trumpets  of  a  thousand  heralds. 

The  crowd  of  diplomatists  and  senators  in  the  rear 
of  the  columns  made  way,  and  the  ex-president  and 
Mr.  Van  Buren  advanced  with  uncovered  heads.  A 
murmur  of  feeling  rose  up  from  the  moving  mass  be 
low,  and  the  infirm  old  man,  emerged  from  a  sick- 
chamber,  which  his  physician  had  thought  it  impossi 
ble  he  should  leave,  bowed  to  the  people,  and,  still 
uncovered  in  the  cold  air,  took  his  seat  beneath  the 
portico.  Mr.  Van  Buren  then  advanced,  and  with  a  I 
voice  remarkably  distinct,  and  with  great  dignity,  read  i 
his  address  to  the  people.  The  air  was  elastic,  and 
the  day  still ;  and  it  is  supposed  that  near  twenty  thou 
sand  persons  heard  him  from  his  elevated  position  dis 
tinctly.  I  stood  myself  on  the  outer  limit  of  the 
crowd,  and  though  I  lost  occasionally  a  sentence  from 
the  interruption  near  by,  his  words  came  clearly  ar 
ticulated  to  my  ear. 

When  the  address  was  closed,  the  chief  justice  ad 


vanced  and  administered  the  oath.  As  the  book 
touched  the  lips  of  the  new  president,  there  arose  a 
general  shout,  and  expression  of  feeling  common 
enough  in  other  countries,  but  drawn  with  difficulty 
from  an  American  assemblage.  The  sons,  and  the 
immediate  friends  of  Mr.  Van  Buren,  then  closed 
about  him  ;  the  ex-president,  the  chief  justice,  and 
others,  gave  him  the  hand  of  congratulation,  and  the 
ceremony  was  over.  They  descended  the  steps,  the 
people  gave  one  more  shout  as  they  mounted  the  con 
stitution  carriage  together,  and  the  procession  returned 
through  the  avenue,  followed  by  the  whole  population 
of  Washington. 

Mr.  Van  Buren  held  a  levee  immediately  afterward, 
but  I  endeavored  in  vain  to  get  my  foot  over  the 
threshold.  The  crowd  was  tremendous.  At  four, 
the  diplomatic  body  had  an  audience ;  and  in  replying 
to  the  address  of  Don  Angel  Calderon,  the  president 
astonished  the  gold  coats,  by  addressing  them  as  the 
democratic  corps.  The  representatives  of  the  crowned 
heads  of  Europe  stood  rather  uneasily  under  the 
epithet,  till  it  was  suggested  that  he  possibly  meant  to 
say  diplomatic. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

WASHINGTON    IN    THE    SESSION. 

THERE  is  a  sagacity  acquired  by  travel  on  the  sub 
ject  of  forage  and  quatters,  which  is  useful  in  all  other 
cities  in  the  world  where  one  may  happen  to  be  a 
stranger,  but  which  is  as  inapplicable  to  the  emergen 
cies  of  an  arrival  in  Washington  as  waltzing  in  a  ship 
wreck.  It  is  a  capital  whose  peculiarities  are  as  much 
sui  generis  as  those  of  Venice ;  but  as  those  who  have 
become  wise  by  a  season's  experience  neither  remain 
on  the  spot  to  give  warning,  nor  have  recorded  thei 
experiences  in  a  book,  the  stranger  is  worse  ofif  in  a 
coach  in  Washington  than  in  a  gondola  in  the  "city 
of  silver  streets." 

It  is  well  known,  I  believe,  that  when  the  future 
city  of  Washington  was  about  being  laid  out,  there 
were  two  large  lot-buyers  or  land-owners,  living  two 
miles  apart,  each  of  whom  was  interested  in  having 
the  public  buildings  upon  the  centre  of  his  own  do 
main.  Like  children  quarrelling  for  a  sugar  horse, 
the  subject  of  dispute  was  pulled  in  two,  and  one  got 
the  head,  the  other  the  tail.  The  capitol  stands  on  a 
rising  ground  in  solitary  grandeur,  and  the  president's 
house  and  department  buildings  two  miles  oft"  on  an 
other.  The  city  straddles  and  stretches  between, 
doing  its  best  to  look  continuous  and  compact;  but 
the  stranger  soon  sees  that  it  is,  after  all,  but  a  "  city 
of  magnificent  distances,"  built  to  please  nobody  on 
earth  but  a  hackney-coachman. 

The  new-comer,  when  asked  what  hotel  he  will 
drive  to,  thinks  himself  very  safe  if  he  chooses  that 
nearest  the  capitol — supposing,  of  course,  that,  as 
Washington  is  purely  a  legislative  metropolis,  the 
most  central  part  will  naturally  be  near  the  scene  of 
action.  He  is  accordingly  set  down  at  Gadsby's,  and, 
at  a  price  that  would  startle  an  English  nobleman,  he 
engages  a  pigeon-hole  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  that 
boundless  caravansary.  Even  at  Gadsby's,  however, 
he  finds  himself  over  half  a  mile  from  the  capitol,  and 
wonders,  for  two  or  three  days,  why  the  deuce  the 
hotel  was  not  built  on  some  of  the  waste  lots  at  the 
foot  of  Capitol  hill,  an  improvement  which  might 
have  saved  him,  in  rainy  weather,  at  least  five  dollars 
a  day  in  hack-hire.  Meantime  the  secretaries  and 
foreign  ministers  leave  their  cards,  and  the  party  and 
dinner-giving  people  shower  upon  him  the  "small 
rain"  of  pink  billets.  He  sets  apart  the  third  or  fourth 
day  to  return  their  calls,  and  inquires  the  addresses 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


215 


of  his  friends  (which  they  never  write  on  their  cards,  ; 
because,  if  they  did,  it  would  be  no  guide),  and  is  told  j 
it  is  impossible  to  direct  him,  but  the  hackney-coachmen  I 
all  know!     lie  calls  the  least  ferocious-looking  of  the  j 
most  bullying  and  ragged  set  of  tatterdemalions  he  has 
ever  seen,  and  delivers  himself  and  his  visiting-list  into 
his  hands.     The    first  thing  is  a  straight  drive  two 
milt's  away  from  the   capitol.     He   passes  the  presi 
dent's  house,  and  getting  off  the  smooth  road,  begins 
to  drive  and  drag  through  cross  lanes  and  open  lots, 
laid  out  according  to  no  plan  that   his  loose   ideas  of 
geometry  can   comprehend,  and  finds  his  friends   liv- 
ing  in  houses  that  want  nothing  of  being  in  the  coun-  j 
try,  but  trees,  garden,  and  fences.     It  looks  as  if  it  had  ! 
rained    naked    brick   houses  upon  a  waste  plain,  and  j 
each  occupant  had  made  a  street  with  reference  to  his  j 
own  front  door.     The  much-shaken  and  more-aston-  j 
ished  victim  consumes  his  morning  and  his  temper,  ! 
and   has   made,  by  dinner-time,  but  six   out  of  forty  j 
calls,  all  imperatively  due,  and  all   scattered  far  and  j 
wide  with  the  same  loose  and  irreconcilable  geogra-  j 

p»y- 

A  fortnight's  experience  satisfies  the  stranger  that 
this  same  journey  is  worse  at  night  than  at  morning; 
and  that,  as  he  leaves  his  dinner  which  he  pays  for  at 
home,  runs  the  risk  of  his  neck,  passes  an  hour  or 
two  on  the  road,  and  ruins  himself  in  hack-hire,  it 
must  be  a  very — yes,  a  very  pleasant  dinner-party  to 
compensate  him.  Consequently,  he  either  sends  a 
"p.  p.  c."  to  all  his  acquaintances,  and  lives  incog., 
or,  which  is  a  more  sensible  thing,  moves  up  to  the 
other  settlement,  and  abandons  the  capitol. 

Those  who  live  on  the  other  side  of  the  president's 
house  are  the  secretaries,  diplomatists,  and  a  few 
wealthy  citizens.  There  is  no  hotel  in  this  quarter, 
but  there  are  one  or  two  boarding-houses,  and  (what 
we  have  been  lucky  enough  to  secure  ourselves)  fur-  j 
nished  lodgings,  in  which  you  have  everything  but 
board.  Your  dinner  is  sent  you  from  a  French  cook's 
near  by,  and  your  servant  gets  your  breakfast — a  plan 
which  gives  you  the  advantage  of  dining  at  your  own 
hour,  choosing  your  own  society,  and  of  having  covers 
for  a  friend  or  two  whenever  it  suits  your  humor,  and 
at  half  an  hour's  warning.  There  are  very  few  of 
these  lodgings  (which  combine  many  other  advantages 
over  a  boarding-house),  but  more  of  them  would  be  a 
good  speculation  to  house-owners,  and  I  wish  it  were  • 
suggested,  not  only  here,  but  in  every  city  in  our 
country.  • 

Aside  from  society,  the  only  amusement  in  Wash 
ington  is  frequenting  the  capitol.     If  one  has  a  great  j 
deal  of  patience  and  nothing  better  to  do,  this  is  very  • 
well ;  and  it  is  very  well  at  any  rate  till  one  becomes  I 
acquainted  with  the   heads   of  the  celebrated  men  in  I 
both  the  chambers,  with  the  noble  architecture  of  the  i 
building,  and  the  routine  of  business.     This  done,  it  ! 
is  time  wearily  spent  for  a  spectator.     The  finef  orators  i 
seldom  speak,  or  seldom   speak  warmly,  the  floor  is 
oftenest  occupied  by  prosing  and  very  sensible  gentle 
men,    whose    excellent   ideas   enter   the   mind    more 
agreeably  by  the  eye  than  the  ear,  or,  in  other  words, 
are  better  delivered  by  the  newspapers,  and  there  is  a  I 
great  deal  of  formula  and  etiquetical  sparring  which  i 
is   not  even  entertaining  to  the  members,  and  which  ' 
consumes  time   "  consumedly."     Now  and  then  the  | 
senate   adjourns  when  some  one  of  the  great  orators  ' 
has  taken  the  floor,  and  you  are  sure  of  a  great  effort 
the  next  morning.     If  you  are  there  in  time,  and  can 
sit,  like  Atlas  with  a  world  on  your  back,  you  may  en 
joy  a  front  seat  and  hear  oratory,  unsurpassed,  in  my 
opinion,  in  the  world. 

The  society  in  Washington,  take  it  all  in^ll,  is  by 
many  degrees  the  best  in^the  United  States.  One  is 
prepared,  though  I  can  not  conceive  why,  for  the  con 
trary.  We  read  in  books  of  travels,  and  we  are  told 
by  everybody,  that  the  society  here  is  promiscuous, 


rough,  inelegant,  and  even  barbarous.  This  is  an 
untrue  representation,  or  it  has  very  much  changed. 

There  is  no  city,  probably  no  village  in  America, 
where  the  female  society  is  not  refined,  cultivated,  and 
elegant.  With  or  without  regular  advantages,  woman 
attains  the  refinements  and  the  tact  necessary  to  polite 
intercourse.  No  traveller  ever  ventured  to  complain 
of  this  part  of  American  society.  The  great  deficiency 
is  that  of  agreeable,  highly-cultivated  men,  whose  pur 
suits  have  been  elevated,  and  whose  minds  are  pliable 
to  the  grace  and  changing  spirit  of  conversation. 
Every  man  of  talents  possesses  these  qualities  naturally, 
and  hence  the  great  advantage  which  Washington  en 
joys  over  every  other  city  in  our  country.  None  but 
a  shallow  observer,  or  a  malicious  book-maker,  would 
ever  sneer  at  the  exteriors  or  talk  of  the  ill-breeding 
of  such  men  as  form,  in  great  numbers,  the  agreeable 
society  of  this  place — for  a  man  of  great  talents  never 
could  be  vulgar;  and  there  is  a  superiority  about  most 
of  these  which  raises  them  above  the  petty  standard 
which  regulates  the  outside  of  a  coxcomb.  Even 
compared  with  the  dress  and  address  of  men  of  similar 
positions  and  pursuits  in  Europe,  however  (members 
of  the  house  of  commons,  for  example,  or  of  the  cham 
ber  of  deputies  in  France),  it  is  positively  the  fact  that 
the  senators  and  representatives  of  the  United  States 
have  a  decided  advantage.  It  is  all  very  well  for  Mr. 
Hamilton,  and  other  scribblers  whose  books  must  be 
spiced  to  go  down,  to  ridicule  a  Washington  soiree  for 
English  readers;  but  if  the  observation  of  one  who 
has  seen  assemblies  of  legislators  and  diplomatists  in 
all  the  countries  of  Europe  may  be  fairly  placed 
against  his  and  Mrs.  Trollope's,  1  may  assert,  upon 
my  own  authority,  that  they  will  not  find,  out  of  May 
Fair  in  England,  so  well-dressed  and  dignified  a  body 
of  men.  I  have  seen  as  yet  no  specimen  of  the  rough 
animal  described  by  them  and  others  as  the  "western 
member;"  and  if  IJavid  Crockett  (whom  I  was  never 
so  fortunate  as  to  see)  was  of  that  description,  the  race 
must  have  died  with  him.  It  is  a  thing  1  have  learned 
since  I  have  been  in  Washington,  to  feel  a  wish  that 
foreigners  should  see  congress  in  session.  We  are 
so  humbugged,  one  way  and  another,  by  travellers' 
lies. 

I  have  heard  the  observation  once  or  twice  from 
strangers  since  I  have  been  here,  and  it  struck  myself 
on  my  first  arrival,  that  I  had  never  seen  within  the 
same  limit  before,  so  many  of  what  may  be  called 
"men  of  mark."  You  will  scarce  meet  a  gentleman 
on  the  sidewalk  in  Washington  who  would  not  attract, 
your  notice,  seen  elsewhere,  as  an  individual  possess 
ing  in  his  eye  or  general  features  a  certain  superiority. 
Never  having  seen  most  of  the  celebrated  speakers  of 
the  senate,  1  busied  myself  for  the  first  day  or  two  in 
examining  the  faces  that  passed  me  in  the  street,  in 
the  hope  of  knowing  them  by  the  outward  stamp 
which,  we  are  apt  to  suppose,  belongs  to  greatness. 
I  gave  it  up  at  last,  simply  from  the  great  number  I 
met  who  might  be  (for  all  that  features  had  to  do  with 
it)  the.  remarkable  men  I  sought. 

There  is  a  very  simple  reason  why  a  congress  of  the 
United  States  should  be,  as  they  certainly  are,  a  much 
more  marked  body  of  men  than  the  English  house  of 
commons  or  lords,  or  the  chamber  of  peers  or  deputies 
in  France.  I  refer  to  the  mere  means  by  which,  in 
either  case,  they  come  by  their  honors.  In  England 
and  France  the  lords  and  peers  are  legislators  by  hered 
itary  right,  and  the  members  of  the  commons  and 
deputies  from  the  possession  of  extensive  property  or 
family  influence,  or  some  other  cause,  arguing,  in 
most  cases,  no  great  personal  talent  in  the  individual. 
They  are  legislators,  but  they  are  devoted  V»TV  often 
much  more  heartily  to  other  pursuits — running  or 
farming,  racing,  driving,  and  similar  out-of-door  pas 
sions  common  to  English  gentlemen  and  lords,  or  the 
corresponding  penchants  of  French  peers  and  deputies. 


216 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


It  is  only  the  few  great  leaders  and  orators  who  devote 
themselves  to  politics  exclusively.  With  us  every 
one  knows  it  is  quite  the  contrary.  An  American 
politician  delivers  himself,  body  and  soul,  to  his  pur 
suit.  He  never  sleeps,  eats,  walks,  or  dreams,  but  in 
subservience  to  his  aim.  He  can  not  afford  to  have 
another  passion  of  any  kind  till  he  has  reached  the 
point  of  his  ambition — and  then  it  has  become  a 
mordent  necessity  from  habit.  The  consequence  is, 
that  no  man  can  be  found  in  an  elevated  sphere  in  our 
country,  who  has  not  had  occasion  for  more  than  ordi 
nary  talent  to  arrive  there.  He  inherited  nothing  of 
his  distinction,  and  has  made  himself.  Such  ordeals 
leave  their  marks,  and  they  who  have  thought,  and 
watched,  and  struggled,  and  contended  with  the  pas 
sions  of  men  as  an  American  politician  inevitably 
must,  can  not  well  escape  the  traces  of  such  work. 
It  usually  elevates  the  character  of  the  face — it  always 
strongly  marks  it. 

A-propos  of  "  men  of  mark  ;"  the  dress  circle  of  the 
theatre,  at  Power's  benefit,  not  long  since,  was  graced 
by  three  Indians  in  full  costume — the  chief  of  the 
Foxes,  the  chief  of  the  loways,  and  a  celebrated  war 
rior  of  the  latter  tribe,  called  the  Sioux-killer.  The 
Fox  is  an  old  man  of  apparently  fifty,  with  a  heavy, 
aquiline  nose,  a  treacherous  eye,  sharp  as  an  eagle's, 
and  a  person  rather  small  in  proportion  to  his  head 
and  features.  He  was  dressed  in  a  bright  scarlet 
blanket,  and  a  crown  of  feathers,  with  an  eagle's  plume, 
standing  erect  on  the  top  of  his  head,  all  dyed  in  the 
same  deep  hue.  His  face  was  painted  to  match,  ex 
cept  his  lips,  which  looked  of  a  most  ghastly  sallow, 
in  contrast  with  his  fiery  nose,  forehead,  and  cheeks. 
His  tomahawk  lay  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  decked 
with  feathers  of  the  same  brilliant  color  with  the  rest 
of  his  drapery.  Next  him  sat  the  Sioux-killer,  in  a 
dingy  blanket,  with  a  crown  made  of  a  great  quantity 
of  the  feathers  of  a  pea-hen,  which  fell  over  his  face, 
and  concealed  his  features  almost  entirely.  He  is 
very  small,  but  is  famous  for  his  personal  feats,  having, 
among  other  things,  walked  one  hundred  and  thirty 
miles  in  thirty  successive  hours,  and  killed  three  Sioux 
(hence  his  name)  in  one  battle  with  that  nation.  He 
is  but  twenty-three,  but  very  compact  and  wiry-looking, 
and  his  eye  glowed  through  his  veil  of  hen-feathers 
like  a  coal  of  fire. 

Next  to  the  Sioux-killer  sat  "  White  Cloud,"  the 
chief  of  the  loways.  His  face  was  the  least  warlike 
of  the  three,  and  expressed  a  good  nature  and  freedom 
from  guile,  remarkable  in  an  Indian.  He  is  about 
twenty-four,  has  very  large  features,  and  a  fine,  erect 
person,  with  broad  shoulders  and  chest.  He  was 
painted  less  than  the  Fox  chief,  but  of  nearly  the  same 
color,  and  carried,  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm,  a  small, 
glittering  tomahawk,  ornamented  with  blue  feathers. 
His  head  was  encircled  by  a  kind  of  turban  of  silver- 
fringed  cloth,  with  some  metallic  pendents  for  earrings, 
and  his  blanket,  not  particularly  clean  or  handsome, 
was  partly  open  on  the  breast,  and  disclosed  a  calico 
shirt,  which  was  probably  sold  to  him  by  a  trader  in 
the  west.  They  were  all  very  attentive  to  the  play, 
but  the  Fox  chief  and  White  Cloud  departed  from  the 
traditionary  dignity  of  Indians,  and  laughed  a  great 
deal  at  some  of  Power's  fun.  The  Sioux-killer  sat 
between  them,  as  motionless  and  grim  as  a  marble 
knight  on  a  tomb-stone. 

The  next  day  I  had  the  pleasure  of  dining  with 
Mr.  Power,  who  lived  at  the  same  hotel  with  the  In 
dian  delegation  ;  and  while  at  dinner  he  received  a 
message  from  the  loways,  expressing  a  wish  to  call  on 
him.  We  were  sitting  over  our  wine  when  White 
Cloud  and  the  Sioux-killer  came  in  with  their  inter 
preter.  There  were  several  gentlemen  present,  one 
of  them  in  the  naval  undress  uniform,  whose  face  the 
Sioux-killer  scrutinized  very  sharply.  They  smiled 
in  bowing  to  Power,  but  made  very  grave  inclinations 


to  the  rest  of  us.  The  chief  took  his  seat,  assuming 
a  very  erect  and  dignified  attitude,  which  he  preserved 
immoveable  during  the  interview ;  but  the  Sioux-killer 
drew  up  his  legs,  resting  them  on  the  round  of  the 
chair,  and,  with  his  head  and  body  bent  forward, 
seemed  to  forget  himself,  and  give  his  undivided  atten 
tion  to  the  study  of  Power  and  his  naval  friend. 

Tumblers  of  champagne  were  given  them,  which 
they  drank  with  great  relish,  though  the  Sioux-killer 
provoked  a  little  ridicule  from  White  Cloud,  by  cough 
ing  as  he  swallowed  it.  The  interpreter  was  a  half- 
breed  between  an  Indian  and  a  negro,  and  a  most  in 
telligent  fellow.  He  had  been  reared  in  the  loway 
tribe,  but  had  been  among  the  whites  a  great  deal  for 
the  last  few  years,  and  had  picked  up  English  very 
fairly.  He  told  us  that  White  Cloud  was  the  son  of 
old  White  Cloud,  who  died  three  years  since,  and 
that  the  young  chief  had  acquired  entire  command 
over  the  tribe  by  his  mildness  and  dignity.  He  had 
paid  the  debts  of  the  loways  to  the  traders,  very  much 
against  the  will  of  the  tribe;  but  he  commenced  by 
declaring  firmly  that  he  would  be  just,  and  had  carried 
his  point.  He  had  come  to  Washington  to  receive  a 
great  deal  of  money  from  the  sale  of  the  lands  of  the 
tribe,  and  the  distribution  of  it  lay  entirely  in  his  own 
power.  Only  one  old  warrior  had  ventured  to  rise  in 
council  and  object  to  his  measures;  but  when  White 
Cloud  spoke,  he  had  dropped  his  head  on  his  bosorn 
and  submitted.  This  information  and  that  which 
followed  was  given  in  English,  of  which  neither  of  the 
loways  understood  a  word. 

Mr.  Power  expressed  a  surprise  that  the  Sioux- 
killer  should  have  known  him  in  his  citizen's  dress. 
The  interpreter  translated  it,  and  the  Indian  said  in 
answer: — 

"  The  dress  is  very  different,  but  when  I  see  a  man's 
eye  I  know  him  again." 

He  then  told  Power  that  he  wished,  in  the  theatre, 
to  raise  his  war-cry  and  help  him  fight  the  three  bad- 
looking  men  who  were  his  enemies  (referring  to  the 
three  bailiffs  in  the  scene  in  Paddy  Carey).  Power 
asked  what  part  of  the  play  he  liked  best.  He  said 
that  part  where  he  seized  the  girl  in  his  arms  and  ran 
off  the  stage  with  her  (at  the  close  of  an  Irish  jig  in 
the  same  play). 

The  interpreter  informed  us  that  this  was  the  first 
time  the  Sioux-killer  had  come  among  the  whites. 
He  had  disliked  them  always  till  now,  but  he  said  he 
had  seen  enough  to  keep  him  telling  tales  all  the  rest 
of  his  life.  Power  offered  them  cigars,  which  they 
refused.  We  expressed  our  surprise  ;  and  the  Sioux- 
killer  said  that  the  Indians  who  smoked  gave  out 
soonest  in  the  chase;  and  White  Cloud  added,  very 
gravely,  that  the  young  women  of  his  tribe  did  not 
like  the  breaths  of  the  smokers.  In  answer  to  an  in 
quiry  I  made  about  the  comparative  size  of  Indians 
and  white  men,  the  chief  said  that  the  old  men  of  the 
whites  were  larger  than  old  Indians,  but  the  young 
whites  were  not  so  tall  and  straight  as  the  youths  of 
his  tribe.  We  were  struck  with  the  smallness  of  the 
chief's  hands  and  feet;  but  he  seemed  very  much 
mortified  when  the  interpreter  translated  our  remark  to 
him.  He  turned  the  little  sallow  fingers  over  and  over, 
and  said  that  old  White  Cloud,  his  father,  who  had 
been  a  great  warrior,  had  small  hands  like  his.  The 
young  chief,  we  were  told  by  the  interpreter,  has  never 
yet  been  in  an  engagement,  and  is  always  spared  from 
|  the  heavier  fatigues  undergone  by  the  rest  of  the 
I  tribe. 

They  showed  great  good  nature  in  allowing  us  to 

I  look    afc  their   ornaments,   tomahawks,  &c.      White 

Cloud  wore  a  collar  of  bear's  claws,  which  marked 

him  for  a  chief;  and  the  Sioux-killer  carried  a  great 

|  cluster  of  brass  bells  on  the  end  of  his  tomahawk,  of 

;  which  he  explained  the  use  very  energetically.     It 

!  was  to  shake  when  he  stood  over  his  fallen  enemy  in 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


217 


the  fight,  to  let  the  tribe  know  he   had  killed  him.  | 
After  another  tumbler  of  champagne  each,  they  rose 
to  take  their  leave,  and  White  Cloud  gave  us  his  hand  j 
gently,  with  a  friendly   nod.     We  were  all  amused,  | 
however,  with  the  Sioux-killer's  more  characteristic  | 
adieu.     Ue  looked  us  in  the  eye  like  a  hawk,  and  gave  , 
us  each  a  grip  of  his  iron  fist,  that  made  the  blood  | 
tingle  under  our  nails.     He  would   be   an  awkward 
customer  in  a  fight,  or  his  fixed  lips  and  keen  eye  very  ! 
much  belie  him. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


WASHINGTON    AFTKR    THE    SESSION. 

THE  leaf  that  is  lodged  in  some  sunny  dell,  after 
drifting  on  the  whirlwind — the  Indian's  canoe,  after  it  ' 
has  shot  the  rapids — the  drop  of  water  that  has  strug 
gled  out  from  the  Phlegethon  of  Niagara,  and  sleeps 
on  the  tranquil   bosom  of  Ontario — are   faint  images 
of  contrast  and  repose,  compared  with  a  Washington!-  j 
an  after  the  session.     I  have  read  somewhere,  in  an  I 
oriental  tale,  that  a  lover,  having  agreed  to  share  his  j 
life  with  his  dying  mistress,  took   her   place   in  the  i 
grave  six  months  in  the  year.     In  Bagdad  it  might 
have  been  a  sacrifice.     In  Washington  I  could  con 
ceive  such  an  arrangement  to  make  very  little  dif 
ference. 

Nothing  is  done  leisurely  in  our  country  ;  and,  by 
the  haste  with  which  everybody  rushes  to  the  rail 
road  the   morning   after  the  rising  of  congress,  you  I 
would  fancy  that   the  cars,  like   Cinderella's   coach,  j 
would   be   changed  into   pumpkins   at  the  stroke  of 
twelve.     The  town  was  evacuated  in  a  day.     On  the  j 
fifth   of  March  a   placard  was  sent  back  by  the  inn 
keepers  at  Baltimore,  declaring  that  there  was  not  so  ! 
much  as  a  garret  to  be  had  in  that  city,  and  imploring 
gentlemen  and  ladies  to  remain  quietly  at  Washington  j 
for  twenty-four  hours.     The  railroad  engine,  twice  a  j 
day,  tugged  and  putted  away  through  the  hills,  draw-  j 
ing  after  it,  on  its  sinuous  course,  a  train  of  brick-color 
ed  cars,  that  resembled  the  fabulous  red  dragon  trailing  \ 
its  slimy  length  through  the  valley  of  Crete.     The  j 
gentlemen   who   sit  by   the  fire   in   the    bar-room   at  ! 
Gadsby's,  like  Theodore  Hook's  secretary,  who  could  i 
hear  his  master  write  "  Yours  faithfully"  in  the  next  j 
room,  learned   to   distinguish    "  Received    payment"  j 
from  "  Sundries,"  by  listening  to  the  ceaseless  scratch 
of  the   bookkeeper.     The  ticket-office    at  the  depot  I 
was  a  scene  of  struggle  and  confusion  between  those 
who  wanted  places  ;  while,  looking  their  last  on  these  j 
vanishing  paymasters,  stood  hundreds  of  tatterdema-  j 
lions,  white,  yellow,  and   black,  with  their  hands  in  i 
their  pockets,  and  (if  sincere  regret  at  their  departure  \ 
could  have  wrung  it  forth)  a  tear  in  their  eye.     The 
bell  rang,  and  the  six  hundred  departures  flocked  to  ! 
their  places — young  ladies,  with  long  faces,  leaving 
the  delights  of  Washington  for  the  dull  repose  of  the 
country — their  lovers,  with  longer  faces,  trying,  in  vain, 
to  solve  the   X  quantity  expressed  by  the  aforesaid 
"  Sundries"  in  their  bill — and   members  of  congress 
with  long  faces,  too — for  not  one  in  twenty  has  "made  | 
the  impression"  he  expected  ;  and  he  is  moralizing 
on  the  decline  of  the  taste  for  eloquence,  and  on  the  • 
want  of  "  golden  opportunity"  for  the  display  of  indig 
nant  virtue! 

Nothing  but  an  army,  or  such  a  concourse  of  people 
as  collects  to  witness  an  inauguration,  could  ever  make  • 
Washington  look  populous.  But  when  congress,  and 
its  train  of  ten  thousand  casual  visiters  are  gone,  and 
only  the  official  and  indigenous  inhabitants  remain, 
Balbec,  or  Palmyra,  with  a  dozen  Arabs  scattered 
among  its  ruins,  has  less  a  look  of  desolation.  The  | 
few  stragglers  in  the  streets  add  to  its  loneliness — pro-  , 


ducing  exactly  the  effect  sometimes  given  to  a  wood 
land  solitude  by  the  presence  of  a  single  bird.  The 
vast  streets  seem  grown  vaster  and  more  dispropor 
tionate — the  houses  seem  straggling  to  greater  distan 
ces — the  walk  from  the  president's  house  to  the  capitol 
seems  twice  as  long — and  new  faces  are  seen  here  and 
there,  at  the  doors  and  windows — for  cooks  and  inn 
keepers  that  had  never  time  to  lounge,  lounge  no\v, 
and  their  families  take  quiet  possession  of  the  unrented 
front  parlor.  He  who  would  be  reminded  of  his  de 
parted  friends  should  walk  down  on  the  avenue.  The 
carpet,  associated  with  so  many  pleasant  recollections 
— which  has  been  pressed  by  the  dainty  feet  of  wits 
and  beauties — to  tread  on  which  was  a  privilege  and 
a  delight — is  displayed  on  a  heap  of  old  furniture,  and 
while  its  sacred  defects  are  rudely  scanned  by  the  curi 
ous,  is  knocked  down,  with  all  its  memories,  under  the 
hammer  of  the  auctioneer.  Tables,  chairs,  ottomans 
— all  linked  with  the  same  glowing  recollections — go 
for  most  unworthy  prices;  and  while,  humiliated  with 
the  sight,  you  wonder  at  the  artificial  value  given  to 
things  by  their  possessors,  you  begin  to  wonder  wheth 
er  your  friends  themselves,  subjected  to  the  same 
searching  valuation,  would  not  be  depreciated  too! 
Ten  to  one,  if  their  characters  were  displayed  like 
their  carpets,  there  would  come  to  light  defects  as  un 
suspected  ! 

The  person  to  whom  this  desolation  is  the  "  un- 
kindest  cut"  is  the  hackney-coachman.  "His  voca 
tion"  is  emphatically  gone  !  Gone  is  the  dollar  made 
every  successive  half  hour!  Gone  is  the  pleasant  sum 
in  compound  addition,  done  "in  the  head,"  while  wait 
ing  at  the  doors  of  the  public  offices!  Gone  are  the 
short,  but  profitable,  trips  to  the  theatre  !  Gone  the 
four  or  five  families,  all  taken  the  same  evening  to  par 
ties,  and  each  paying  the  item  of"  carriage  from  nine 
till  twelve  !"  Gone  the  absorbed  politician,  who  would 
rather  give  the  five-dollar  bill  than  wait  for  his  change  ! 
the  lady  who  sends  the  driver  to  be  paid  at  "the  bar;" 
the  uplifted  fingers,  hither  and  thither,  which  embar 
rass  his  choice  of  a  fare — gone,  all!  The  chop-fallen 
coachy  drives  to  the  stand  in  the  morning  and  drives 
home  at  noon;  he  creeps  up  to  Fuller's  at  a  snail- 
pace,  and,  in  very  mockery  of  hope,  asks  the  home 
ward-bound  clerk  from  the  department  if  he  wants  a 
coach!  Night  comes  on,  and  his  horses  begin  to  be 
lieve  in  the  millenium — and  the  cobwebs  are  wove 
over  his  whip-socket. 

These  changes,  however,  affect  not  unpleasantly  the 
diplomatic  and  official  colony  extending  westward  from 
the  president's.  The  inhabitants  of  this  thin-sprinkled 
settlement  are  away  from  the  great  thoroughfare,  and 
do  not  miss  its  crowds.  The  cessation  of  parties  is  to 
them  a  relief  from  night-journeys,  colds,  card-leavings, 
and  much  wear  and  tear  of  carriage-horses.  They 
live  now  in  dressing-gowns  and  slippers,  read  the  re 
views  and  the  French  papers,  get  their  dinners  com 
fortably  from  the  restaurateurs,  and  thank  Heaven  that 
the  capitol  is  locked  up.  The  attaches  grow  fat,  and 
the  despatches  grow  thin. 

There  are  several  reasons  why  Washington,  till  the 
rnontli  of  May,  spite  of  all  the  drawbacks  in  the  pic 
ture  delineated  above,  is  a  more  agreeable  residence 
than  the  northern  cities.  In  the  first  place,  its  climate 
is  at  least  a  month  earlier  than  that  of  New  York,  and, 
in  the  spring,  is  delightful.  The  trees  are  at  this  mo 
ment  (the  last  week  in  March)  bursting  into  buds; 
open  carriages  are  everywhere  in  use;  walking  in  the 
sun  is  oppressive  ;  and  for  the  last  fortnight,  this  has 
been  a  fair  chronicle  of  the  weather.  Boston  and 
New  York  have  been  corroded  with  east  winds,  mean 
time,  and  even  so  near  as  Baltimore,  they  are  still 
wrapped  in  cloaks  arid  shawls.  To  those  who,  in 
reckoning  the  comforts  of  life,  agree  with  me  in  making 
climate  stand  for  nine  tenths,  this  is  powerful  attrac 
tion. 


218 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


Then  the  country  about  Washington,  the  drives 
and  rides,  are  among  the  most  lovely  in  the  world, 
the  banks  of  Rock  creek  are  a  little  wilderness  of 
beauty.  More  bright  waters,  more  secluded  bridle 
paths,  more  sunny  and  sheltered  hill-sides,  or  finer 
mingling  of  rock,  hill,  and  valley,  I  never  rode  among. 
Within  a  half  hour's  gallop,  you  have  a  sylvan  retreat 
of  every  variety  of  beauty,  and  in  almost,  any  direction  ; 
and  from  this  you  come  home  (and  this  is  not  the 
case  with  most  sylvan  rides)  to  an  excellent  French 
dinner  and  agreeable  society,  if  you  like  it.  You  have 
all  the  seclusion  of  a  rural  town,  and  none  of  its  petty 
politics  and  scandal — all  the  means  and  appliances  of 
a  large  metropolis,  and  none  of  its  exactions  and  lim 
itations.  That  which  makes  the  charm  of  a  city,  and 
that  for  which  we  seek  the  country,  are  equally  here, 
and  the  penalties  of  both  are  removed. 

Until  the  reflux  of  population  from  the  Rocky 
mountains,  I  suppose  Washington  will  never  be  a  me 
tropolis  of  residence.  But  if  it  were  an  object  with 
the  inhabitants  to  make  it  more  so,  the  advantages  I 
have  just  enumerated,  and  a  little  outlay  of  capital  and 
enterprise,  would  certainly,  in  some  degree,  effect  it. 
People  especially  who  come  from  Europe,  or  have 
been  accustomed  to  foreign  modes  of  living,  would  be 
glad  to  live  near  a  society  composed  of  such  attractive 
materials  as  the  official  and  diplomatic  persons  at  the 
seat  of  government.  That  which  keeps  them  away  is, 
principally,  want  of  accommodation,  and,  in  a  less  de 
gree,  it  is  want  of  comfortable  accommodation  in  the 
other  cities  which  drives  them  back  to  Europe.  In 
Washington  you  must  either  live  at  an  hotel  or  a 
boarding-house.  In  either  case,  the  mode  of  life  is 
only  endurable  for  the  shortest  possible  period,  and 
the  moment  congress  rises,  every  sufferer  in  these  de 
testable  places  is'off  for  relief.  The  hotels  are  crowd 
ed  to  suffocation ;  there  is  an  utter  want  of  privacy  in 
the  arrangement  of  the  suites  of  apartments  ;  the  ser 
vice  is  ill-ordered,  and  the  prices  out  of  all  sense  or 
reason.  You  pay  for  that  which  you  have  not,  and 
you  can  not  get  by  paying  for  it  that  which  you  want. 

The  boarding-house  system  is  worse  yet.  To  pos 
sess  but  one  room  in  privacy,  and  thai  opening  on  a 
common  passage;  to  be  obliged  to  come  to  meals  at 
certain  hours,  with  chance  table  companions,  and  no 
place  for  a  friend,  and  to  live  entirely  in  your  bedroom 
or  in  a  public  parlor,  may  truly  be  called  as  abominable 
a  routine  as  a  gentleman  could  well  suffer.  Yet  the 
great  majority  of  those  who  come  to  Washington  are 
in  one  or  the  other  of  these  two  categories. 

The  use  of  lodgings  for  strangers  or  transient  resi 
dents  in  the  city  does  not,  after  all  the  descriptions  in 
books,  seem  at  all  understood  in  our  country.  This 
is  what  Washington  wants,  but  it  is  what  every  city  in 
the  country  wants  generally.  Let  us  describe  it  as  if 
it  was  never  before  heard  of,  and  perhaps  some  en 
lightened  speculator  may  advance  us  half  a  century  in 
some  of  the  cities,  by  creating  this  luxury. 

Lodgings  of  the  ordinary  kind  in  Europe  generally 
consist  of  the  apartments  on  one  floor.  The  house, 
we  will  suppose,  consists  of  three  stories  above  the 
basement,  and  each  floor  contains  a  parlor,  bedroom, 
and  dressing-room,  with  a  small  antechamber.  (This 
arrangement  of  rooms  varies,  of  course,  and  a  larger 
family  occupies  two  floors.)  These  three  suites  of 
apartments  are  neatly  furnished ;  bed-clothes,  table- 
linen,  and  plate,  if  required,  are  found  by  the  proprie 
tor,  and  in  the  basement  story  usually  lives  a  man  and 
his  wife,  who  attend  to  the  service  of  the  lodgers; 
i.  e.,  bring  water,  answer  the  door-bell,  take  in  letters, 
keep  the  rooms  in  order,  make  the  fires,  and,  if  it  is 
wished,  do  any  little  cookery  in  case  of  sickness. 
These  people  are  paid  by  the  proprietor,  but  receive  a 
fee  for  extra  service,  and  a  small  gratuity,  at  departure, 
from  the  lodger.  It  should  be  added  to  this,  that  it  is 
not  infra,  dig:  to  live  in  the  second  or  third  story. 


In  connexion  with  lodgings,  there  must  be  of  course 
a  cook  or  restaurateur  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 
The  stranger  agrees  with  him  for  his  dinner,  to  consist 
of  so  many  dishes,  and  to  be  sent  to  him  at  a  certain 
hour.  He  gives  notice  in  the  morning  if  he  dines  out, 
buys  his  own  wine  of  the  wine-merchant,  and  thus 
saves  two  heavy  items  of  overcharge  in  the  hotel  or 
boarding-house.  His  own  servant  makes  his  tea  or 
coffee  (and  for  this  purpose  has  access  to  the  fire  in 
the  basement),  and  does  all  personal  service,  such  as 
brushing  clothes,  waiting  at  table,  going  on  errands, 
&c.,  &c.  The  stranger  comes  in,  in  short,  at  a  mo- 

I  ment's  warning,  brings  nothing  but  his  servant  and 
baggage,  and  finds  himself  in  five  minutes  at  home, 
his  apartments  private,  and  every  comfort  and  con 
venience  as  completely  about  him  as  if  he  had  lived 
there  for  years. 

At  from  ten  to  fourteen  dollars  a  week,  such  apart 
ments  would  pay  the  proprietor  handsomely,  and  af 
ford  a  reasonable  luxury  to  the  lodger.  A  cook  would 
make  a  good  thing  of  sending  in  a  plain  dinner  for  a 
dollar  a  head  (or  more  if  the  dinner  were  more  expen 
sive),  and  at  this  rate,  a  family  of  two  or  more  persons 
might  have  a  hundred  times  the  comfort  now  enjoyed 
at  hotels,  at  certainly  half  the  cost. 

We  have  been  seduced  into  a  very  unsentimental 
chapter  of  "  ways  and  means,"  but  we  trust  the  sug 
gestions,  though  containing  nothing  new,  may  not  be 
altogether  without  use.  The  want  of  some  such  thing 

I  as  we  have  recommended  is  daily  and  hourly  felt  and 

j  complained  of. 


THE  FOUR  RIVERS, 

THE    HUDSON — THE    MOHAWK THE    CHENANGO THE 

SUSQUEHANNAH. 

SOME  observer  of  nature  offered  a  considerable  re 
ward  for  two  blades  of  striped  grass  exactly  similar. 
i  The  infinite  diversify,  of  which  this  is  one  instance, 
|  exists  in  a  thousand  other  features  of  nature,  but  in 
1  none  more  strikingly  than  in  the  scenery  of  rivers. 
1  What  two  in  the  woild  are  alike  !  How  often  does 
I  the  attempt  fail  to  compare  the  Hudson  with  the  Rhine 
— the  two,  perhaps,  among  celebrated  rivers,  which 
j  are  the  nearest  to  a  resemblance  ?  Yet  looking  at  the 
I  first  determination  of  a  river's  course,  and  the  natural 
j  operation  of  its  search  for  the  sea,  one  would  suppose 
j  that,  in  a  thousand  features,  their  valleys  would  scarce 
I  be  distinguishable. 

I  think,  of  all  excitements  in  the  world,  that  of  the 
first  discovery  and  explanation  of  a  noble  river,  must 
j  be  the  most  eager  and  enjoyable.     P'ancy  "  the  bold 
i  Englishman,''  as  the  Dutch  called  Hendrich  Hudson, 
\  steering  his  little  yacht,  the  Halve-Mane,  for  the  first 
time  through  the  Highlands  !     Imagine  his  anxiety 
for  the  channel  forgotten  as  he  gazed  up  at  the  tower- 
j  ing  rocks,  and   round  upon  the  green  shores,  and  on- 
|  ward,  past  point  and  opening  bend,  miles  away  into  the 
i  heart  of  the   country  ;   yet  with  no  lessening  of  the 
glorious   stream    beneath    him,   and   no   decrease    of 
promise  in  the  bold  and  luxuriant  shores  !     Picture 
him  lying  at  anchor  below  Newburgh,  with  the  dark 
j  pass  of  the  "  Wey-Gat"   frowning  behind   him,  the 
I  lofty   and   blue  Catskills   beyond,   and    the   hill-sides 
around  covered  with  the  red  lords  of  the  soil,  exhibit 
ing   only    less   wonder   than   friendliness.     And    how 
beautifully  was  the  assurance  of  welcome   expressed, 
when  the  "very  kind  old  man"  brought  a  bunch  of 
arrows,  and  broke  them  before  the  stranger,  to  induce 
him  to  partake  fearlessly  of  his  hospitality! 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


219 


The  qualities  of  the  Hudson  are  those  most  likely 
to  impress  a  stranger.  It  chances  felicitously  that  the 
traveller's  first  entrance  beyond  the  sea-board  is  usually 
made  by  the  steamer  to  Albany.  The  grand  and  im 
posing  outlines  of  rock  and  horizon  answer  to  his  an 
ticipations  of  the  magnificence  of  a  new  world  ;  and  if 
he  finds  smaller  rivers  and  softer  scenery  beyond,  it  I 
strikes  him  but  as  a  slighter  lineament  of  a  more  en-  I 
larged  design.  To  the  great  majority  of  tastes,  this,  I 
too,  is  the  scenery  to  live  among.  The  stronger  lines 
of  natural  beauty  affect  most  tastes  ;  and  there  are 
few  who  would  select  country  residence  by  beauty  at 
all,  who  would  not  sacrifice  something  to  their  prefer 
ence  for  the  neighborhood  of  sublime  scenery.  The 
quiet,  the  merely  rural  —  a  thread  of  a  rivulet  instead 
of  a  broad  river  —  a  small  and  secluded  valley,  rather 
than  a  wide  extent  of  view,  bounded  by  bold  moun 
tains,  is  the  choice  of  but  few.  The  Hudson,  there 
fore,  stands  usually  foremost  in  men's  aspirations  for 
escape  from  the  turmoil  of  cities;  but  to  my  taste, 
though  there  are  none  more  desirable  to  see,  there 
are  sweeter  rivers  to  live  upon. 

I  made  one  of  a  party,  very  lately,  bound  upon  a 
rambling  excursion  up  and  down  some  of  the  river- 
courses  of  New  York.  We  had  anticipated  empty 
boats,  and  an  absence  of  all  the  gay  company  usually 
found  radiating  from  the  city  in  June,  and  had  made 
up  our  minds  for  once  to  be  contented  with  the  study 
of  inanimate  nature.  Never  were  wiseheads  more 


when  a  Yankee  settler  hews  me  down  twenty  wood- 
nymphs  of  a  morning  !  There  lie  their  bodies,  limb 
less  trunks,  on  the  banks  of  the  Mohawk,  yet  no  Dutch 
man  stands  sprouting  into  leaves  near  by,  nor  woollen 
jacket  turning  into  bark,  as  in  the  retributive  olden 
time!  We  are  abandoned  of  these  gods  of  Arcady! 
They  like  not  the  smoke  of  steam  funnels  ! 

Talking  of  smoke  reminds  me  of  ashes.  Is  there 
no  way  of  frequenting  railroads  without  the  loss  of 
one's  eyes.  Must  one  pay  for  velocity  as  dearly  as 
Cacus  for  his  oxen  ?  Really  this  new  invention  is  a 
blessing— to  the  oculists !  Ten  thousand  small  crystals 
of  carbon  cutting  right  and  left  among  the  fine  vessels 
and  delicate  membranes  of  the  eye,  and  all  this  amid 
glorious  scenery,  where  to  go  bandaged  (as  needs 
must),  is  to  slight  the  master-work  of  nature !  Either 
run  your  railroads  away  from  the  river  courses,  gentle 
men  contractors,  or  find  some  other  place  than  your 
passengers'  eyes  to  bestow  your  waste  ashes  !  I  have 
heard  of  "  lies  in  smiles,"  but  there's  a  lye  in  tears, 
that  touches  the  sensibilities  more  nearly  ! 

There  is  a  drowsy  beauty  in  these  German  flats  that 
seems  strangely  profaned  by  a  smoky  monster  whisk 
ing  along  twenty  miles  in  the  hour.  The  gentle  canal- 
boat  was  more  homogeneous  to  the  scene.  The  hills 
lay  off  from  the  river  in  easy  and  sleepy  curves,  and 
the  amber  Mohawk  creeps  down  over  its  shallow  gravel 
with  a  deliberateness  altogether  and  abominably  out 
of  tune  with  the  iron  rails.  Perhaps  it  is  the  rails  out 


mistaken.  Our  kind  friend,  Captain  Dean,  of  the  II  of  tune  with  the  river  —  but  any  way  there  is  a  discord. 
Stevens,  stood  by  his  plank  when  we  arrived,  doing  his  j  I  am  content  to  see  the  Mohawk,  canal,  and  railroad 
best  to  save  the  lives  of  the  female  portion  of  the  j  inclusive,  but  once  a  year. 

1  ___  l_-          _     ___      1.    ____   J      .         _  J  •  .1  -wr  1  ,  ,         J        , 


crowd  rushing  on  board  ;  and  never,  in  the  most  palmy 
days  of  the  prosperity  of  our  country,  have  we  seen  a 
greater  number  of  people  on  board  a  boat,  nor  a  strong 
er  expression  of  that  busy  and  thriving  haste,  which 
is  thought  to  be  an  exponent  of  national  industry. 
How  those  varlets  of  newsboys  contrive  to  escape  in 
time,  or  escape  at  all,  from  being  crushed  or  carried 
off;  how  everybody's  baggage  gets  on  board,  and 
everybody's  wife  and  child  ;  how  the  hawsers  are 
slipped,  and  the  boat  got  under  way,  in  such  a  crowd 
and  such  a  crush,  are  matters  understood,  I  suppose, 
by  Providence  and  the  captain  of  the  Stevens— but 
they  are  beyond  the  comprehension  of  the  passenger. 

Having  got  out  of  hearing  of  "  Here's  the  Star !" 
"Buy  the  old  major's  paper,  sir  ?"  "  Here's  the  Ex 
press!"  "Buy  the  New-En/?"  "  Would  you  like  a 
New-Era,  sir  ?"  "  Take  a  Sun,  miss  ?"  and  a  hun 
dred  such  deafening  ciies,  to  which  New  York  has  of 
late  years  become  subject,  we  drew  breath  and  com 
parative  silence  off  the  green  shore  of  Hoboken,  thank 
ing  Heaven  for  even  the  repose  of  a  steamboat,  after 
the  babel  of  a  metropolis.  Stillness,  like  all  other 
things,  is  relative. 

The  passage  of  the  Hudson  is  doomed  to  be  |je-wi  it- 
ten,  and  we  will  not  again  swell  its  great  multitude  of 
describers.  Bound  onward,  we  but  gave  a  glance,  in 
passing,  to  romantic  Undercliff  and  Cro'-Nest,  hallow 
ed  by  the  sweetest  poetry  our  country  has  yet  com 
mitted  to  immortality  ;  gave  our  malison  to  the  black 
smoke  of  iron-works  defacing  the  green  mantle  of 
nature,  and  our  benison  to  every  dweller  on  the  shore 
who  has  painted  his  fence  white,  and  smoothed  his 


We  reached  the  head  waters  of  the  Chenango  river, 
by  what  Miss  Martineau  celebrates  as  an  "  exclusive 
extra,"  in  an  afternoon's  ride  from  Utica.  The  latter 
thrifty  and  hospitable  town  was  as  redolent  of  red 
bricks  and  sunshine  as  usual ;  and  the  streets,  to  my 
regret,  had  grown  no  narrower.  They  who  laid  out 
the  future  legislative  capital  of  New  York,  must  have 
been  lovers  of  winter's  wind  and  summer's  sun.  They 
forgot  the  troubles  of  the  near-sighted — (it  requires 
spectacles  to  read  the  signs  or  see  the  shops  from  one 
side  to  the  other);  they  forgot  the  perils  of  old  women 
and  children  in  the  wide  crossings;  they  forgot  the 
pleasures  of  shelter  and  shade,  of  neighborly  vis-a-vis, 
of  comfortable-lookingness.  I  maintain  that  Utica  is 
not  a  comfortable-looking  town.  It  affects  me  like  the 
clown  in  the  pantomime,  when  he  sits  down  without 
bending  his  legs — by  mere  straddling.  I  would  not 
say  anything  so  ungracious  if  it  were  not  to  suggest  a 
remedy — a  shady  mall  up  and  down  the  middle  !  What 
a  beautiful  town  it  would  be — like  an  old-fashioned 
shirt  bosom,  with  a  frill  of  elms!  Your  children 
would  walk  safely  within  the  rails,  and  your  country- 
neighbors  would  expose  their  "  sa'ace,"  and  cool  their 
tired  oxen  in  the  shade.  We  felt  ourselves  compen 
sated  for  paying  nearly  double  price  for  our  "  extra," 
by  the  remarkable  alacrity  with  which  the  coach  came 
to  the  door  after  the  bargain  was  concluded,  and  the 
politeness  with  which  the  "gentleman  who  made  out 
the  way-bill,"  acceded  to  our  stipulation.  He  bowed 
us  off,  expressed  his  happiness  to  serve  us,  and  away 
we  went. 

The  Chenango,  one  of  the  largest  tributaries  to  the 


lawn  to  the  river;  and  sooner  than  we  used  to  do  by  1  1  Susquehannah,  began  to  show  itself,  like  a  small  brook, 
some  five  or  six  hours  (ere  railroads  had  supplanted  jj  some  fifteen  or  twenty  miles  from  Utica.  Its  course 
the  ploughing  and  crawling  coaches  to  Schenectady),  II  lay  directly  south—  and  the  new  canal  kept  along  its 
we  fed  our  eyes  on  the  slumbering  and  broad  valley  i  bank,  as  deserted,  but  a  thousand  times  less  beautiful 


of  the  Mohawk. 

How  startled  must  be  the  Naiad  of  this  lovely  river 
to  find  her  willowy  form  embraced  between  railroad 
and  canal !  one  intruder  on  either  side  of  the  bed  so 
sacredly  overshaded !  Pity  but  there  were  a  new 
knight  of  La  Mancha  to  avenge  the  hamadryads  and  ; 


in  its  loneliness  than  the  river,  whose  rambling  curves 
it  seemed  made  to  straighten.  We  were  not  in  the 
best  humor,  for  our  double-priced  "  extra"  turned  out 
to  be  the  regular  stage  ;  and  while  we  were  delivering 
and  waiting  for  mails,  and  taking  in  passengers,  the 
troop  of  idlers  at  tavern-doors  amused  themselves  with 


water-nymphs  of  their  wrongs  from  wood-cutters  and  i|  reading  the  imaginative  production  called  our  "extra 
contractors  !     Where  sleep  Pan  and  vengeful  Oread,  \\  way-bill,"  as  it  was  transferred,  with  a  sagacious  wink, 


220 


SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 


from  one  driver's  hat  to  the  other.  I  thought  of 
Paddy's  sedan-chair,  with  the  bottom  out.  "  If  it 
were  not  for  the  name  of  the  thing,"  said  he,  as  he 
trotted  along  with  a  box  over  his  head. 

I  say  we  were  not  in  the  best  of  humors  with  our 
prompt  and  polite  friend  at  Utica,  but  even  through 
these  bilious  spectacles,  the  Chenango  was  beautiful. 
Its  valley  is  wide  and  wild,  and  the  reaches  of  the 
capricious  stream  through  the  farms  and  woods  along 
which  it  loiters,  were  among  the  prettiest  effects  of 
water  scenery  I  have  ever  met.  There  is  a  strange 
loneliness  about  it ;  and  the  small  towns  which  were  I 
sprinkled  along  the  hundred  miles  of  its  course,  seem 
rather  the  poineers  into  a  western  wilderness,  than  j 
settlements  so  near  the  great  thoroughfare  to  the  lakes.  ! 
It  is  a  delicious  valley  to  travel  through,  barring 
"corduroy."  Tre-men-dous !  exclaims  the  traveller, 
as  the  coach  drops  into  a  pit  between  two  logs,  and 
surges  up  again — Heaven  only  knows  how.  And,  as 
my  fellow-passenger  remarked,  it  is  a  wonder  the  road 
does  not  echo — "  tree-mcnd-us  /" 

Five  miles  before  reaching  the  Susquehannah,  the 
road  began  to  mend,  the  hills  and  valleys  assumed  the 
smile  of  cultivation,  and  the  scenery  before  us  took  a 
bolder  and  broader  outline.  The  Chenango  came 
down  full  and  sunny  to  her  junction,  like  the  bride, 
who  is  most  lovely  when  just  losing  her  virgin  name, 
and  pouring  the  wealth  of  her  whole  existence  into 
the  bosom  of  another;  and,  untroubled  with  his  new 
burden,  the  lordly  Susquehannah  kept  on  his  majestic 
way,  a  type  of  such  vainly-dreaded,  but  easily-borne 
responsibilities. 

At  Binghamton,  we  turned  our  course  down  the 
Susquehannah.     This  delicious  word,  in  the  Indian  j 
tongue,  describes  its  peculiar  and  constant  windings,  || 
and  I  venture  to  say  that  on  no  river  in  the  world  are  i! 
the  grand  and  beautiful  in  scenery  so  gloriously  mixed. 
The  road  to  Owego  follows  the  course  of  the  valley 
rather  than  of  the  river,  but  the  silver  curves  are  con-  j; 
stantly  in  view;  and,  from  every  slight  elevation,  the  ! 
majestic  windings  are  seen — like  the  wanderings  of  a 
vein,   gleaming   through  green  fringes  of  trees,   andj; 
circling  the  bright  islands  which  occasionally  divide 
their  waters.     It  is  a  swift  river,  and  singularly  living 
and  joyous  in  its  expression. 

At  Owego  there  is  a  remarkable  combination  of  bold 
scenery   and   habitable  plain.      One   of  those  small, 
bright  rivers,  which  are  called  "creeks"  in  this  coun-  I 
try,  comes  in  with  its  valley  at  right  angles,  to  the  vale 
and  stream  of  the  Susquehannah,  forming  a  star  with  i 


three  rays,  or  a  plain  with  three  radiating  valleys,  or  a 
city  (in  the  future,  perhaps),  with  three  magnificent 
exits  and  entrances.  The  angle  is  a  round  mountain, 
some  four  or  five  hundred  feet  in  height,  which  kneels 
fairly  down  at  the  meeting  of  the  two  streams,  while 
another  round'  mountain,  of  an  easy  acclivity,  lifts 
gracefully  from  the  opposite  bank,  as  if  rising  from 
the  same  act  of  homage  to  Nature.  Below  the  town 
and  above  it,  the  mountains,  for  the  first  time,  give  in 
to  the  exact  shape  of  the  river's  short  and  capricious 
course  ;  and  the  plain  on  which  the  town  stands,  is 
enclosed  between  two  amphitheatres  of  lofty  hills, 
shaped  with  the  regularity  and  even  edge  of  a  coliseum, 
and  resembling  the  two  halves  of  a  leaf-lined  vase, 
struck  apart  by  a  twisted  wand  of  silver. 

Owego  creek  should  have  a  prettier  name — for  its 
small  vale  is  the  soul  and  essence  of  loveliness.  A 
meadow  of  a  mile  in  breadth,  fertile,  soft,  and  sprink 
led  with  stately  trees,  furnishes  a  bed  for  its  swift 
windings  ;  and  from  the  edge  of  this  new  tempe,  on 
the  southern  side,  rise  three  steppes,  or  natural  ter 
races,  over  the  highest  of  which  the  forest  rears  its 
head,  and  looks  in  upon  the  meeting  of  the  rivers, 
while  down  the  sides,  terrace  by  terrace,  leap  the  small 
streamlets  from  the  mountain-springs,  forming  each 
again  its  own  smaller  dimple  in  this  loveliest  face  of 
Nature. 

There  are  more  romantic,  wilder  places  than  this 
in  the  world,  but  none  on  earth  more  habitably  beauti 
ful.  In  these  broad  valleys,  where  the  grain-fields, 
and  the  meadows,  and  the  sunny  farms,  are  walled  in 
by  glorious  mountain  sides,  not  obtrusively  near,  yet 
by  their  noble  and  wondrous  outlines,  giving  a  per 
petual  refreshment,  and  an  hourly-changing  feast  to 
the  eye — in  these  valleys,  a  man's  household  gods 
yearn  for  an  altar.  Here  are  mountains  that,  to  look 
on  but  once,  "become  a  feeling" — a  river  at  whose 
grandeur  to  marvel — and  a  hundred  streamlets  to  lace 
about  the  heart.  Here  are  fertile  fields,  nodding  with 
grain  ;  "  a  thousand  cattle"  grazing  on  the  hills — here 
is  assembled  together,  in  one  wondrous  centre,  a  spe 
cimen  of  every  most  loved  lineament  of  Nature.  Here 

|  would  I  have  a  home  !  Give  me  a  cottage  by  one  of 
these  shining  streamlets — upon  one  of  these  terraces, 
that  seem  steps  to  Olympus,  and  let  me  ramble  over 
these  mountain  sides,  while  my  flowers  are  growing, 
and  my  head  silvering  in  tranquil  happiness.  He 

!  whose  Penates  would  not  root  ineradicably  here,  has 
no  heart  for  a  home,  nor  senses  for  the  glory  of  Na- 

;  ture ! 


END    OF    LOITERINGS    OF    TRAVEL. 


EPHEMERA. 


113 


cut  from  one  end  that  is  sewed  on  to  the  other  !  But, 
out  on  monotony,  and  hey  for  Saratoga !  If  there  be 
an  approach  to  a  gayety-paradise  on  earth — if  there  be 
a  place  where  the  mortifications  of  neighborhood  are 
forgotten,  and  "  people's  natural  advantages"  are  prom 
inent  and  undisputed — if  there  be,  this  side  Heaven, 
a  place  where  it  is  worth  while  to  dress,  worth  while 
to  be  pretty,  worth  while  to  walk,  talk,  and  particu 
larly  and  generally  outdo 

"  The  snowy  swans  that  strut  on  Isca's  sands," 

it  is  sandy  Saratoga — Marvin's  United  States  Hotel ! 
Take  your  papa  there,  "  for  his  health,"  my  dear 
belle!  "And  tell  him,  too,"  that  it  was  the  well- 
expressed  opinion  of  the  philosopher  Bacon,  that 
"money,  like  manure,  is  offensive  if  not  spread-" 
Tell  your  mamma  to  tell  him  how  pale  he  is  when  he 
wakes  in  the  morning!  Tell  the  doctor  to  prescribe 
Congress  water  without  the  taste  of  the  cork!  Tell 
him,  if  he  does  not,  and  you  are  not  let  go  with  a 
chaperon,  you  will  do  something  you  shudder  to 
think  of — bolt,  slope,  elope,  with  the  first  base 

"  Arimaspian  who,  by  stealth, 
Will  from  his  wakeful  custom  purloin 
The  guarded  gold" 

to  which  you  are  the  heiress  !  For  it  is  credibly  and 
currently  reported  "  in  high  circles,"  that  the  coming 
season  at  Saratoga  is  to  be  of  a  crowded  uncomforta- 
bleness  of  splendor  that  was  reserved  for  the  making 
fashionable,  by  Mr.  Van  Buren,  of  the  "  United 
States"  and  its  dependant  colonies. 


Among  the  alleviations  to  passing  a  summer  in 
town  (misericordia  pro  nobis  .')  is  the  completion  of 
Mr.  Stevens's  Gothic  cottage  at  the  lip  of  the  Elysian 
Hoboken,  where  are  to  be  had  many  good  things,  of 
course,  but  where  (I  venture  to  suggest)  it  would  be  a 
bliss  ineffable  to  be  able  to  get  a  good  breakfast!  What 
a  pleasure  to  cross  the  ferry,  and,  after  a  morning 
ramble  in  that  delicious  park,  to  sit  down  in  the  fresh 
air  volant  through  the  galleries  of  that  sweet  cottage, 
and  eat  (if  nothing  more)  a  nice  roll  with  a  good  cup 
of  French  coffee  !  A  restaurateur  there  would  make 
a  fortune,  I  do  think.  Bring  it  about,  Mr.  "Person 
Concerned,"  and  you  shall  lack  neither  our  company 
nor  a  zealous  trumpeter. 


THE    CLOISTER. 

Committee — (solus). — Oh,  most  beset  of  brigadiers! 
Most  civil  of  military  men  !  (for  half  a  firm,  the  most 
yielding  partner  of  my  acquaintance!)  whett,  oh  re 
sponsible  general,  will  you  get  through  with  your^?«r- 
ticular  callers  and  come  to  confab  ?  True,  1  have 
dined,  and  can  wait!  True,  there  are  joint  letters  to 
answer!  True,  I  can  listen,  and  look  out  into  the 
back  yard !  Hark  !  Syphax,  my  black  boy,  loquitur. 

Syphax — (to  the  general). — Shall  I  cut  out  them 
favorable  notices  from  the  exchanges,  sir? 

Brigadier. —  Those  favorable  notices,  Syphax! 

Heavens !  what  an  unfeeling  man !  For  the  love 
of  pity,  corrupt  not  the  innocent  grammar  of  the  lad, 
my  dear  brigadier!  Out  of  seven  black  boys  sent  me 
for  trial  by  the  keeper  of  an  intelligence-office,  six,  to 
my  disgust,  spoke  with  the  painful  accuracy  of  Doc 
tor  Pangloss.  The  last,  my  inestimable  Syphax, 
whom  that  finished  brigadier  would  fain  bring  to  his 
own  level  of  heartless  good  grammar — was  ignorant 
(virtuous  youth!)  even  of  the  sexes  of  pronouns!  He 
came  to  me  innocent;  and,  I  need  not  say  to  any 
writer — to  any  slave  of  the  rule-tied  pen — to  any  man 


cabined,  cribbed,  confined,  as  are  public  scribblers 
to  case  and  number,  gender  and  conjugation,  participle 
present,  and  participle  past — I  need  not  say,  to  such 
a  victim,  what  an  oasis  in  the  desert  of  perfection  was 
the  green  spot  of  a  black  boy's  cacology !  Oh,  to 
the  attenuated  ear  of  the  grammar-ridden! — to  the 
tense  mood  of  unerring  mood  and  tense — what  a  lux 
ury  is  an  erring  pronoun— what  a  blessed  relief  from 
monotony  is  a  too-yielding  verb,  seduced,  from  its  sin 
gular  antecedent,  by  a  contiguity  of  plural!  Out  on 
perfectionists!  Out  on  you,  you  flaw-less  brigadier! 
Correct  your  own  people,  however!  Inveigle  not  my 
Syphax  into  rhetoric  !  Ravish  not  from  my  use  the 
one  variation,  long-sought  and  chance-found,  from  the 
maddening  monotone  of  good  grammar! 

And  this  brings  to  my  mind  "(if  I  get  time  to  jot  it 
down  before  the  brigadier  comes  to  cloister)  a  long- 
settled  conviction  of  my  own,  that  the  corrections  in 
American  manners  brought  about  by  the  criticisms  of 
Trollope  and  others,  have  been  among  the  worst  in 
fluences  ever  exercised  upon  the  country.  Gracious 
heaven !  are  we  to  have  our  national  features  rasped 
off  by  every  manner-tinker  who  chooses  to  take  up  a 
file  !  See  how  it  affects  the  English  to  laugh  at  their 
bloat  of  belly  and  conceit,  their  cockney  ignorance 
and  their  besotted  servility  to  rank.  Do  they  brag 
less,  and  drink  less  beer  ?  Do  they  modify  their  Bow- 
bell  dialect  one  hair,  or  whip  off  their  hats  with  less 
magical  celerity  when  spoken  to  by  a  lord?  Not  a 
bit!  They  will  be  English  till  they  are  smothered 
with  Russians — English  ghosts  (those  who  die  before 
England  is  conquered  by  Russia),  with  English  man 
ners,  at  doomsday.  They  are  not  so  soft  as  to  be 
moulded  into  American  pottery,  or  German  pottery, 
or  French  pottery,  because  an  American,  or  a  Ger 
man,  or  a  Frenchman,  does  not  find  them  like  his  own 
country's  more  common  utensils !  Where  do  national 
features  exist?  Not  among  well-bred  people!  Not 
where  peas  are  eaten  with  a  fork  and  soup-plates  left 
untilted  by  the  hungry !  All  well-bred  people  are 
monotonously  alike — whatever  their  nation  and  what 
ever  the  government  they  have  lived  under.  Differ 
ences  of  manners  are  found  below  this  level,  and  the 
mistake — the  lamentable  mistake — lies  in  submitting 
to  correct  this  low  level  by  the  standard  of  coxcombs! 
What  a  picture  would  be  without  shade — what  music 
would  be  without  discords — what  life  would  be  with 
out  something  to  smile  at — what  anything  would  be 
without  contrast — that  are  we  becoming  by  our  sensi 
tiveness  to  criticism.  Long  live  our  (B u\l-judice) 
"  abominations."  Long  live  some  who  spit  and  whit 
tle,  some  who  eat  eggs  out  of  wine-glasses  and  sit  on 
four  chairs,  some  who  wear  long  naps  to  their  hats, 
some  who  eat  peas  with  a  knife,  some  who  pour  out 
their  tea  into  saucers,  and  some  who  are  civil  to  un 
protected  ladies  in  stage-coaches!  Preserve  some 
thing  that  is  not  English,  oil,  my  countrymen  ! 

[Enter  the  brigadier.] 

Brigadier. — Forgive  me,  my  dear  boy — what  is  that 
I  see  written  on  your  paper  about  Russia  ? 

'•  The  Russie  men  are  round  of  bodies,  fully-faced, 
The  greatest  part  with  bellies  that  overhang  the  waist, 
Flat-headed  for  the  most,  with  faces  nothing  faire, 
But  brown  by  reason  of  the  stoves  and  closeness  of  the  aire." 

So  says  old  Tuberville,  the  traveller — and  now  to  busi 
ness.  Jot ! 

Committee. — What  ? 

Brigadier. — Jot — that  we  are  glad  to  offer  to  the 
patrons  of  the  "Mirror  Library"  a  book  they  will 
thank  us  for,  at  every  line — "  THE  PLEA  OF  THE  MID 
SUMMER  FAIRIES,"  and  other  admirable  poems,  preg 
nant  with  originality  and  richness,  by  Thomas  Hood. 
His  poetry  is  the  very  attar,  the  aroma,  the  subtlest 
extract  of  sweet  imagination.  "  EUGENE  ARAM"  is 
one  of  those  included  in  this  volume. 

Committee. — What  else  are  you  glad  of? 


114 


EPHEMERA. 


Brigadier. — Glad  to  be  sorry  that  Parke  Godwin's 
fine  analytical  mind  and  bold  foundry  of  cast-iron 
English  are  not  freighted  with  a  more  popular  sub 
ject  than  Fourierism — worthy  though  the  theme  be 
of  the  regard  of  angels  whose  approbation  don't  pay. 
Politics  should  be  at  a  lift  to  deserve  the  best  ener 
gies  of  such  a  writer — but  they  are  not,  and  so  he 
turns  to  philosophy. 

Committee. — But  he  should  play  Quintus  Curtius, 
and  write  up  politics  to  his  level,  man  !  The  need  is 
more  immediate  than  the  need  of  Fourierism. 

Brigadier. — My  dear  boy,  give  away  nothing  but 
what  is  saleable.  Gifts,  that  would  not  otherwise  have 
been  money  in  your  purse,  are  not  appreciated — par 
ticularly  advice.  We  love  Godwin — let  us  love  his 
waste  of  ammunition,  if  it  please  him  to  waste  it. 

Committee. — 

"  Then  let  him  weep,  of  no  man  mercified," 

if  his  brains  be  not  coinable  to  gold,  /would  make 
a  merchant  of  genius!  The  world  has  need  of  brains 
like  Godwin's,  and  need  makes  the  supply  into  com 
modity,  and  commodity  is  priceable.  That's  the  logic 
by  which  even  my  poor  modicum  is  made  to  thrive. 
Apropos — what  do  you  think  of  these  lines  on  "bells," 
by  Duganne?  A  poet.  I  should  say: — 

"  Ye  melancholy  bells, 
Ye  know  not  why  ye're  ringing- 
See  not  the  tear-drops  springing 
From  sorrows  that  ye  bring  to  mind, 
Ye  melancholy  bells. 

"  And  thus  ye  will  ring  on — 
To-day,  in  tones  of  sadness  ; 
To-morrow,  peals  of  gladness  ; 
Ye'll  sound  them  both,  yet  never  feel 
A  thrill  of  either  one. 

"  Ye  ever-changing  bells  ! 
Oh  many  ye  resemble, 
Who  ever  throb  and  tremble, 
Yet  never  know  what  moves  them  so— 
Ye  ever-changing  bells." 

Brigadier. — Kernel-ish  and  quaint.  But,  my  dear 
boy, 

"  twilight,  soft  arbiter 
'Twixt  day  and  night," 

is  beginning  to  blur  the  distinctness  of  the  cheeks  on 
that  apron  drying  upon  the  line  in  the  back  yard. 
Shall  we  go  to  tea? 


The  opening  of  the  exhibition  at  the  National  Acad 
emy  is  like  taking  a  mask  from  one  of  the  city's  most 
agreeable  features.     And  it  is  only  those  who  live  in 
the  city  habitually,  and  ivho  live  as  fast  as  the  city  does, 
who  are  qualified  to  enjoy  it  with  the   best  apprecia 
tion.     Did  you  ever  notice,  dear  reader,  how  behind 
the  tide  you   feel,  on   arriving  in  town,  even  after  an  j 
absence  of  a  week — how  whirling  and  giddy  your  sen- 
sntions  are — how  many  exciting  things  there  seem  for  I 
you  to  do — how  "  knowing"  and  ''  ahead-of-you"  seem  j 
all  the  takers-coolly  whom  you   meet- — how  incapable 
you  are  of  any  of  the  tranquil  pleasures  of  the  me 
tropolis,  and  with  what  impatient  disgust  you  pnss  any 
exhibition  which  would  subtract  you,  mind  and  body, 
from  the  crowd.     It  is  not  for  strangers,  then,  that  the  j 
exhibition  is  the  highest  pleasure.     It  is  for  those  who  ! 
have  laid  behind  them   the  bulk  of  the  city  excite 
ments  in  a  used-up  heap — to  whom  balls  are  nuisances, 
theatres    sntiety,    concerts    a    bore,    Broadway   stale, 
giants,  dwarfs,  and  six-legged  cows,  "familiar  as  your  [ 
hand."     It  is  only  such  who  have  the  cool  eye  to  look 
critically  and   enjoyingly  at   pictures.     It  is  for  such 
that  Durand  has  laid  into  his  landscape  the  touch  that  ; 
was  preceded  by  despair — for  such  that  Ingham  elab 
orates,  and  Page  strains  invention,  and  Sully  woos  the 


!  coy  shade  of  expression.  And,  truth  to  say,  it  is  not 
|  one  of  the  least  of  the  gratuitous  riches  of  existence, 
that  while  we  are  sifting  away  the  other  minutes  of 
the  year  in  commonplace  business  or  pleasure,  forget 
ful  of  art  and  artists,  these  gifted  minds  are  at  work, 
producing  beautiful  pictures  to  pamper  our  eyes  with 
in  spring  !  If  you  never  chanced  to  think  of  that 
before,  dear  reader,  you  are  richer  than  you  thought! 
Please  enclose  us  the  surplus  in  bankable  funds ! 
Ehem! 

There  are  more  portraits  in  the  exhibition  than  will 
please  the  dilettanti — but  hang  the  displeased  !  We 
would  submit  to  a  thousand  indifferent  portraits,  for  the 
accident  of  possessing  a  likeness  of  one  friend  unex 
pectedly  lost.  For  Heaven's  sake,  let  everybody  be 
painted,  that,  if  perchance  there  is  a  loved  face 
marked,  unsuspected  by  us,  for  heaven,  we  may  have 
its  semblance  safe  before  it  is  beyond  recall!  How 
bitter  the  regret,  the  self-reproach,  when  the  beautiful 
joy  of  a  household  has  been  suddenly  struck  into  the 
I  grave,  that  we  might  have  had  a  bright  image  of  her 
j  on  canvass — that  we  might  have  removed,  by  holding 
|  converse  wiih  her  perpetuated  smile,  the  dreadful 
image  of  decay  that  in  sad  moments  crowds  too  closely 
upon  us!  For  the  sake  of  love  and  friendship,  let 
that  branch  of  the  art,  now  in  danger  of  being  dispar 
aged  by  short-sighted  criticism — let  it  be  ennobled,  for 
the  sacred  offices  it  performs  !  Is  an  art  degrading  to 
its  follower  which  does  so  much — which  prolongs  the 
presence  of  the  dead,  which  embellishes  family  ties, 
which  brightens  the  memory  of  the  absent,  which 
quickens  friendship,  and  shows  the  loved,  as  they  were 
before  ravage  by  sadness  or  sickness  ?  There  should 
rather  be  a  priesthood  of  the  affections,  and  portrait- 
painters  its  brotherhood — holy  for  their  ministering 
pencils. 


We  have  a  customer  in  Andover,  to  whose  attention 
particularly  we  commend  the  truly  delicious  poetry  of 
"  The  Sacred  Rosary,"  as  some  atonement  for  having 
inveigled  him  into  the  purchase  of  the  "  Songs  of  the 
Bard  of  Poor  Jack."  That  mis-spent  shilling  troubled 
our  friend,  and  he  wrote  us  a  letter  and  paid  eighteen 
pence  postage  to  complain  of  it! — but  non  omnia  pos- 
sum-us  omnes  (we  can't  play  'possum  with  all  our  sub 
scribers),  and  we  humbly  beg  our  kind  friend  (who 
j  lives  where  we  learned  our  Latin)  to  refresh  his  piety 
!  with  the  "Rosary,"  and  forgive  the  Dibdin.  The 
j  apology  over,  however,  we  must  make  bold  to  say  that 
j  of  all  the  publications  of  the  "  Mirror  Library,"  this 
collection  of  Dibdin's  songs  has  sold  the  best.  It  has 
been  indeed  what  our  Andover  friend  scornfully  calls 
"  a  catch-penny  affair,"  and  we  wish  there  were  (what 
there  never  will  be)  another  catch-penny  like  it.  No — 
by  Castaly  !  such  a  book  will  never  again  be  written  ! 
If  ever  there  was  honest,  hearty,  natural,  manly  feel 
ing  spliced  to  rhyme,  it  is  in  these  magnificent  songs. 
England's  naval  glory — her  esprit-dc-man-o'-war — hei 
empire  of  the  sea — lies  spell-bound  in  that  glorious 
song-book !  She  owes  more  to  Dibdin  than  to  Chat- 
j  ham  or  Burke — as  much  as  to  Howard  or  Wilber- 
force!  Ah,  dear  Anonym  of  Andover,  you  have 
never  hung  your  taste  out  to  salt  over  the  gunwale  ! 
Fou  don't  know  poor  Jack.  Find  out  when  your 
lease  of  life  is  likely  to  run  out — go  first  to  sea — read 
Dibdin  understanding!}-,  c  poimori!" 


The   proprietor  of  the   "  Connecticut  pie   depot" 
\  (corner  of  Beekman  and  Nassau),  writes  us  that  he 
will  be  happy  to  have  us  "  call  and  taste  his  pies  when 
we  are  sharp-set,"  and  that  he  hails  from  Boston  and 
takes  a  pride  in  us.     So  we  do  in  him.  though,  for  a 


EPHEMERA. 


115 


puff,  our  pen  against  his  rolling-pin  for  a  thousand 
pound  !  He  evidently  thinks  us  "  the  cheese,"  for  he 
says  he  wishes  to  be  noticed  in  our  "  dairy  of  town 
trifles."  Well,  sir,  we  don't  "  fill  our  belly  with  the 
east  wind,"  nor  eat  pies,  since  we  left  Boston,  but  we 
rejoice  in  your  pie-ous  enterprise,  and  agree,  with  you, 
to  consider  ourselves  mutually  \\iejlour  of  the  city  we 
come  from.  Apropos — we  can  do  our  friend  a  service 
which  we  hope  he  will  reciprocate  by  opening  a  sub 
scription-book  in  his  pie-magazine,  and  procuring  us 
five  hundred  subscribers  (payments  invariably  in  ad 
vance).  A  young  lady  has  written  to  us,  imploring 
the  Mirror's  aid  in  reforming  the  prog  at  fashionable 
boarding-schools.  There  are  symptoms  of  a  "  strike" 
for  something  better  to  eat  in  these  coops  of  chicken- 
angels,  and  the  establishment  of  a  "  Connecticut  pie 
depot"  seems  (seems,  madam,  nay,  it  is  !)  beautifully 
providential !  We  can  not  trace  our  anonymous  note 
to  any  particular  school,  but  we  hereby  recommend 
to  the  young  ladies  in  every  "establishment,"  "nun 
nery,"  and  "seminary,"  to  "hang  their  aprons  on  the 
outer  wall,"  and  hoist  in  our  friend's  pastry,  on  trial. 
The  French  pockets  will  be  filled  the  first  day  gratis, 
we  undertake  to  promise.  The  second  day  and  after, 
of  course,  the  bill  will  be  presented  to  tante  or  the 
music-master. 


There  are  poems  which  the  world  "does  not  wil 
lingly  let  die,"  but  which  this  same  go-to-bed  world, 
tired  of  watching,  covers  quietly  up  with  the  ashes  of 
neglect,  and  leaves  to  grow  as  black  as  the  poker  and 
tongs  of  criticism  that  stand  unused  beside  them. 
Stop  the  first  twenty  men  (gentlemen,  even)  whom  you 
see  in  the  street,  and  probably  not  one  can  tell  you 
even  the  argument  of  Goldsmith's  great  poem  !  And 
the  "  pourquoy  Sir  Knight"  is  simply  that  "  The 
English  Poets,"  in  six  formidable  volumes,  are  too 
much  for  cursory  readers  to  encounter!  The  poems 
and  passages  they  would  "thumb,"  if  they  could  light 
readily  on  them,  are  buried  up  in  loads  of  uninterest 
ing  miscellany.  They  want  the  often-quoted,  unde 
niable,  pure  fire,  raked  out  of  this  heap  of  embers. 
Our  last  number  of  the  Mirror  Library  begins  a  sup 
ply  of  this  want,  under  the  title  of  "  LIVE  COALS, 
raked  from  the  Embers  of  English  Poetry." 


The  following  advertisement  is  cut  from  "  The 
Sun :" — 

"  NOTICE — To  the  gentleman  that  pushed  the  man 
over  the  curbstone  in  Broadway,  at  the  corner  of  Lis- 
penard  street,  with  his  dinner-kettle  in  his  hand,  from 
this  time  forth  never  to  lay  his  hand  on  David  Brown 
again." 

Now,  what  other  country  than  America  would  do 
for  David  Brown  ?  God  bless  the  land  where  a  man 
can  pour  his  sorrows  into  the  sympathizing  bosom  of 
a  newspaper!  Query — does  not  this  seventy -five  cent 
vent  supersede  altogether  the  use  of  that  dangerous 
domestic  utensil,  a  friend !  Add  to  this  the  invention 
of  an  wnexpressive  substitute  for  gunpowder,  and  the 
world  will  be  comparatively  a  safe  place. 

Point  of  fact — we  delight  in  all  manner  of  old  things 
made  young  again,  particularly  in  all  kinds  of  vene 
rable  and  solemn  humbug  "  showing  green."  If  ever 
there  was  a  monster,  grown  out  of  sight  of  its  natural 
and  original  intention — a  bloated,  diseased,  wen-cov 
ered,  abate-worthy  nuisance  of  a  monster,  it  is  the 
newspaper.  The  first  newspaper  ever  published  in 
France  was  issued  by  a  physician  to  amuse  his  pa 
tients.  "To  this  complexion"  would  we  reduce  it 
once  more.  Fill  them  with  trifles,  or  with  important 
news  (the  same  thing  as  to  amusement),  and  throw  a 


wet  blanket,  and  keep  it  wet,  over  congressional  twad 
dle,  polemical  fubbery,  tiresome  essays,  political  cob- 
webberies — yes,  especially  politics  !  People  some 
times  cease  to  talk  when  there  are  no  listeners,  and  it 
might  be  hoped,  with  God's  blessing  and  help  ("Ave 
Maria  !  ora  pro  nobis  !")  that  congress  members  would 
cease  to  put  us  to  shame  as  well  as  to  bore  us  to  ex 
tinction,  if  there  were  no  newspapers  to  fan  their 
indignant  eloquence.  It  is  a  query  worth  sticking  a 
pin  in — how  many  nuisances  would  die  (beside  con 
gress)  if  newspapers  were  restored  to  their  original 
use  and  purpose?  Any  symptom  of  this  regenera 
tion  inexpressibly  refreshes  us.  Hence  our  delight  at 
the  advertisement  of  David  Brown.  Who  would  not 
rather  know  that  a  man  had  run  against  David  Brown 
at  the  corner  of  Lispenard  street,  with  a  dinner-kettle 
in  his  hand  (and  had  better  not  do  it  again),  than  to 
read  the  next  any  ten  speeches  to  be  delivered  on  the 
rowdy  floor  of  congress  !  We  have  said  enough  to 
give  you  a  thinking-bulb,  dear  reader,  and  now  to  our 
next — but 

Apropos — we  wish  our  friend  Russell  Jarvis,  or  any 
analytically-minded  and  strong  writer  half  as  good, 
would  prepare  us  a  speculative  essay  on  the  query 
which  is  the  natural  inference  of  the  late  Washing- 
|  ton  doings,  viz.  :  how  curious  must  be  the  process 
of  mind  by  which  a  gentleman  (there  are  one  or 
two  in  congress)  could  be  brought  to  consent  to 
stay  there — hail  from  there — frank  from  there — have 
his  letters  addressed  there — in  any  way  or  shape  take 
upon  himself  a  member's  share  of  this  lustrum's  ob 
loquy  and  abomination  ?  Not  but  what  we  think  it 
I  wholesome — we  do  !  You  can  not  cure  festers  with- 
j  out  bringing  them  to  a  head.  The  wonder  is,  how 
gentlemen  are  willing  to  be  parts  of  a  congress  that  is 
only  the  nation's  pustule — the  offensive  head  and  vent 
of  all  the  purulent  secretions  of  the  body  politic  ! 
Thank  God,  they  are  coming  to  a  head — to  this  head, 
if  need  be  (it  is  rather  conspicuous,  it  is  true — like 
a  pimple  on  a  lady's  nose,  which  might  be  better  situ 
ated) — to  have  the  worst  issue  of  our  national  shame 
on  the  floor  of  Congress  ;  but  better  so  than  pent 
Up — better  so  than  an  inward  mortification  precursory 
of  dissolution  !  For  our  own  part  (though  we  are  no 
politician,  except  when  stung  upon  our  fifteen  mil 
lionth  of  national  feeling),  we  think  we  could  do  very 
well  without  a  congress.  We  believe  the  supreme 
court  capable  of  doing  all  the  legislative  grinding  ne 
cessary  for  the  country,  or,  if  that  would  not  do,  we 
think  a  congress  convened  only  for  the  first  three 
months  of  every  administration,  in  which  speaking 
was  prohibited,  would  answer  all  wise  ends.  We  are 
over-governed.  The  reign  of  grave  outrages  and 
solemn  atrocities  is  at  its  height,  and  Heaven  overturn 
it,  and  send  us,  next  after,  a  dynasty  of  laws  "  left  to 
settle,"  and  trifles  paramount.  Amen. 


We  are  not  of  the  envious  and  discontented  nature 

of  a  muttou   candle,  blackest  at  the  wick— that  is  to 

say»  we  do  not  think  every  spot  brighter  than  the  one 

we  live  in.     We  seek  means  to  glorify  New  York— 

since  we  live  here.     Pat  to  our  bosom  and  business, 

therefore,  comes  a  letter  "  from  a  gentleman  to   his 

sister,"  apotheosistic  (we  will  have  our  long  word  if  we 

like)  of  this  same  pleasant  municipality.     Our  friend 

i  and    anonymous  correspondent   does    not    go    quite 

|  enough  into  detail,  and  we  cut  off  his  long  peroration, 

in  which  he  compares  himself  very  felicitously  to  "a 

bottle   of   soda-water,   struggling   for  vent." — "Now 

'!  then,"  he  continues,  "  to  uncork  (off  hat)  and  let  my 

1 1  exuberant  contents  be  made  manifest  : — 

"  Once  more  in  New  York — dear,  delightful  New 
!  York  !  the  spot  of  all  spots  and  the  place  of  all  places  ! 
1  the  whereabout  which  the  poet  dreamed  of  when  he 


116 


EPHEMERA. 


Bpoke  of  '  the  first  flower  of  the  earth  and  first  gem  of 
the  sea  ;'  and  once  more  here,  too,  not  to  look  upon 
it  for  a  moment,  and  then  depart,  but  to  stay,  lo  live, 
to  be,  to  exist,  and  to  enjoy.  You  do  not  know  the 
love  I  bear  New  York  ;  it  is,  beyond  all  others,  the 
place  where  existence  is  ;  where  time  passes,  not  like 
a  summer's  dream,  but  as  time  should  pass,  in  a  suc 
cession  (constant)  of  employments  and  enjoyments. 

"  I  love  the  city,  as  I  love  everything  loveable,  with 
a  full  and  abiding  joyousness.  There  is  nothing  pas 
sing,  or  in  still  life,  but  goes  to  make  up  the  sum.  The 
very  odor  of  the  atmosphere,  which  might  shock  your 
delicate,  country-bred  olfactories,  is  more  to  me  than 
all  the  fragrance  of  all  the  green  fields  that  were  ever 
babbled  of. 

"The  country  is  all  very  well,  in  its  way.  1  love 
that  also — at  a  distance,  or  in  moderate  quantities. 
Homeopathetically,  as  it  were — as,  for  instance,  the 
Battery.  I  love  to  walk  there,  to  inhale  the  sea- 
breeze,  and  enjoy  the  sweet  smell  of  the  growing 
grass  and  the  budding  trees;  and  to  look  over  to  Long 
Island  or  New  Jersey,  and  see  the  country  blooming 
(afar  oft')  under  the  loving  smiles  of  spring.  Yes,  the 
country  is,  no  doubt,  very  desirable — for  a  few  days  in 
the  summer — for  a  change,  or  to  come  back  from  with 
a  new  relish  for  the  real  life  that  awaits  one  on  his 
return. 

"  I  love  to  stand  on  the  docks,  of  a  still  evening,  and 
hear  the  tide  rush  past.  The  very  rime  of  the  sea 
drifts  in  music  to  my  ear.  The  rushing  of  the  free 
and  ever-changing  waters,  the  glad  dancing  of  its 
waves,  the  glowing  reflex  of  the  stars  in  their  bosom, 
the  rifting  foam,  and  the  swift  gushing  sound,  like  a 
continuous  echo,  stir  up  the  dormant  poetry  of  one's 
soul,  and  send  him,  with  a  glowing  heart,  back  to  his 
lonely  home,  happier  for  the  sweet  communion. 

"All  the  time,  too,  is  thought-filled;  there  is  no 
standing  still  here.  Business  is  part  of  life,  perhaps 
life  itself,  and  it  is  constantly  going  on  around  and 
with  us.  If  I  choose  a  walk,  Broadway  is  full  of 
life — never-ending,  never-tiring.  So  all  over  the  city. 
One  can  not  stroll  anywhere  but  he  meets  with  some 
thing  new,  something  strange,  something  interesting; 
some  chapter  opens,  which  has  till  then  been  to  him 
as  a  dead  letter. 

"  Somebody,  who  wanted  to  express  in  strong  lan 
guage  that  nature  might  be  improved  by  art,  has  said 
that  <  God  made  the  country,  man  made  the  town.' 
How  true  it  is!  And,  beyond  that,  here  are  congre 
gated  hundreds  of  thousands  of  '  featherless  bipeds' 
(men  and  women),  of  whom,  perhaps,  you  know  not 
a  dozen,  but  every  one  of  whom,  in  your  walks,  is  to 
you  a  study. 

"Then,  again,  the  very  situation — the  form,  struc 
ture,  and  appliances — of  New  York,  are  delightful 
and  fascinating  beyond  compare.  Such  a  beautiful 
promontory,  swelling  up  from  two  magnificent  rivers, 
rising  from  either,  gently,  to  the  palace-lined  thor 
oughfare  on  its  crown;  and  crossbarred  with  a  thou 
sand  avenues  to  both  rivers — inlets  for  pure  air,  ever 
fresh  rising  from  the  sea,  blowing  over  and  into  every 
habitation,  and  freighted  with  health,  like  the  gales 
of  Araby  the  blest. 

"Nature  has  been  wonderfully  prodigal  of  her  be- 
stowments  on  this  spot,  and  the  hand  of  man  has  not 
been  niggardly  in  completing  what  the  fair  dame  com 
menced,  by  putting  a  worthy  superstructure  on  her 
noble  foundation.  I  have  often  thought  of  the  remark 
made  by  some  one,  that  the  man  who  first  stood  on 
Manhattan  island,  and  looked  around  him  with  an  eye 
and  a  mind  that  could  comprehend  and  appreciate  its 
wonderful  beauties  and  advantages,  must  have  '  held 
his  very  breath'  in  wonder  and  admiration. 

"  And  then  more  of  its  present  beauties  to  the 
dwellers  therein.  Should  one,  in  hot  and  dusty 
weather,  choose  to  change  the  scene,  how  joyous  a 


j  trip  to  Sandy  Hook !  Often  have  I  stood  on  the 
I  heights,  and  looked  off  on  old  Ocean,  holding  in  my 

gaze  one  of  the  most  glowing  scenes  that  this  world 
j  shows.  The  wide  and  boundless  view — the  noble 
I  Hudson  and  the  city  above,  the  green  beauties  of 
j  Long  island  before,  and  the  heaven  ocean  below,  spread 
[  out  in  its  grand  sublimity;  the  sails  of  all  nations 

flashing  on  its  breast  and  blending  in  its  glory, 

;  like  a  mirror  where  the  Almighty's  form 

Glasses  itself.' 

"Oh  who,  with  such  a  prospect  before  him,  feels 
not  his  soul  elevated  and  his  thoughts  sublimated  ! 
Thoughts,  indeed,  too  wild  for  utterance,  are  born, 
not  for  others,  but  to  sink  deep  in  the  heart  and  leave 
him  a  wiser  if  not  a  better  man. 

"  This,  you  will  say  is  the  country — ah,  but  it  is  the 
country  of  New  York,  close  by,  and  part  of  city  life 
itself.  Then  there  is  another  country  (yours  is  only 
one)  over  the  other  shoulder,  where  the  moderate 
sum  of  sixpence  will  waft  us  to  the  delightful  walks, 
the  green  lawns,  the  shady  groves,  and  cool  zephyrs 
of  dear,  charming  Hoboken.  Doubly  dear  to  a  New- 
Worker.  Fresh  smelling  and  fragrant  in  the  spring, 
'  cool  and  breezy  in  the  hot  days  of  summer ;  and.  with 
the  rustling  leaf  of  autumn,  dear  in  its  remembered 
beauties,  its  fading  foliage,  and  the  ever-sounding  sur 
ges  that  beat  with  melancholy  moan  at  the  foot  of  its 
beetling  crags  and  sloping  lawns.  Ah,  lovely  Hobo- 
ken, 

'  None  know  thee  but  to  love  thee, 
Nor  name  thee  but  to  praise  !' 

"Mr.  Stevens,  we  owe  you  much;  and  we  can  af 
ford  to  owe  ;  but  we  pay  you  a  large  annual  interest 
in  gratitude  and  praise.  ''Tis  all  we  have,  we  can  no 
more.' " 

We  also  cut  off  the   irrelevant  tail  of  our  friend's 
letter  (tipped  with  a  "  G."),  and  beg  another  from  him 
with  a  finer  nib  to  his  pen— going  more  into  the  individ 
ualities.     If  you  would  like  a  subject  suggested  (exem 
pli  gratia)  give  us  the  hopes,  trials,  temptations,  and 
aspirations  of  a  Broadway  shop-tender.     They  seem 
fine  youths,   those  silk-and-suavity   venders.      Who 
knows  what   is  their  pny  and  prospects  ?     How  can 
they  afford  such  good  manners  and  fine  waistcoats  ? 
I  What  is  the  degree  of  friendly  acquaintance  bred  be- 
j  tween  them  and  the  ladies  in  the  course  of  a  bargain  ? 
j  Have  they  legs  (below  the  counter)  ? — Do  they  rnar- 

1  ry? — Have  they  combinations,  and  esprit  de  corps? 

Which  are  the  honorablest  goods  to  sell? — As  to  the 
"  beating  down"  of  grass-cloth  and  stockings — is  it 
interesting,  or  more  so  than  the  cheapening  of  calico? 
When  do  they  eat  ?  Do  handsomer  ones  get  higher 
wages?  May  their  "cousins"  come  to  see  them? 
How  do  they  look  with  hats  on  ?  What  is  the  dura 
tion  of  their  chrysalis— the  time  of  metamorphosis 
from  boy  to  "  boss"— and  what  are  their  several  sta 
ges  of  mental  discipline  ?  The  most  saleable  book  in 
the  world  would  be  the  autobiography  of  a  Broadway 
clerk— (dry  goods,  retail).  Let  this  "  verbum"  be 
"  sat"  to  a  sapienti. 


We  have  undertaken  to  make  ourselves  acquainted 
with  the  island  on  which  we  live.  We  mean  to  give 
our  readers,  bit  by  bit,  the  results  of  our  observations 
upon  the  customs,  manners,  geography,  and  morals 
of  the  island  of  New  York,  as  noted  down  in  our  ram 
bles.  We  do  not  take  our  walks  in  chapters,  howev 
er,  and  we  shall,  therefore,  be  equally  miscellaneous 
and  disorderly  in  our  arrangement  of  topics.  It  is  a 
curious  island,  and  some  of  the  inhabitants  are  curi 
ous  islanders.  Those  who  only  walk  up  the  city's 
backbone  (Broadway)  know  very  little  of  its  bowels 
and  extremities.  Little  by  little,  we  hope  to  make 


EPHEMERA. 


117 


out  its  truthful  anatomy — veins,  pulses,  functions,  and 
arteries. 

We  should  like  to  know,  among  other  things,  why 
the  broadest,  most  accessible,  most  convenient  street 
in  New  York,  the  noble  avenue  of  W^:ST  BROADWAY, 
is  entirely  given  up  to  negroes?  The  rage  is  to  move 
up  town — but  there  are  people  who  are  not  rajahs, 
who  are  willing  to  pay  high  rents — people  who  don't 
care  where  the  fashionable  people  go  to  (while  they 
live),  and  who  simply  desire  to  reside  in  broad  streets 
for  air  and  light,  and  above  all,  to  be  near,  if  possible, 
to  their  business.  Now  the  narrowest  part  of  this  be- 
streeted  island  is  of  course  the  most  wholesome,  as  the 
air  from  the  two  rivers  comes  over  fewer  chimneys 
and  gutters.  The  broader  the  street  the  better,  both 
for  health  and  show.  The  access  to  a  street  should 
be  good,  and  West  Broadway,  in  its  whole  length,  is 
parallel  to  Broadway,  and  approachable  by  Chambers 
street,  Murray,  Warren,  and  all  the  best  short  ave 
nues  of  the  city.  It  has,  besides,  near  by,  the  beau 
tiful  "  lungs"  of  St.  John's  park,  the  hospital  grounds, 
and  College  Green,  and  is  crossed  at  its  upper  end  by 
the  broad  ventilator  of  Canal  street.  Where,  on  the 
island,  is  there  a  street  more  calculated  to  be  whole 
some — dirty  as  it  now  is  from  the  character  of  its  oc 
cupants  ?  It  would  require,  it  is  true,  an  entire  renova 
tion,  before  any  one  person,  desirous  of  good  neigh 
borhood,  could  live  there — but  that  renovation  (we 
prophesy  it)  will  be  done.  Some  speculator  will  buy 
lots  in  it,  and  call  a  meeting  of  proprietors  to  suggest 
a  general  turn-out  and  improvement,  or  some  one  of 
the  Wall  street  Astor-hood  will  buy  the  street,  from 
lamp-post  to  lamp-post,  and  fill  it  with  fashionable 
dwelling-houses.  The  up-town  tide  will  partly  ebb, 
the  natural  advantages  of  the  Battery  and  Lower 
Broadway  will  regain  their  ascendency,  and  the  san 
dalled  foot  of  the  island  will  again  wear  jewels  on  its 
instep. 

Pearl  street  (if  Manhattan  lie  on  his  back)  would  be 
the  main  artery  of  his  left  leg,  and  Franklin  square, 
which  occupies  a  natural  knoll,  would  be  his  knee- 
pan.  This  gives  you  some  idea  of  its  geography, 
though,  probably,  dear  reader,  if  you  are  not  in  the 
dry-goods  line,  you  have  never  visited  it.  It  is  a  cu 
rious  place  historically,  and  was  once  the  aristocratic 
centre  of  the  city.  There  are  still  two  famous  houses 
in  it — one  the  old  Walton  mansion,  and  the  other  a 
building  that  was  once  the  headquarters  of  Washing 
ton.  In  the  yard  of  the  latter  house  is  a  pear-tree  of 
Washington's  planting.  And,  by  the  way,  our  com 
panion  (in  a  first  visit  which  we  made  to  Franklin 
square  a  day  or  two  since)  told  us  a  story  that  may  be 
new  or  old,  touching  an  attempt  made  to  poison 
Washington.  A  dish  of  some  vegetables  from  a  for 
cing-bed  was  put  upon  the  table  for  dinner,  and  the 
general,  remarking  that  growths  so  much  earlier  than 
was  natural  were  not  wholesome,  threw  them  out  of 
the  window.  Some  pigs  in  the  yard  were  poisoned 
by  eating  them.  Colonel  Stone  can  tell  us  if  the 
story  be  true — always  presuming  it  is  not  in  some 
veritable  history  of  New  York.*  The  Walton  house 
is  still  a  noble-looking  mansion,  with  its  English  mould 
ings  in  good  preservation,  and  is  now  occupied  as  a 
lodging-house.  The  headquarters  of  Washington  are 
tenanted  by  a  pianoforte  builder,  and  all  around  looks 
trafficky  and  dull. 


One  of  the  favorite  spring  amusements  of  the  peo 
ple  of  New  York — (of  course  of  the  silly  people,  of 
whom  there  are  at  least  several) — is  to  attend  the  auc 
tion  sales  at  private  houses.  We  heard  of  one  silly 

"  A  recollection  1ms  come  back  to  us  very  reluctantly  (on 
its  way  to  bed  with  Lethe),  that  of  having  seen  this  anecdote 
in  Dunlap's  History. 


but  honest  woman  (they  are  often  honest)  who,  on  be 
ing  rallied  a  day  or  two  since  at  having  so  passed  the 
last  fortnight,  said,  "  La!  it's  so  amusing  to  see  how 
people  live  !"  And,  truly  enough,  you  may  find  out 
by  this  process  how  every  class  "furnishes,"  which  is 
a  considerable  feature  in  living,  and  it  is  wonderful 
with  how  little  ceremony  and  reluctance  the  house 
hold  gods  are  stripped  to  the  skin  and  exposed  to  the 
gaze  of  a  public  invited  in  by  the  red  flag  of  an  auc 
tion  !  It  is  possibly  a  very  natural  feature  of  a  new 
country  to  have  no  respect  for  furniture  ;  but  to  our 
notion  it  comes  close  after  "honor  thy  father  and 
mother"  to  honor  the  chairs  and  tables  at  which  they 
have  eaten  and  prayed,  counselled  and  blessed.  And 
even  this  were  easier  got  over  —  the  selling  of  the  mere 
mahogony  and  damask  —  if  the  articles  were  removed 
to  a  shop  and  disassociated  from  the  places  where 
they  had  become  hallowed.  But  to  throw  open 
sacred  boudoirs,  more  sacred  bedrooms,  breakfast- 
rooms,  bath-rooms,  in  which  (as  has  been  the  case 
once  or  twice  lately)  lovely  and  cherished  women 
have  lived,  and  loved,  and  been  petted,  and  secluded, 
and  caressed  —  to  let  in  vulgar  and  prying  curiosity  to 
sit  on  the  damask  seats  and  lounge  on  the  silken  so 
fas,  and  breathe  the  air  impregnated  with  perfume 
that  could  betray  the  holiest  secrets  if  it  had  a  tongue 
—  and  then  to  stand  by  while  an  auctioneer  chaffers, 
and  describes,  and  tempts  the  vulgar  appetite  to  buy! 
Why,  it  seems  to  us  scarce  less  flagrant  and  atrocious 
than  the  ride  of  Lady  Godiva  —  desecrating  to  those 
who  sell  out,  and  a  profanity  and  license  in  those  who 
go  to  see  ! 

It  is  a  famous  time,  now,  to  buy  cheap  second-hand 
furniture,  by  the  way  —  for  the  fashion  of  French  fur 
niture  has  come  in  lately,  with  a  rush,  and  the  nabobs 
are  selling  out  from  sideboard  to  broom,  and  furnish 
ing  anew  a.  la  Francaise,  from  skylight  to  basement. 
By  a  year  from  this  time  there  will  be  more  houses  in 
New  York  above  a  certain  cost  and  up  to  a  marquis's 
taste  and  wants,  than  either  in  Paris  or  London. 
(And  this  estimate  is  not  extravagant,  for  only  "  the 
few"  abroad  spend  money  as"///e  many"  do  here.) 
There  is  a  dry-goods  retailer  in  Broadway,  who  has  a 
house  furnished  as  sumptuously,  and  in  as  good  taste, 
as  the  most  extravagant  nobleman's  house  in  London. 
The  thing  is  done  very  simply.  The  dimensions  of 
the  house,  and  an  accurate  description  of  the  way  it  is 
lighted  and  arranged,  are  sent  out  to  the  first  uphol 
sterers  of  Paris  —  men  who  are  artists  in  their  way, 
and  who  have  furnished  for  royalty  and  rank  all  over 
Europe.  Carte  blancfte  as  to  expense,  and  out  comes 
your  "  interior,"  complete,  lustrous,  and  as  good  as 
his  majesty's  —  wanting  only  (really  only)  the  society 
suitable  to  enjoy  it  —  which  is  like  (something  like)  a 
very  fine  play  without  a  symptom  of  an  audience. 

So  marked  is  this  change  of  taste,  and  the  new 
school  of  furnishing,  that  the  oldest  and  most  wealthy 
of  the  cabinet  warehouse-men  in  this  city  has  com 
pletely  abandoned  the  making  of  English  furniture. 
He  has  sold  out  an  immense  stock  of  high-priced  arti 
cles  at  auction,  and  sent  to  France  for  models  and 
workmen  to  start  new  with  the  popular  taste.  It  is  a 
great  chance,  by  the  way,  to  establish  the  European 
fashion  of  hotels  garnis  for  strangers—  giving  them  the 
temporary  hire  of  houses  ready  furnished,  by  the 
week  or  month—  their  meals  sent  to  them  from  a  res 
taurateur.  Such  investments  bring  large  profits  ;  and 
the  convenience  of  the  custom,  to  families  coming 
from  the  south  or  west,  and  wishing  for  greater  priva 
cy  and  more  room  than  they  can  get  at  a  hotel,  is  very 
great.  So  may  good  come  out  of  an  extravagant  foily. 


THE  ANTIQUE  CABINET.  —  Whether  it  is  a  perverse 
pleasure  in  seeing  costly  things  out  of  place,  or  an 
aversion  we  have  to  new  things  (except  new  thoughts, 


118 


EPHEMERA. 


new  toothpicks,  and  new  ladies'  gear),  or  the  natural  | 
love  for  miscellany  common  to  all  mankind — whether  i 
it  is  for  one  of  these  reasons,  or  for  a  little  of  each — 
we  are  in  the  habit  of  bestowing  the  loose  ends  of  our 
idleness  upon  the  warehouses  of  second-hand  furniture. 
Nothing  grows  upon  a  man  like  a  habit  of  choice 
between  such  entertainment  and  any  society  merely 
tolerable — the  preference  given,  of  course,  to  the 
shabby  but  more  suggestive  damask  and  mahogany. 
Ah,  the  variety  of  things  people  sell  to  get  money ! 
What  curious  places  shops  are,  where  they  will  buy 
anything  that  is  "sacrificed!"  How  entertaining  to 
mousle  about  among  old  portraits,  broken  ornaments, 
miniatures  soiled  by  wearing  in  the  bosom,  unstrung 
harps,  battered  statuary,  and  furniture  that  has  kept 
proud  company!  How  curious-minded  must  become 
at  last  these  dealers  in  nothing  with  a  gloss  on !  How 
exactly  they  must  know  the  duration  and  value  of 
fashionable  newness  !  How  well  they  must  under 
stand  the  pitiless  transit  from  ornament  to  lumber — 
how  well  the  sudden  chill  of  the  money-test  to  arti 
cles  valued,  till  then,  only  by  affection  !  But  we  can 
not  afford  a  digression  here. 

Resting  our  umbrella  on  the  steps  to  a  high  bed 
the  other  day,  and  our  chin  on  our  umbrella  (a 
posture  taken  for  the  leisurely  perusal  of  a  crowded 
corner  of  an  old  furniture  shop),  we  began  to  pick  out 
from  the  mass,  an  outline  of  an  old  cabinet  secretary. 
Now  we  have  been  that  degree  of  vagabond,  that  we 
have  to  confess  having  fairly  topped  our  meridian  with 
out  the  knowledge  of  more  luxury  in  writing-tools  than 
any  table,  any  pen,  and  any  conceivable  vagary  of  ink- 
holder.  It  is  true,  that  while  travelling  we  got  ac 
customed  to  fastening  the  other  end  of  our  thought- 
string  to  an  old  black  trunk — a  companion  to  our 
hithering  and  thithering  for  seven  long  years — and,  by 
dint  of  habit  in  many  a  far  country,  we  could  ill  write, 
at  last,  where  that  old  portmanteau  was  not  ready  to 
receive  our  eyes  as  they  came  off  the  paper.  But,  in 
reforming  our  baggage  for  matrimony,  the  old  trunk 
was  degraded  to  a  packing-box,  and  at  present  it 
peacefully  reposes,  smelling  of  quinces,  and  holding 
the  modest  Sunday-clothes  of  our  farmer's  dame  at 
Glenmary.  Save  and  since  this,  our  travelled  and 
"  picked  pen  of  countries"  has  been  without  appanage 
or  equipage,  wearing  all  its  honors  upon  its  bare 
plume  of  service,  and,  like  a  brave  and  uncomplaining 
soldier,  scorning  to  claim  the  dignities  which  should 
have  been  plucked  down  by  its  deservings.  Well — 
well !  "  the  whirligig  of  time  !"  "  Pen  !"  we  mentally 
ejaculated,  as  we  made  out  the  odd  corners  and 
queer  angles  of  the  antique  cabinet — "  thy  proper 
honors  are  in  flower!  Thou  shall  do  thy  work  in 
luxury  after  this !  What  pigeon-holes  can  do  to 
make  thee  comfortable — what  drawers,  what  slits, 
what  niches  and  nooks — is  as  good  as  done!  Rise 
to-morrow  rich  and  glorious!" 

We  had  the  advantage  to  be  favorably  known  to  the 
furniture-dealer.  He  was  a  man  who  rejoiced  in  our 
promotions.  -We  bought  the  old  secretary  without 
chaffer,  "  at  the  lowest  figure,"  and  requested  that  it 
might  be  dug  out  from  its  unsold  neighbors,  and  sent 
home,  not  too  vigorously  dusted.  Here  it  is.  We 
are  writing  upon  its  broad  let-down  leaf,  and  our  pen 
struts  like  a  knight  wearing  for  the  first  hour  his  well- 
earned  spurs.  It  is  an  old  chamberer— the  secretary 
— brown-black  mahogany,  inlaid  with  sandal-wood — 
and  has  held  money,  and  seen  frowns  and  smiles.  In 
its  experience  (for  which  we  would  give  a  trifle)  we 
ourself  are  but  a  circumstance.  The  hand  that  first 
wrote  at  it  is  cold  ;  and,  for  the  hands  that  are  to 
write  at  it  hereafter,  nature  may  not  yet  have  sorted 
out  the  nails.  Our  own  hand  will  give  over  its  cun 
ning  and  turn  to  ashes,  meantime.  One  man's  life 
and  using  are  but  of  the  duration  of  a  coat  of  varnish, 
to  this  old  cabinet's  apprehension.  Ah  "  we  !" 


"By  the  pricking  of  our  thumbs,"  the  brigadier  is 
mounting  the  stairs.  Since  the  possession  of  our 
first  operative  luxury,  we  have  taken  a  disgust  to  the 
cloister — conceiting  that  the  smell  of  soap,  from  the 
lavendering  in  the  back  yard,  gave  a  stain  to  such 
flowers  of  imagination  as  were  born  there.  The  brig 
adier  says  we  grow  superfine.  Soil!  It  is  time — 
after  "taking  it  as  it  comes"  for  so  many  years.  Be 
sides,  we  must  have  something  to  set  off  against  his 
epaulettes  !  Glory  in  your  staff,  dear  brigadier,  but 
leave  us  our  cabinet! 

Brigadier — (entering  out  of  breath). — Paff !  paff! 
How  the  breath  of  life  flutters  with  this  vicinity  to 
heaven  !  Paff!  paff! — prophetic  nature  !  How  are 
you,  my  dear  upster? 

Committee. — You  see  the  ink  wet  in  my  pen — I  was 
just  about  to  dash  into  a  critique.  That  straw-colored 
volume  of  poems,  by  Mrs.  Lewis,  shows  feathers 
from  Pegasus;  though,  as  usual  with  lady-poems, 
without  any  parings  from  the  hoof — any  trace  of  that 
part  of  the  old  steed  that  touches  earth.  It  takes 
wrongs  and  sufferings — like  those  of  Mrs  Norton, 
L.  E.  L.,  and  Mrs.  Hemans — to  compound  a  poetess 
of  any  reality  and  strength.  Soil,  that,  if  torn  up  with 
a  ploughshare,  may  yield  the  heavy  grain  of  anguish, 
will  yield  nothing  but  daisies  and  white  clover,  lying 
undisturbed  in  the  sunshine.  Yet  this  same  white 
clover  is  very  sweet  grazing,  and  Mrs.  Lewis's  is  a  very 
sweet  book.  May  she  never  write  a  better  one — by 
having  suffered  enough  to  "  qualify  /" 

Brigadier. — Amen  !  I  say,  rny  boy,  what  a  clever 
thing  Inman  is  making  of  his  magazine  !  The  May 
number  is  beautiful.  AVhat  a  good  pick  he  has 
among  the  magazine-writers ! 

Committee. — Excellent — but  he  uses  himself  up 
with  making  his  correspondents  work,  and  sets  too 
little  value  on  his  own  writings.  He  wants  a  sub.  for 
drudgery.  He  could,  with  his  strong  fabric  of  good 
sense  (which  is  genius),  and  his  excellent  critical  pow 
ers,  make  all  the  rest  of  the  "  COLUMBIAN"  subser 
vient  to  his  own  articles. 

Brigadier. — Tell  him  so. 

Committee. — Will  he  stand  it — as  your  firm  ally  ? 

Brigadier. — Bless  your  soul,  he  has  told  you  many 
a  plainer  thing  in  print. 

Committee. — Has  he  ?     Here  goes,  then  : — 

"  For  Jove's  right  hand,  with  thunder  cast  from  sky, 
Takes  open  vengeance  oft  for  secret  ill." 

But  now  we  think  of  it,  you  are  bound  to  be  particu 
larly  good-natured,  my  dear  brigadier.  With  what 
enthusiasm  they  received  your  song  the  other  night 
at  the  Tabernacle — "The  Pastor's  Daughter!" 
That,  and  "  Boatman  haste,"  and  "  Cheerly  o'er  the 
mountains,"  are  three  songs,  that,  skilfully  built,  as 
they  are,  upon  three  of  our  most  exquisite  national 
melodies,  and  intrinsically  beautiful  in  words  and  mu 
sic,  will  be  classics.  A  twill  has  published  them  charm 
ingly,  too.  What  lots  of  money  you  ought  to  make 
out  of  these  universalities  ! 

Brigadier. — My  dear  boy,  stop  praising  me  at  a  ju 
dicious  place — for  praise,  like  "  heat,  hath  three  de 
grees  :  first,  it  indurateth  or  maketh  strong;  next, 
it  maketh  fragile;  and  lastly,  it  doth  encinerate  or 
calcinate,  or  crumble  to  pieces." 

Committee. — Subtle  tactician  !  How  you  have  cor 
rupted  my  rural  simplicity!  Mff— mff— mff!  I 
think  I  sniff  mint !  The  wind  sets  this  way  from 
Windust's.  How  it  exhausts  the  juices  to  talk  pleas 
antly  with  a  friend  ;  and,  by-the-way,  soft  crabs  are  in 
the  market.  What  say  to  a  dish  of  water-cresses, 
and  such  other  things  as  may  suggest  themselves — 
we  two — over  the  way  !  We  are  in  too  good  humor 
to  dine  in  public  to-day.  We  should  seem  to  lack 
modesty,  with  this  look  of  exultation  on  our  faces. 

Brigadier. — To  dinner,  with  all  my  heart — for  the 


EPHEMERA. 


119 


Mirror  lias  an  appetite — the   philosopher's   tranquil  : 
appetite — idem  contemptui  et  admirationi  habitus. 

Committee. — I  go  to  shave  off  this  working  face, 
my  dear  general  !  Please  amuse  yourself  with  my 
warm  pen.  Our  correspondents,  "  lr."  and  "  E.  K." 
— two  "  treasures  trove,"  if  such  periodical  ever  had — 
should  be  gracefully  and  gratefully  thanked.  Do  it 
while  I  am  gone,  with  your  usual  suaviter. 

[Brigadier  writes.] 


I  GAVE  in  to  a  friend's  proposition  to  "  poke  about," 
lately,  one  afternoon,  and,  by  dint  of  turning   every 
corner  that  we  had  never  turned  before,  we  zig-zagged  [ 
ourselves  into  a  somewhat  better   acquaintance   with  j 
the  Valley  of  Poverty   lying  between  Broadway  and 
the  Bowery.     On  our  descent  we  stopped  at  the  Tombs, 
making,  however  (as  many  do),  rather  an  unsatisfacto 
ry  visit.     We  lacked  an  Old  Mortality  to  decipher  the  i 
names  and  quality  of  the  tenants.     It  is  a  gloomy  ac 
cess  to  Justice,  up  the  dark  flight  of  steps  frowned  over 
by  these  Egyptian   pillars  :  and  the  resolute-looking 
constables,    and    the    anxious-looking   witnesses   and 
prisoners'  friends  who  lean  and  group  at  the  bases  of 
the   columns,  or  pace  up  and  down  the  stony  pave 
ment,  show,  with  gloomy  certainty,  that  this  is  not  the 
dwelling  of  "  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair."     "We  turned  | 
out  of  the  dark  portico  into  the  police  court — a  dingy  j 
apartment  with  the  dust  on  the  floor — not  like  other  | 
unswept   apartments,  but   ground    into  circles  of  fine  j 
powder  by  hurried  and  twisting  footprints.     No  culprit 
was  before  the  court,  and  the  judge's  terrors  were  laid  | 
on  the  desk  with  his  spectacles.     We  looked  about  in  I 
vain  for  anything  note-worthy.     Even  the  dignity  of 
"  the  presence"  was  unrecognised   by  us,  for  (not  be-  j 
ing  in  the  habit  of  uncovering  where  there  is  neither  j 
carpet,  lady,  nor  sign  of  holy  cross)  we  were  obliged  j 
to  be  notified  by  the  "  hats  off',  gentlemen,"  of  the  one 
other  person  in  the  room — apparently  a  constable  on 
duty. 

A  side  door  led  us  downward  to  the  watch-house, 
which  occupies  the  basement  of  the  Egyptian  struc 
ture.  It  is  on  a  level  with  the  street,  and  hither  are 
brought  newly-caught  culprits,  disturbers  of  the  peace, 
and,  indeed  (so  easy  is  disgrace),  anybody  accused  by 
anybody  !  It  is  not  an  uncoinmon  shape  of  malice 
(so  the  officer  told  us  in  answer  to  my  query)  for  the 
aggressor  in  a  quarrel  to  give  the  sufferer  in  charge 
to  the  watchman  and  have  him  locked  up  !  The 
prisoner  is  discharged,  of  course,  the  next  morning, 
the  complainant  not  appearing,  to  prosecute ;  but 
passing  a  night  in  a  cell,  even  on  false  accusation,  is 
an  infliction  which  might  fall  with  some  weight  on  an 
honest  man,  and  the  power  to  inflict  it  should  not  be 
quite  so  accessible — "  thinks  I  to  myself."  (I  made 
a  mental  promise  to  get  better  information  on  the  sub 
ject  of  arrests,  and  generally  on  the  subject  of  the  draw 
ing  of  the  first  line  between  "  ourselves"  and  the 
guilty.  With  Miss  Lucy  Long's  privilege,  I  shall 
duly  produce  what  I  can  gather.) 

On  application  at  the  door  of  the  prisons,  we  were 
informed  nonchalantly  (and  figuratively,  I  presume) 
that  it  was  "  all  open,"  and  so  indeed  it  seemed,  for 
there  was  no  unlocking,  though  probably  the  hinges 
would  have  somehow  proved  reluctant  had  a  prisoner 
tried  the  swing  of  them.  We  walked  in  to  the  prison- 
yard  unattended,  and  came  first  to  the  kitchens.  A 
very  handsome  woman,  indeed,  was  singing  and  washing 
at  a  tub,  and  up  and  down,  on  either  side  of  the  large 
boilers,  promenaded  a  half-dozen  men  in  couples — 
sailors  and  loafers,  "  in  for  a  month,"  as  we  were  after 
ward  informed.  They  looked  as  happy  as  such  men 
do  elsewhere,  I  thought,  and  wearing  no  prison-dress, 
they  seemed  very  little  like  prisoners.  It  is  consider 
ed  quite  a  privilege,  by  the  way,  to  be  employed  in 
the  kitchen. 


The  inner  prison-door  looked  more  like  one's  idea 
of  a  "  Tolbooth,"  and  by  it  we  gained  the  interior  of 
the  Tombs.  Gadsby's  Hotel  at  Washington  is  a  very 
correct  model  of  it,  on  a  somewhat  large  scale.  The 
cells  all  open  upon  a  quadrangle,  and  around  each  of 
the  four  stories  runs  a  light  gallery.  In  the  place  of 
Gadsby's  fountain  is  a  stove  and  the  turnkey's  desk, 
and,  just  as  we  entered,  one  of  the  prisoners  was  cook 
ing  his  mess  at  the  fire  with  quite  an  air  of  comfort 
and  satisfaction.  It  chanced  to  be  the  time  of  day 
when  the  cell-doors  are  thrown  open,  and  the  tenants 
were  mostly  outside,  hanging  over  the  railings,  smo 
king,  chatting  with  each  other  and  the  keepers,  and 
apparently  not  at  all  disturbed  at  being  looked  at. 
Saunders,  the  absconding  clerk,  whose  forgery  made 
so  much  noise  not  long  ago,  was  pointed  out  to  us, 
and  a  more  innocent-looking  fair-haired  mother's  boy 
you  could  scarce  pick  out  of  a  freshman  class.  He 
has  grown  fat  in  the  Tombs.  His  accomplice,  Raget, 
the  Frenchman,  is  not  much  older,  but  he  looked 
rather  more  capable  of  a  clever  bad  trick,  and  French 
man-like,  he  preserved,  even  in  prison,  the  dandy  air, 
and  wore  his  velvet  dressing-cap  with  as  jaunty  an  air 
of  assurance  as  if  just  risen  to  an  honest  man's  break 
fast.  He  is  handsome,  and  his  wife  still  voluntarily 
shares  his  cell.  A  very  worthy-looking  old  gentle 
man  leaned  at  his  cell-door,  a  celebrated  passer  of 
counterfeit  money ;  and  a  most  sanctimonious  and 
theological-student-looking  young  man  was  pacing 
one  of  the  galleries,  and  he  had  been  rather  a  success 
ful  swindler.  Truly  "  looks  is  nuffin,"  as  Sam.  Weller 
was  shrewd  enough  to  discover. 

We  looked  into  one  or  two  of  the  cells.  To  a  man 
who  has  ever  suited  his  wants  to  the  size  of  a  ship's 
state-room,  they  are  very  comfortable  lodgings,  and 
probably  a  sailor  would  think  quarters  in  the  Tombs 
altogether  luxurious.  Punishment  of  this  kind  must 
be  very  unequal,  until  it  is  meted  out  by  what  a  man 
has  been  used  to.  (Till  then,  at  least,  it  is  better  not 
to  steal  !)  Two  or  three  of  the  cells  were  carpeted 
and  decked  with  pictures,  and  the  walls  of  one  I  look 
ed  into  were  covered  with  drawings.  Friends  are 
permitted,  of  course,  to  bring  to  prisoners  any  luxuries 
except  liberty  ;  and  on  the  small  shelf  of  another  cell 
we  saw  a  pyramid  of  gingerbread — the  occupant,  prob 
ably,  still  a  youth. 

We  passed  over  to  the  female  prison.  The  cell- 
doors  were  all  open  as  in  the  other  wards.  But  here 
were  strong  symptoms  that,  however  "it  is  not  good 
for  man  to  be  alone,"  it  is  much  more  unpalatable  to 
woman.  A  poor  girl  who  had  just  been  brought  in, 
and  was  about  to  be  locked  up,  was  pleading  piteously 
with  the  keeper  not  to  be  shut  up  alone.  Seven  others 
who  had  just  been  sentenced  and  were  "  waiting  for 
their  carriage"  to  go  to  Sing-Sing,  sat  around  the 
stove  in  the  passage,  and  a  villanous-looking  set  they 
were.  It  is  a  pity  women  ever  sin.  They  look  so 
much  worse  than  we— (probably  from  falling  so  much 
farther) — and  degradation  in  dress  is  so  markedly  un- 
[  becoming  !  Most  of  the  female  cells  were  double- 
bedded,  I  observed;  and  in  one,  which  was  very  nice 
ly  furnished,  stood  a  tall  and  well-dressed,  but  il 
favored  woman,  who  gave  back  our  look  of  curiosity 
with  a  ferocious  scowl.  It  struck  me  as  curious,  that, 
out  of  nineteen  or  twenty  women  whom  we  saw  in  the 
Tombs,  two  thirds  had  scratched  faces! 

One  of  the  police-officers  joined  us  in  the  latter  part 
of  our  rounds,  but  too  late  for  the  thorough  inquiries 
I  wished  to  make  ;  and  promising  myself  another  visit 
to  the  Tombs,  accompanied  by  some  one  in  authority, 
I  made  my  envied  and  unobstructed  exit. 


It  was  a  sunny  spring  afternoon,  the  kind  of  weather 
in  which,  before  all  other  blessings,  to  thank  God  for 


120 


EPHEMERA. 


liberty.  With  a  simultaneous  expression  of  this 
feeling  as  we  cleared  the  prison  steps,  my  friend  and 
I  crossed  the  rail-track  which  forms  the  limit  of  the 
New  York  Alsatia,  and  were  presently  in  the  heart 
of  the  Five  Points — very  much  in  the  same  "  circle" 
of  society  as  we  had  just  left,  the  difference  probably 
consisting  in  scarce  more  than  cleanly  restraint  with 
out  want,  and  dirty  liberty  with  it.  Luckily  for  the 
wretched,  the  open  air  is  very  nearly  as  pleasant  for 
half  the  year  as  the  inside  of  a  millionaire's  palace,  and 
the  sunshine  is  kept  bright  and  the  sky  clear,  and  the 
wind  kept  in  motion — alike  for  the  pauper  setting  on 
his  wooden  door-step  and  the  rich  man  on  the  silk 
ottoman  in  his  window.  Possibly,  too,  there  is  not 
much  difference  in  the  linings  of  their  content,  and  if 
so,  the  nominal  value  of  the  distinctions  between  rich 
and  poor  should  be  somewhat  modified.  At  the  Five 
Points,  to  all  appearance,  nobody  goes  in  doors  except 
to  eat  and  sleep.  The  streets  swarrn  with  men,  wo 
men,  and  children,  sitting  down.  The  negro-girls  with 
their  bandanna  turbans,  the  vicious  with  their  gay- 
colored  allures,  the  sailors  tired  of  pleasures  ashore, 
the  various  "  minions  of  the  moon"  drowsing  the  day 
away — they  are  all  out  in  the  sun,  idling,  jesting, 
quarrelling,  everything  but  weeping,  or  sighing,  or 
complaining.  The  street  is  dirty,  but  no  offence  to 
their  nostrils  !  The  police  officers  are  at  the  watch- 
house  door,  always  on  the  alert,  but  (probably  from 
possessing  little  imagination)  the  culprits  of  to-morrow 
have  no  apprehension  till  apprehended.  A  viler  place 
than  the  Five  Points  by  daylight  you  could  not  find, 
yet  to  the  superficial  eye,  it  is  the  merriest  quarter  of 
New  York.  I  am  inclined  to  think  Care  is  a  gentle 
man,  and  frequents  good  society  chiefly.  There  is 
no  print  of  his  crow's-foot  about  the  eyes  of  these  out 
casts.  Who  knows  how  much  happiness  there  is  in 
nothing  to  dread — the  downfall  well  over? 

We  strolled  slowly  around  the  triangular  area  which 
is  the  lungs  of  the  Five  Points,  and,  spoken  to  by 
some  one  in  every  group  we  passed,  escaped  without 
anything  like  a  rudeness  offered  to  us.  The  lower 
story  of  every  second  house  is  a  bar-room,  and  every 
bench  in  them  had  a  sleeper  upon  it.  There  are 
some  houses  in  this  quarter  that  have  been  pretentious 
in  their  day,  large  brick  buildings  with  expensive  cor 
nice  and  mouldings — one  particularly  at  the  corner  of 
the  famous  "  Murdering  Alley,"  which  would  bring 
a  six-hundred-dollar  rent,  "  borne  like  Loretto's 
chapel  through  the  air"  to  a  more  reputable  neighbor 
hood. 

We  wound  our  way  into  the  German  quarter,  which 
occupies  the  acclivity  between  the  Five  Points  and 
the  Bowery;  but  as  I  wish  to  connect,  with  a  descrip 
tion  of  this,  some  notices  of  the  habits  and  resorts  of 
foreigners  generally  in  New  York,  I  shall  drop  the 
reader  at  the  corner. 


It  is  right  and  wholesome  that  anew  country  should 
be  the  paradise  of  the  working-classes,  and  that  ours  is 
so  may  be  seen  very  readily.  A  wealthy  merchant, 
whose  family  is  about  leaving  the  city,  sold  out  his 
household  furniture  last  week,  and  among  other  very 
expensive  articles,  a  magnificent  piano.  It  was  bid 
off  at  a  very  fair  price,  and  the  purchaser  turned  out 
to  be  the  carman  usually  employed  at  the  merchant's 
warehouse!  He  bought  it  for  his  daughters.  The 
profits  of  this  industrious  man's  horse  and  cart  were 
stated  by  this  gentleman  to  approach  three  thousand 
dollars  a  year ! 


A  drygoods  palace,  is  now  going  up  in  Broadway, 
which  will  probably  exceed  in  splendor  even  the  cele 


brated  shops  which  are  the  prominent  features  of 
London  and  Paris.  "  Stuart"  is  the  projecter,  and 
when  it  is  completed,  he  will  leave  the  low-browed 
and  dingy  long-room  in  which  he  has  amassed  a 
fortune,  and  start  fresh  in  this  magnificent  "  bezes- 
tein."  Extending  back  to  a  great  depth,  the  new 
structure  is  to  open  by  a  right  angle  on  another 
street,  giving  the  facility  of  two  entrances.  "Shop 
ping"  is  to  be  invested  with  architectural  glories — 
as  if  its  Circean  cup  was  not  already  sufficiently 
seductive  ! 

Even  this  chrysalis-burst  of  Stuart's,  however,  is  a 
less  forcible  exponent  of  the  warrant  for  the  importa 
tion  of  luxuries,  than  the  brilliant  CURIOSITY  SHOP  of 
TIFFANY  and  YOUNG.  No  need  to  go  to  Paris  now 
for  any  indulgence  of  taste,  any  vagary  of  fancy.  It 
is  as  well  worth  an  artist's  while  as  a  purchaser's, 
however,  to  make  the  round  of  this  museum  of  luxu 
ries.  The  models  of  most  of  these  fancy  articles  have 
been  the  perfected  work  approached  with  slow  degrees, 
even  by  genius.  Those  faultless  vases,  in  which  not 
a  hair  line  is  astray  from  just  proportion,  are  not  the 
chance  work  of  a  potter  !  Those  intricate  bronzes 
were  high  achievements/of  art !  Those  mignon  gems 
of  statuary  are  copies  of  the  most  inspired  dreams  and 
revelations  of  human  beauty  !  The  arts  are  all  there 
— their  best  triumphs  mocked  in  luxurious  trifles. 
Poetry  is  there,  in  the  quaint  and  lovely  conception 
of  keepsakes  and  ornaments.  Even  refinements  upou 
rural  simplicity  are  there,  in  the  simple  and  elegant 
basket  furniture  of  Germany.  The  mechanic  arts  are 
still  more  tributary  in  the  exquisite  enamel  of  port 
folios,  the  contrivance  of  marvellous  trinkets,  the  fine 
carving  and  high  finish  of  the  smithcry  of  precious 
metals.  And  then,  nowhere  such  trim  shape  and 
dainty  color  in  gloves — nowhere  such  choice  dandy 
appointments  in  the  way  of  chains  and  canes — nowhere 
such  rnollifiers  of  the  hearts  of  sweethearts  in  the  way 
of  presents  of  innumerable  qualities,  kinds,  values,  and 
devices.  I  think  that  shop  at  the  corner  of  Broadway 
and  Warren  is  the  most  curious  and  visit-worthy  spot 
in  New  York — money  in  your  pocket  or  no  money. 
And — (left  out  of  ourenumeration)- — these  enterprising 
luxurifers  have  lately  opened  a  second  story,  where 
they  show  such  chairs  and  work-tables  as  are  last  in 
vented — things  in  their  way  gorgeous  and  unsurpassa 
ble.  If  the  gods  have  any  design  of  making  me  rich, 
I  wish  it  might  be  done  before  TIFFANY  and  YOUNG 
get  too  old  to  be  my  caterers. 


The  theatrical  astronomers  have  been  much  inter 
ested  in  the  birth  of  a  new  star — lovely  Mrs.  Hunt  of 
the  Park — who  has  suddenly  found  her  sphere  and 
commenced  shining  brilliantly  in  a  range  of  characters 
seemingly  written  for  the  express  purpose  of  develop 
ing  her  talent.  Her  arch,  half-saucy,  and  yet  natural 
and  earnest  personation  of  Fortunio  has  "taken  the 
town."  She  had  made  the  success  also  of  a  very  in 
different  piece — a  poor  transfer  of  the  celebrated 
Gamin  de  Paris — in  which  she  played  the  character 
of  a  young  rascal  with  a  very  good  heart.  The  in 
creasing  applause  with  which  Mrs.  Hunt  is  nightly 
greeted,  after  having  had  her  light  so  long  "  hidden 
under  the  bushel"  of  a  stock  actress,  must  be  a  high 
gratification  to  "  Strong-back,"  her  husband,  indeed, 
his  undisguised  enjoyment  of  her  clever  acting  (as  he 
plays  with  her  in  Fortunio),  is  as  "good  as  a  play" 
and  much  more  edifying.  Success  to  her,  pray  I! 


THE  CABINET. — With  difficult  and  analytical  de 
liberation,  we  have,  at  last,  duly  distributed,  to  the 
slits,  pigeon-holes,  drawers,  and  cavities  of  our  an- 


EPHEMERA. 


121 


tique  cabinet,  their  several  and  appropriate  offices  and 
functions.  It  was  a  discipline  of  our  talent  at  strategy, 
was  this  job  of  office-giving — for,  to  confess  a  weak 
ness,  we  have  become  superstitious  touching  this  ven 
erable  piece  of  furniture.  It  seems  to  us  haunted ! 
We  have  harbored  it,  now,  some  three  weeks,  and 
have  attempted  with  it,  in  that  time,  certain  liberties 
of  arrangement  which  have  been  mysteriously  cross- 
purposed.  Nothing  about  it  would  stay  arranged. 
We  put  our  approved  contributions  into  one  pigeon 
hole,  and  our  doubtfuls  into  another,  our  to-be-noticed 
into  the  upright  slits,  and  our  damned  into  the  hori 
zontal.  We  had  a  topic-drawer,  and  a  drawer  for 
memoranda — an  oblivion-hole  and  a  cave  of  ridicule. 
We  committed  the  proper  documents  to  each,  and 
thanking  Heaven  for  a  tried  secretary,  commenced  our 
tranquil  reign.  A  week  had  not  glided  by,  before  all 
was  in  confusion.  Every  hole  seemed  to  have  kicked 
out  its  tenant.  The  "  approved"  had  scrambled  in 
with  the  "doubtfuls,"  and  the  "damned"  into  the 
"  noticed-hole,"  and  "  things  to  be  written  about," 
"  things  to  be  laughed  at,"  and  "  things  to  be  forgot 
ten,"  had  changed  places  with  marvellous  and  deci 
sive  celerity!  We  tried  to  restore  order,  but  the  con 
fusion  increased.  Nothing  would  stay  put.  It  was 
manifestly  a  Tyler  cabinet — the  doomed  victim  of  dis 
arrangement. 

How  order  has  been  restored — by  what  spirit-fin 
gers  our  labels  have  been  changed — what  intimations 
as  to  the  occupancy  of  each  particular  pigeon-hole 
we  have  been  compelled  to  regard — is  more  than  a 
cabinet  secret.  We  have  had  (to  make  a  confession) 
enough  of  telling  ghost-stories.  We  have  been  called 
on  by  all  manner  of  men  and  women  for  our  facts  as 
to  the  only  glimpse  into  the  spirit-world  which  we 
ever  described.  It  has  cost  us  any  quantity  of  brass 
(in  the  wear  of  our  knocker)  to  satisfy  curiosity  on 
that  subject.  Enough  that  our  pigeon-holes  are  la 
belled  with  supernatural  certainty.  Our  contributors, 
now,  will  go  to  their  appointed  niche  by  a  selective 
destiny  of  which  the  responsibility  is  not  ours.  The  j 
rejecteds  will  be  kind  enough  to  note  this,  and  curse 
the  cabinet — not  us!  If  their  manuscripts  lodge  in 
the  upright  slits  of  the  "  damned,"  it  is  because  the 
"  accepted"  would  not  hold,  keep,  or  harbor  them. 
We  wash  our  hands. 

Our  first  three  pulls  from  the  topic-drawers  are  let 
ters  of  complaint  against  postmasters  for  the  postage 
on  the  Mirror.  According  to  the  interpretation  of  the 
law  by  some  village  postmasters,  the  government  may 
charge  more  for  carrying  the  light  weight  of  the  Mir 
ror  than  we  for  editing,  printing,  embellishing,  and 
wrapping  it!  The  dtince  in  the  Charlestown  post- 
office  has  compelled  our  subscribers  to  have  their  pa 
pers  sent  to  Boston,  the  nearest  office  presided  over 
by  a  gentleman.  Another  pig's  head  has  control  of 
the  Dedham  office,  and  by-the-way,  we  clipped  from 
a  Dedham  paper,  the  following  results  of  his  readings 
of  the  postage  law  : — 

Tweedledum. — The  postage  at  the  Dedham  office 
for  the  New  World  newspaper  of  32  pages,  is  "  one 
and  4-8ths  of  a  cent." 

Tweedledee. — The  postage  for  the  New  Mirror 
newspaper  of  16  pages,  smaller  in  size,  with  a  plate,  is 
"3  and  12-16ths,  or  twenty-four  thirty-twoths  of  a 
cent ."' 

Tweedledum  second. — The  postage  of  a  New  Mir 
ror  extra,  of  32  pages  of  smaller  size,  is  five  cents  ! 

There  are  one  or  two  offices  in  the  interior  of  this 
state  where  the  postage  on  a  single  copy  of  the  Mir 
ror  has  been  charged  fifteen  cents — of  course  leaving 
it  unredeemed  in  the  office  for  the  postmaster's  use — 
as  he  expected ! 

Now,  pray  (we  ask  of  our  friend  the  town-pump), 
what  is  the  use  of  the  much-vaunted  blessing  of 
"cheap  literature,"  if  the  Government,  or  its  petty 


officials,  are  to  stand  between  the  publishers  and  the 
people,  making  it  dear  by  charging  as  much  as  its 
whole  value  for  carrying  it !  Ought  the  government 
to  favor  the  circulation  of  intelligence  or  not  ?  Is  it 
proper  to  put  the  most  oppressive,  or  the  least  oppres 
sive  construction,  on  all  cases  which  affect  the  spread 
of  art  and  literature  ?  It  is  a  fact,  that  revenue  suffi 
cient  has  been  received  at  the  port  of  New  York  in 
the  last  two  months  to  pay  the  whole  expenses  of  the 
government  of  the  United  States  for  one  year.  (So 
we  were  authentically  informed  yesterday.)  But,  if 
government  must  have  more  revenue,  should  not  liter 
ature  (we  scarce  have  patience  to  ask  it)  be  the  last 
thing  taxed  ?  Should  not  luxuries,  vanities,  goods 
and  chattels,  be  levied  upon,  to  the  crack  of  endurance, 
j  for  the  support  of  authority,  before  one  ray  of  light  is 
stopped  on  its  way  to  the  public  mind — stopped  to  be 
converted  into  a  perquisite  for  the  pocket  of  a  petty 
despot  ?  Of  the  postmasters  in  the  larger  cities  there 
is  no  complaint.  They  are  generally  enlightened 
men.  Mr.  Graham  here — Mr.  Green  in  Boston — 
throw  no  obstacles  in  the  way  of  literature.  On  the 
contrary,  they  do  all  in  their  power  to  promote  and  to 
facilitate  it.  It  is  the  petty,  ignorant,  peppercorn  post 
master  of  a  small  milage,  who,  clothed  with  a  little 
brief  authority,  and  knowing  that  his  oppressions 
leaves  the  disputed  article  in  his  hands,  reads  the  law 
perversely,  and  at  last  shuts  his  whole  neighborhood 
against  everything  but  newspapers  ! 

It  is  rather  a  reproach  to  a  country  whose  boast  and 
whose  reliance  for  the  perpetuity  of  its  free  institu 
tions  is  the  superior  intelligence  of  its  population,  that 
monarchical  countries  (England  and  France)  should 
be  before  us  in  the  reduction  of  taxes  on  the  convey 
ance  of  intelligence.  It  has  struck  us  as  extraordi- 
|  nary,  too,  that  in  the  revising  of  postage  laws,  the  in 
crease  of  facilities  for  carrying  the  mails  should  not 
have  suggested  a  reduction  of  postage!  But  at  any 
rate — leaving  the  laws  as  oppressive  as  they  are — we 
call  upon  on  enlightened  statesman  like  Mr.  Wick- 
|  liffe  to  insist  upon  the  most  lenient  and  most  favorable 
interpretation  of  them — instead  of  having  his  admin 
istration  of  the  department  distinguished,  as  it  fias 
been  and  is,  for  more  postoffice  oppressions  than  were 
ever  known  before.  The  postage  on  the  Mirror,  for 
one  instance — never  before  charged  higher  than  the 
newspapers  which  it  scarce  equals  in  weight — now 
varies  (in  some  of  the  country  postoffices)  from  Jive 
to  fifteen  cents — a  gross  "  sliding-scale"  of  oppression 
which  must  put  a  stop  to  our  enterprise,  if  persevered 
in,  or  cause  us  to  give  up  cover  and  embellishment, 
and  circulate  only  the  newspaper  sheet,  suited  to  the 
petty  letter  of  the  law  !  The  great  majority  of  post 
masters,  however,  we  are  happy  to  add,  charge  mere 
newspaper  postage  for  the  Mirror,  "as  the  law"  (prop 
erly  understood)  "  directs." 

Our  favorite  adversary  of  the  American  finds  pala 
table  fault  with  us  for  not  appending  Leigh  Hunt's 
name  to  such  good  things  as  we  have  copied  from  him. 
Why  should  we  ?  We  do  not  claim,  them  as  origi 
nal,  nor  are  they  leaded,  as  original  contributions  are 
wont  to  be.  The  original  object  of  giving  the  author's 
name  is  lost  (we  conceive)  at  the  distance  of  this 
country  from  England.  Leigh  Hunt  collects  and 
publishes  in  volumes  all  he  writes,  and  his  good  things 
are  well  labelled  and  guarded  in  his  own  country. 
Neither  his  fame,  his  profit,  nor  his  consequence  (the 
three  ends  he  aims  at),  could  be  affected  by  adding  his 
name  to  what  we  occasionally  take  from  him.  Be- 
aides — tit-for-tat-\cz\\y  considered — the  English  steal 
our  articles  by  the  dozen,  and  not  only  leave  out  our 
name  but  appropriate  them,  by  other  initials,  as  their 
own.  They  have  at  this  moment  a  cheap  edition  of 
!  our  poems  in  the  press  without  our  leave  or  license, 
|  and  we  have  helped  swell  most  of  the  collections  of 
'  English  poetry,  with  no  clue  K-ft  for  posterity  to  dis- 


122 


EPHEMERA. 


cover  that  the  author  had  also  the  honor  of  the 
l(  American's"  frequent  notice.  Besides  again,  there 
is  a  precedent  in  nature.  The  rice-birds  of  the  south 
are  the  bobolinks  of  the  north — losing  their  name  and 
copyright  altogether  by  emigration.  But  now,  having 
defended  our  castle,  we  would  fain  express  our  pleas 
ure  at  the  tone  and  quality  of  the  "American's" 
fault-findings,  invariably  done  in  good  taste,  and  con 
fined  always  within  legitimate  critical  bounds.  This, 
which  in  a  Utopia,  would  be  like  praising  water  for 
running  down  hill,  is  great  praise  in  an  unmitigated 
republic.  Fault  found  with  our  writings,  without  a 
smutch  on  out-self,  is  "  a  thing  to  thank  God  on" — as 
things  go.  In  the  same  breath  let  us  laud  the  Boston 
Atlas,  who  says  of  us,  with  something  between  a 
pickle  and  a  sweetmeat,  that  "  he  has  one  fault — he 
caters  for  his  readers  as  for  himself,  and  novelty  or 
eccentricity  of  expression  sometimes  usurps  the  place 
which  should  only  be  accorded  to  thoughts  of  real 
value."  We  kiss  the  rod. 

(Enter  the  Brigadier.) 

Brigadier. — My  dear  boy,  what  could  have  pos 
sessed  you  to  get  up  so  early  ?  Ten  o'clock,  and  the 
last  page  all  written,  and  not  a  subject  touched,  I'll 
wager  a  julep,  out  of  forty  that  were  indispensable  ! 
Have  you  said  no  word  of  the  "  Mirror  Library  ?" 

Cabinet. — Supererogatory,  brigadier!  Why  add 
perfume  to  the  violet  !  Our  selections  for  the  Library 
are  appreciated — they  sell  !  They  advertise  them 
selves.  They  breathe  sweetness. 

Brigadier. — Like  the  lady's  breath,  which  made  all 
men  exclaim,  "Hereof  be  scent-bags  made!"  Eh, 
my  boy  ? 

Cabinet. — The  "  Rubric  of  Love" — that  bundle  of  all 
the  delicious  things  ever  written  on  the  exciting  sub 
ject  of  love — what  but  its  very  name  and  purpose  is 
wanting  to  make  that  universal]  Everybody,  whose 
lease  of  love  is  not  quite  run  out,  must  have  a  copy 
of  it ! 

Brigadier. — They  must!  they  must !  It  is  a  book, 
charming  arid  cheap  at  any  price.  But — 

Cabinet. — I'll  stave  oflf  your  "but"  with  a  passage 
from  Milton's  Comus,  for  I'll  talk  of  work  no  more. 
Did  you  know  that  the  julep  was  to  Milton  what  gin 
was  to  Byron  ?  Listen  ! — 

"  And  first  behold  this  cordial  julep  here, 
With  spirits  of  balm  and  fragrant  syrups  mixed  .' 
Not  that  Nepenthe  which  the  wife  of  Thone 
In  Egypt  gave  to  Jove-born  Helena, 
Is  of  such  power  to  stir  up  joy  as  this, 
To  life  so  friendly,  or  so  cool  to  thirst !" 

Let  us  to  this  "  Nepenthe" — for  we  thirst  with 
Milton. 


It  would  probably  flabbergast  most  barn-door  fowl 
to  be  asked  the  meaning  of  eccalobeon,  though,  call  it 
the  hatching  of  eggs,  and  they  would  laugh  at  being 
acquainted  with  anything  else.  This  big  word  has 
mystified  the  posts  and  corners  for  a  fortnight,  and 
yesterday  my  curiosity  came  to  a  head.  I  looked  at 
the  bottom  of  the  placard  to  see  where  the  Eccalobeon 
was  to  be  exhibited,  and  soon  found  myself  at  a  small 
boy,  keeping  door  opposite  Washington  Hall.  (The 
lad  was  so  small  and  pale,  by  the  way,  that  I  thought 
it  warrantable  to  inquire  whether  he  was  produced  by 
eccalobeon.  It  appeared  that  he  was  not.  He  had  a 
regular  mother,  who  "  knew  he  was  out.") 

The  chirruping  of  chickens  saluted  our  ears  as  we 
opened  the  door,  and  we  observed  that  a  corner  of  the 
room  was  picketed  off,  where  a  dozen  or  two  of  these 
pseudo-orphans  (who  had  lost  their  mother  by  not 
having  been  suffered  to  have  one),  were  pecking  at 
gravel  and  evidently  doing  well.  V"ery  good  manners, 
for  chickens,  though,  as  the  man  in  the  menagerie 


says,  "  where  they  got  them  'mity  knows."  It  began 
to  look  very  much  as  if  mothers  were  a  superfluity. 

The  centre  of  the  room  was  occupied  by  the  artifi 
cial  mother — a  square  brick  structure,  containing 
ovens  in  which  lay  the  eggs  in  different  stages  of  prog 
ress.  Pieces  of  carpet  were  suspended  before  the 
openings,  and,  on  raising  them  and  putting  in  'the 
hand,  the  temperature  within  seemed  to  be  at  about 
blood-heat.  The  keeper  took  out  an  egg  that  was 
about  to  enter  upon  its  new  destiny  of  skewer  and 
gravy.  The  chicken  had  been  twenty  days  on  the 
road  from  spoon-victual  land,  and  its  little  beak  was 
just  hardened  sufficiently  to  prick  a  hole  into  the 
world  in  which  it  was  to  be  eaten.  It  lay  in  a  heap, 
rather  confusedly  packed,  its  thigh  bone  close  at  its 
beak  (apparently  ready  to  be  used  as  a  fulcrum  in  pry 
ing  the  crack  open),  and  its  downy  feathers,  wet  and 
forlorn,  just  lifted  by  respiration.  This  premature 
removal  of  the  shell,  however,  the  man  said,  would  be 
fatal.  The  destiny  of  that  little  well-contrived  heart, 
as  far  as  this  world  was  concerned,  was  to  furnish 
material  for  this  sigh  and  paragraph ! 

In  dishes  upon  the  table  were  eggs,  without  shells, 
in  all  the  different  stages  of  formation.  In  some  the 
veins  were  just  reddening,  and  the  vessels  filling  around 
the  heart,  and  in  one,  just  opened,  the  newly-formed 
heart,  a  red  globule  of  the  size  of  a  pin's  head,  was 
playing  backward  and  forward,  like  a  shuttle  in  a 
miniature  loom.  With  a  glass,  every  phase  of  the 
process  of  chicken-making  could  be  distinctly  seen. 
The  yolk,  I  was  surprised  to  learn,  does  not  contribute 
to  the  material  of  the  body — the  most  valuable  portion 
of  its  existence,  as  an  egg,  being,  therefore,  of  no  value 
to  it  in  its  after-life  of  chicken  !  The  provision  is 
certainly  a  wise  one  by  which  winged  creatures,  that 
could  not  well  fly  if  gravid  like  other  animals,  are 
provided  with  a  removable  womb  in  the  shape  of  an 
egg,  so  that  their  parturition  can  be  carried  on  outside 
the  body,  and  their  buoyancy  of  locomotion  is  not  in 
terfered  with.  The  comparison  between  the  incuba 
tion  of  fowls  and  human  gestation  immediately  suggests 
itself,  and  the  superior  convenience  of  the  former  to 
the  shape-destroying,  beauty-marring,  and  painful  ma 
ternity  of  our  race,  seems  a  blessing  to  be  envied,  at 
least  by  the  beautiful.  How  long  might  women  con 
tinue  ornamental,  and  to  what  age  would  their  person 
al  loveliness  beundiminished,  if  the  care  and  suffering 
of  maternity  could  be  delegated  to  a  brick  oven  ! 


I  am  inclined  to  think  it  is  not  peculiar  to  myself 
to  have  a  sabbath  taste  for  the  water-side.  There  is 
an  affinity,  felt  I  think  by  man  and  boy,  between  the 
stillness  of  the  day  and  the  audible  hush  of  boundaries 
to  water.  Premising  that  it  was  at  first  with  the  turn- 
ed-up  nose  of  conscious  travestie,  I  have  to  confess 
the  finding  of  a  sabbath  ramble,  to  my  mind,  along 
the  river-side  in  New  York — the  first  mile  toward 
Albany  on  the  bank  of  the  Hudson.  Indeed,  if  quiet 
be  the  object,  the  nearer  the  water  the  less  jostled  the 
walk  on  Sunday.  You  would  think,  to  cross  the  city 
anywhere  from  river  to  river,  that  there  was  a  general 
hydrophobia — the  entire  population  crowding  to  the 
high  ridge  of  Broadway,  and  hardly  a  soul  to  be  seen 
on  either  the  East  river  or  the  Hudson.  But,  with  a 
little  thoughtful  frequenting,  those  deserted  river-sides 
become  contemplative  and  pleasant  rambling-places, 
and,  if  some  whim  of  fashion  do  not  make  the  bank 
of  the  Hudson  like  the  Marina  of  Smyrna,  a  fashion 
able  resort,  I  have  my  Sunday  afternoons  provided  for, 
during  the  pigritude  of  city  durance. 

Yesterday  (Sunday)  it  blew  one  of  those  unfolding 
west  winds,  chartered  expressly  to  pull  the  kinks  out 
of  the  belated  leaves — a  breeze  it  was  delightful  to  set 
the  face  to — strong,  genial,  and  inspiriting,  and  smell- 


EPHEMERA. 


123 


ing  (in  New  York)  of  the  snubbed  twigs  of  Hoboken. 
The  Battery  looked  very  delightful,  with  the  grass 
laying  its  cheek  to  the  ground,  and  the  trees  all  astir 
and  trinkling,  but  on  Sunday  this  lovely  resort  is  full 
of  smokers  of  bad  cigars — unpleasant  gentlemen  to 
take  the  wind  of.  I  turned  the  corner  with  a  look 
through  the  fence,  and  was  in  comparative  solitude 
the  next  moment. 

The  monarch  of  our  deep  water-streams,  the  gigantic 
44  Massachusetts,"  lay  at  her  wharf,  washed  by  the 
waving  hands  of  the  waters  taking  leave  of  the  Hudson. 
The  river  ends  under  the  prow — or,  as  we  might  say 
with  a  poetic  license,  joins  on,  at  this  point,  to  Ston- 
ington — so  easy  is  the  transit  from  wharf  to  wharf  in 
that  magnificent  conveyance.  From  this  point  up, 
extends  a  line  of  ships,  rubbing  against  the  pier  the 
fearless  noses  that  have  nudged  the  poles  and  the 
tropics,  and  been  breathed  on  by  spice-islands  and  ice 
bergs — an  array  of  nobly-built  merchantmen,  that, 
with  the  association  of  their  triumphant  and  richly- 
freighted  comings  and  goings,  grows  upon  my  eye 
with  a  certain  majesty.  It  is  a  broad  street  here,  of 
made  land,  and  the  sidewalks  in  front  of  the  new  stores 
are  lumbered  with  pitch  and  molasses,  flour  and  red 
ochre,  bales,  bags,  and  barrels,  in  unsightly  confusion 
— but  the  wharf-side,  with  its  long  line  of  carved  figure 
heads,  and  bowsprits  projecting  over  the  street,  is  an 
unobstructed"  walk — on  Sundays  at  least — and  more 
suggestive  than  many  a  gallery  of  marble  statues. 
The  vessels  that  trade  to  the  North  sea  harbor  here, 
unloading  their  hemp  and  iron;  andthesuperb  French 
packet-ships,  with  their  gilded  prows  ;  and,  leaning 
over  the  gangways  and  tafferails,  the  Swedish  and 
Norwegian  sailors  jabber  away  their  Sunday's  idle 
time  ;  and  the  negro-cooks  lie  and  look  into  the  pud 
dles,  and  altogether  it  is  a  strangely-mixed  picture — 
Power  reposing  and  Fret  and  Business  gone  from  the 
six-days'  whip  and  chain.  I  sat  down  on  a  short 
hawser-post,  and  conjured  the  spirits  of  ships  around 
me.  They  were  as  communicative  as  would  naturally 
be  expected  in  a  tete-a-tete  when  quite  at  leisure. 
Things  they  had  seen  and  got  wind  of  in  the  Indian 
seas,  strange  fishes  that  had  tried  the  metal  of  their 
copper  bottoms,  porpoises  they  had  run  over  asleep, 
wrecks  and  skeletons  they  had  thrown  a  shadow  across 
when  under  prosperous  headway — these  and  particu 
lars  of  the  fortunes  they  had  brought  home,  and  the 
passengers  coming  to  look  through  one  more  country 
to  find  happiness,  and  the  terrors  and  dangers,  heart 
aches  and  dreams,  that  had  come  and  gone  with  each 
bill  of  lading — the  talkative  old  bowsprits  told  me  all. 
I  sat  and  watched  the  sun  setting  between  two  out 
landish-looking  vessels,  and,  at  twilight,  turned  to  go 
home,  leaving  the  spars  and  lines  drawn  in  clear  trace 
ry  on  a  sky  as  rosy  and  fading  as  a  poet's  prospects 
at  seventeen. 


POSTOFFICE  ABUSES. — "  It  will  none  otherwise  be," 
says  Sir  Thomas  More,  "but  that  some  stumblinge 
blockes  will  always  bee,  by  malicious  folk,  laid  in  good 
people's  way."  Upon  this  text  we  propose  to  preach 
a  little  sermon. 

We  have  given  in  to  the  rage  of  the  day,  which  is 
the  cheapening;  of  brain-work,  not  very  willingly  at 
first,  but  heartily  when  our  mind  was  made  up  to  it. 
The  author  is  depreciated,  and  that  is,  perhaps,  not 
well—but  the  public  is  benefited,  and  that  is,  very 
certainly,  good.  Millions  are  touched  by  the  length 
ened  wand  of  literature,  who  were  beyond  its  reach 
till  it  was  eked  out  by  cheapness. 

The  old  Mirror,  at  five  dollars  per  annum,  occasion 
ally  embellished  by  a  plate,  was  considered,  by  the 
successive  postmasters-general  for  twenty  years,  as  a 
'ftopular  good,  which  it  was  well  worth  their  while  to 
favor  and  foster.  It  throve  accordingly.  Had  Mr. 


Wickliffe  been  postmaster-general  when  it  was  started, 
it  would  not  have  lived  a  year  !     With  or  without  its 
plate,  with  or  without  its  cover,  it  went  rigorously  to 
all  parts  of  the  country,  at  newspaper  postage.     No 
village    postmaster  would    have   ventured    to    charge 
more  upon  it;  and  if  one  had  been  pragmatical  enough 
to  twist  the  law  into  a  new  reading  for  that  purpose, 
the  very  first  complaint  would  have  set  it  right,  or  re- 
moved  him.     The  editors  had  no  trouble  on  the  sub 
ject,  and  they  went  on,  pioneering  the  way  into  the 
;  fields  of  art  and  elegant  literature,  and  setting  an  ex- 
1  ample  which  has  been  followed  by  the  large  troop  of 
!  tasteful   periodicals  now  in  existence,  to  the  no  small 
1  diffusion  of  taste  and  intelligence. 

Literature  began  to  cheapen.     It  was  proposed  to 
bring  refinement,   delicate  sentiment,  the   ennobling 
love  of  poetry,  and  an  acquaintance  with  heroic  mod 
els  through  song  and  story,  within  reach  of  the  hum- 
I  bier  classes.      New  periodicals  were  started  on   this 
basis.     The  old   Mirror  was  superseded   by  cheaper 
1  works — works  which,  for  tJiree  dollars,  gave  as  much 
or  more  matter,  but  without  embellishment,  and  of 
very  inferior  typography  and  paper.     That  rage  had 
its  day.     The  circulation  of  light  literature  was  very 
i  much  enlarged,  and  the  people,  of  all  classes,  became 
|  interested  in  the  current  writing  of  the  eventful  pres 
ent  hour.     This  sudden  spread  of  taste  (we  may  say 
in  passing)  was  an  ingredient  thrown  into  the  national 
'  character  which  no  doubt  powerfully  furthered — what 
it  seems  Mr.  Wickliffe's  sole  mission  to  retard — the 
refinement  and  growing  intelligence  of  the  American 
people. 

But  there  was  one  more  effort  to  be  made.  Com 
plaints  began  to  be  heard  that  these  cheap  publica 
tions  were  inelegant;  that,  sent  forth  damp,  unpressed 
and  unembellished,  they  became  smutched  and  grew 
unsightly  and  hurtful  to  the  eyes;  and  that  more 
careful  workmanship  and  better  type  and  paper  were 
desirable.  The  founder  of  the  old  Mirror  took  the 
subject  into  examination  and  study.  He  made  the 
closest  calculations  of  the  cost  of  fair  print  and  em 
bellishment,  and  after  much  thought  and  inquiry,  aid 
ed  by  twenty  years  of  experience  and  success,  he  ma 
tured  the  plan  of  the  present  "  NEW  MIRROR."  It 
was  the  plan  of  a  periodical  to  be  suited  to  the  now 
refined  taste  of  the  "greatest  number,"  as  well  as 
adapted  to  the  means  of  the  greatest  number,  and  the 
uniting  of  these  two  desirable  extremes  brought  its 
price  within  a  hair's  breadth  of  its  cost,  and  left  the 
feasibility  of  the  project  dependant  wholly  on  the 
chance  of  sailing  at  once,  and  smoothly,  into  an  enor 
mous  circulation.  The  item  of  postage  was  not  over 
looked — but  as  the  New  Mirror,  cover  and  plate  in 
cluded,  would  scarce  weigh  half  as  much  as  the  Al 
bion,  Spirit  of  the  Times,  and  other  weekly  papers 
which  went  for  newspaper-postage,  and  it  was  no 
heavier  than  the  old  Mirror,  which  went  for  the  same 
postage,  the  subject  was  not  thought  worth  a  doubt. 
"\Vell — the  New  Mirror  made  its  appearance.  A 
type  worthy  of  the  choicest  library,  a  cover  conve 
nient  and  elegant,  a  beautiful  steel  plate,  and  sixteen 
pages  of  matter  edited  with  careful  experience  and 
labor,  were  offered  to  the  public  for  this  same  man 
ageable  price  of  "  three  dollars  a  year!"  The  poor 
est  citizen  need  not  now  be  without  his  fair  share  of 
knowledge  of  the  arts  and  literature.  Nothing  seemed 
to  stand  in  the  way.  The  manifest  high  order  of 
style  and  spirit  in  the  design  of  the  work,  combined 
with  its  accessibility  by  cheapness,  sent  it  abroad  like 
day-rising.  Its  circulation  became,  as  it  well  needed 
to  be,  enormous.  And  now,  you  ask,  what  is  the 
matter?  And  we  will  tell  you,  and  we  wish  Mr. 
Wickliffe  to  listen. 

A  gentleman  called  at  our  office  a  week  or  two 
since,  and  bought  a  copy  or  two  of  the  "  Mirror  Li- 
brarv,"  expressing  his  regret  that  it  was  not  conve- 


124 


EPHEMERA. 


nient  for  him  to  take  the  Mirror.  He  lived  in  Ver- 
non,  Oneida  county,  New  York,  and  the  postage 
charged  him  by  Mr.  J.  W.  Jenkins,  the  postmaster 
of  that  place,  was  FOURTEEN  CENTS  on  each  copy — 
bringing  the  cost  of  the  Mirror  up  to  ten  doltars  twen 
ty-eight  cents  a  year  !  We  immediately  addressed  a 
letter  to  Mr.  J.  W.  Jenkins,  inquiring  respectfully 
into  the  reason  of  this  exorbitant  charge,  and  that 
letter  Mr.  J.  W.  Jenkins  has  never  answered.  The 
gentleman  assured  us  that  several  persons  of  his  ac 
quaintance  in  Vernon  had  been  deterred  from  subscri 
bing  to  the  Mirror  by  Mr.  J.  W.  Jenkins's  overcharge 
of  postage.  Again:  we  have  discovered,  in  many  in 
stances,  that  our  subscribers,  after  paying  their  sub 
scriptions,  have  let  their  papers  lie  in  the  postoffice  i 
rather  than  submit  to  the  extortionate  charge  of  post 
age,  and  the  postmasters  have  never  notified  us  of  the 
fact.  Again  :  the  Mirrors  miscarry,  to  a  degree  that 
shows  more  than  neglect  on  the  part  of  the  postmas 
ters  or  their  subordinates.  The  complaints  and  stop 
pages  for  this  last  reason  are  out  of  all  precedent  and 
proportion.  Again  :  the  postage  charged  on  the  New 
Mirror  varies,  as  we  have  said  before,  from  one  cent 
to  fifteen,  in  some  of  the  country  postoffices,  more  or 
less,  according  to  the  whim  or  tyranny  of  the  dull  of 
ficial.  The  postmaster  of  Great  Harrington  is  one 
of  those  pigheaded  dunces,  charging  postage  on  the 
Mirror  sent  to  the  "Berkshire  Courier" — in  direct  vi 
olation  of  the  law  which  exempts  papers  from  postage 
on  exchanges. 

What  is  the  remedy  for  these  abuses  ?  We  have 
complained  to  Mr.  WicklifTe  of  the  irregularity  and 
extortion  in  regard  to  the  postage  on  the  Mirror,  and 
have  received  in  turn  a  letter  of  sesquipedalian  flum 
mery,  the  compounding  of  which  required  the  edu 
cation  of  a  Virginia  politician;  and,  our  letter  once 
answered,  the  abuse  was  probably  never  thought  of 
in  the  department.  Yet  it  was  a  matter  serious 
enough  to  be  worth  Mr.  Wickliffe's  attention.  These 
petty  tyrants  with  their  "little  brief  authority,"  stand 
between  the  public  and  the  supply  for  public  refinement 
and  intelligence.  They  change  the  cost  of  the  cheap 
est  and  most  elegant  publication  of  the  day  from 
$3.52  (postage  and  all)  to  $10.28!  They  strangle 
literary  enterprise  in  the  cradle.  And  for  whose  ad 
vantage  ?  Not  the  government's — for  subscribers  will 
rather  leave  their  Mirrors  in  the  office  than  pay  the  ex 
tortionate  charge.  For  the  benefit  of  the  postmasters 
themselves — who,  by  this  indirect  fraud,  obtain  a  nice 
handful  of  periodicals  weekly,  to  dispose  of  as  one  of 
the  perquisites  of  their  office!  This  is  surely  a  mat 
ter  worth  Mr.  Wickliffe's  while  to  look  after. 

To  the  majority  of  postmasters  we  owe  thanks  rather 
than  reproaches.  They  have  rightly  judged  that  the 
spirit  of  the  law  did  not  intend  a  difference  of  two 
cents  between  a  paper  stitched  and  a  paper  not  stitched 
— (a  difference  made  by  some  of  the  Dogberry  post 
masters).  They  feel  justly  that  if  there  is  a  question 
as  to  the  intention  of  a  postage-law,  the  cause  of  in 
telligence  and  literature  is  to  have  the  benefit  of  the 
most  favorable  interpretation.  No  law  can  exactly 
describe  every  periodical  likely  to  be  started.  No 
senate,  in  making  a  law,  intends  to  charge  more  for 
carrying  three  printed  pieces  that  weigh  one  ounce, 
than  one  printed  piece  that  weighs  tivoor  three  ounces 
— yet  so,  again,  do  these  petty  Dogberrys  interpret 
the  law. 

There  is  another  point  about  which  we  would  in 
quire  of  the  committee  now  engaged  on  the  revised 
postage-laws.  Why  should  literary  papers  of  the  same 
weight  be  more  taxed  than  newspapers  ?  Is  the  circu 
lation  of  moral  and  refining  influences  twice  as  tax 
able  as  the  circulation  of  scandal  and  politics,  rapes 
and  murders,  amusements  and  advertisements  ?  Sure 
ly  the  intelligence  that  enlightens  the  community  is 
as  much  contained  in  the  weeklies  and  monthlies  as  in 


the  daily  papers.  Yet  in  the  bill  now  before  the 
house,  the  former  are  taxed  at  twice  the  price  of  the 
latter!  This,  we  suppose,  is  some  of  Mr.  Wickliffe's 
handiwork. 

We  give  up  the  postmaster-general — leave  him  to 
be  bewildered  with  the  technicalities  of  his  office — 
careful  of  the  husks  while  the  grain  sifts  away  from 
him.  We  make  an  appeal  to  the  fountain  of  his  of 
ficial  power — public  opinion  !  Let  this  matter  be  un 
derstood,  and  let  every  petty  postmaster  who  plays 
the  tyrant,  or  misuses  his  authority,  be  memorialized 
out  of  office.  The  government  ought  not  to  be  one 
penny  richer  for  carrying  the  mails.  No  revenue 
should  be  derivable  to  the  treasury  from  the  carrying 
of  intelligence.  The  cheapest  postage-rate  possible 
should  be  set  by  law,  and  the  law  should  be  bent  to 
suit  circumstances  in  all  cases  where  the  cost  of  car 
rying  is  not  thereby  made  greater.  Public  opinion 
should  so  instruct  the  public  servant.  The  postmas 
ter-general,  and  the  lesser  postmasters  who  obey  his 
dictum,  should  be  made  to  feel  that  the  least  pretence 
for  extortion  or  oppression  on  their  part,  or  any  want 
of  accommodation  and  liberal  conduct,  would  be 
promptly  punished.  We  write  freely  on  this  subject, 
for  our  enterprise  is  at  stake,  and  we  speak  somewhat, 
too,  for  other  interests  than  our  own.  To  offer  a  pe 
riodical  for  three  dollars  a  year,  that  is  made  to  cost 
ten  by  the  oppression  of  postmasters,  is  to  advertise  a 
misnomer.  Let  the  Wickliffe  dynasty  prevail,  and 
we  shall  be  obliged  to  leave  off  cover,  plate,  and 
stitching,  and  change  the  Mirror  to  a  simple  printed 
sheet,  without  protection  from  wear  and  tear,  and 
without  embellishment  or  capability  of  binding  and 
preservation. 


We  have  always  felt  great  sympathy  for  the  blind. 
We  have  felt  also  great  curiosity  to  know  exactly  how 
much  of  human  knowledge  is  forbidden  to  go  in  at 
the  ear — and  how  much  that  is  turned  aside,  as  inad 
missible  at  that  one  portal,  can  be  smuggled  in  after 
ward  under  the  cloak  of  explanation  and  description. 
The  accounts  of  Laura  Bridgman  interested  us  pro- 
portionably  more  from  her  greater  deprivations.  It 
is  putting  this  curiosity  in  a  much  more  spicy  vein  of 
gratification,  however,  to  know  that  a  poet  is  impris 
oned  in  one  of  these  windowless  temples,  and  to  dis 
cover  how  he  lives  without  light  and  color — as  well 
as  how  much  he  is  the  purer  and  better  from  escaping 
all  that  offends  the  eye,  which,  by-the-way,  is  not  a 
little.  The  poems  of  Miss  FRANCES  JANE  CROSBY, 
a  pupil  of  the  New  York  Institution  for  the  Blind, 
lie  before  us,  and  we  have  read  them  with  great  mod 
ification  of  our  pity  for  the  blind.  Eyes  could  scarce 
do  more. 

No  one  in  reading  the  miscellaneous  poems  by 
Miss  Crosby  would  suspect  that  she  was  blind.  She 
seems  to  forget  it  herself.  She  talks  of  "crimson 
teints"  and  "purple  west"  and  "stars  of  mildest  hue," 
with  quite  the  familiarity  of  those  who  see.  But  it 
is  evident  that  her  ear  has  more  than  a  common  share 
of  nicety  and  susceptibility  to  measure,  for  in  no  early 
poems  that  we  remember  is  there  such  smooth  ele 
gance  of  rhythm. 

The  volume  is  composed  principally  of  poems  of 
the  affections,  and  well-expressed,  musical,  and  cred 
itable  to  the  authoress,  are  all  the  pieces.  The  price 
of  such  a  volume  should  be  nominal  merely,  and  the 
kindly-disposed  should  give  for  it  what  their  benevo 
lence  prompts.  We  would  suggest  to  the  publishers 
to  send  it  round  by  agents  with  this  view. 


There  are  things  in  the  world   better  than   poetry, 
and  things  written  without  genius  that  more  stir  the 


EPHEMERA. 


125 


soul  of  a  man  than  would  some  things  ticketed  for 
immortality.  Now  we  do  not  make  sure  that  we  are 
not  "weak"  on  the  subject  of  young  children.  We 
always  thought  them  quite  eligible  to  any  possible 
choir  of  cherubim.  But  we  will  venture  to  unmask 
our  foible,  if  foible  it  be,  by  declaring  that  we  have 
read  the  following  downright,  homely,  truthful,  and 
funny  verses — (sent  to  us  by  some  charming  mother) 
— read  them  with  delight.  It  is  good  honest  poetry, 
with  a  foothold  to  it,  and  we  should  like  to  see  the 
baby,  since  reading  it : — 

"MY    BABY. 

"  She  is  not  a  beauty,  my  sweet  little  pet, 
Her  mouth's  not  a  rosebud,  her  eyes  not  like  jet, 
Her  nose  far  from  Grecian,  her  skin  not  like  snow, 
She  is  not  a  beauty,  dear  me  !  no,  no,  no  ! 
But  then  she  is  winsome,  this  bird  of  my  bower, 
And  she  grows  on  my  heart  every  minute  and  hour. 

"  She  is  not  a  beauty,  my  sweet  little  pet, 
On  dimples  more  witching  my  eyes  have  been  set ; 
Her  mouth,  I  must  tell  you,  is  large  like  mama's, 
While  her  chin,  to-be-sure,  is  just  like  her  papa's  ! 
But  when  she  smites  trustingly,  what  can  compare 
With  this  gem  of  my  casket,  bright,  sparkling,  and  fair? 

"  She  is  not  a  beauty,  my  sweet  little  pet, 
Far  handsomer  babies  each  day  can  be  met ; 
Her  brows  are  not  arching — indeed,  they're  too  straight, 
Yet  time  will  work  wonders,  with  patience  I'll  wait. 
But  if  she's  not  handsome,  it  matters  not — no  ! 
This  bud  of  my  bosom  is  pure  as  the  snow. 

"  She  is  not  a  beauty,  my  sweet  little  pet, 
That  her  forehead  is  too  low  I  can  not  forget ; 
No,  no,  she's  not  beautiful  I  must  confess, 
(Between  you  and  I,  would  her  mouth  had  been  less) 
But  she  loves  me  so  dearly,  oh,  how  could  I  part 
With  this  light  of  my  pilgrimage,  joy  of  my  heart,    c.  n." 


We  are  fortunate  in  a  troop  of  admirable  contribu 
tors  who  write  for  love,  not  money — love  being  the 
only  commodity  in  which  we  can  freely  acknowledge 
ourselves  rich.  We  receive,  however,  all  manner  of 
tempting  propositions  from  those  who  wish  to  write 
for  the  other  thing — money — and  it  pains  us  griev 
ously  to  say  "  No,"  though,  truth  to  say,  love  gets 
for  us  as  good  things  as  money  would  buy — our  read 
ers  will  cheerfully  agree.  But,  yesterday,  on  open 
ing  at  the  office  a  most  dainty  epistle,  and  reading  it 
fairly  through,  we  confess  our  pocket  stirred  within 


More  at  first  than  afterward — for,  upon  reflec-  |   Bro 


tion,  we  became  doubtful  whether  the  writer  were  not 
old  and  "blue" — it  was  so  exceedingly  well  done! 
We  have  half  a  suspicion,  now,  that  it  is  some  sharp 
old  maid  in  spectacles — some  regular  contributor  to 
Godey  and  Graham,  who  has  tried  to  inveigle  us 
through  our  weak  point — possibly  some  varlet  of  a 
man-scribbler.  But  no  !  it  is  undeniably  .feminine. 
Let  us  show  you  the  letter — the  latter  part  of  it,  at 
least,  as  it  opens  rather  too  honeyedly  for  print: — 

"You  know  that  the  shops  in  Broadway  are  very 
tempting  this  spring.  Suck  beautiful  things !  Well, 
you  know  (no,  you  don't  know  that,  but  you  can  guess) 
what  a  delightful  thing  it  would  be  to  appear  in  one 
of  those  charming,  head-adorning,  complexion-soften 
ing,  hard-feature-subduing  Neapolitans;  with  a  little 
gossamer  veil  dropping  daintily  on  the  shoulder  of  one 
of  those  exquisite  balzarine,<;,  to  be  seen  any  day  at 
Stewart's  and  elsewhere.  Well,  you  know  (this  you 
must  know)  that  shopkeepers  have  the  impertinence 
to  demand  a  trifling  exchange  for  these  things,  even 
of  a  lady  ;  and  also  that  some  people  have  a  remark 
ably  small  purse,  and  a  remarkably  small  portion  of 
the  yellow  '  root'  in  that.  And  now,  to  bring  the  mat 
ter  home,  /  am  one  of  that  class.  I  have  the  most 


counterfeiting — that  is,  filling  the  void  with  tissue-pa 
per  in  lieu  of  bank-notes,  preparatory  to  a  shopping 
expedition ! 

"  Well,  now  to  the  point.  As  'Bel'  and  I  snuggled 
down  on  the  sofa  this  morning,  to  read  the  New  Mir 
ror  (by-the-way,  cousin  'Bel'  is  never  obliged  to  put 
tissue-paper  in  her  purse),  it  struck  us  that  you  would 
be  a  friend  in  need,  and  give  good  counsel  in  this 
emergency.  'Bel',  however,  insisted  on  my  not  tel 
ling  what  I  wanted  the  money  for;  she  even  thought 
that  I  had  better  intimate  orphanage,  extreme  suffer 
ing  from  the  burdens  of  some  speculating  bubble,  ill 
ness,  etc.,  etc. ;  but  did  not  I  know  you  better!  Have 
I  read  the  New  Mirror  so  much  (to  say  nothing  of  the 
graceful  things  coined  'under  a  bridge,'  and  a  thou 
sand  other  pages  flung  from  the  inner  heart),  and  not 
learned  who  has  an  eye  for  everything  pretty?  Not 
so  stupid,  Cousin  'Bel' — no,  no ! 

"However,  this  is  not  quite  the  point,  after  all;  but 
here  it  is.  I  have  a  pen — not  a  gold  one  (I  don't 
think  I  could  write  with  that),  but  a  nice  little  feath 
er-tipped  pen,  that  rests  in  the  curve  of  my  fore-finger 
as  contentedly  as  on  its  former  pillow  of  down. 
(Shocking!  how  that  line  did  run  down  hill !  and  this 
almost  as  crooked!  dear  me!)  Then  I  have  little 
messengers  racing  'like  mad'  through  the  galleries  of 
my  head,  spinning  long  yarns,  and  weaving  fabrics 
rich  and  soft  as  the  balzarine  which  I  so  much  covet, 
until  1  shut  my  eyes  and  stop  my  ears  and  whisk  away 
with  the  'wonderful  lamp' safely  hidden  in  my  own 
brown  braids.  Then  I  have  Dr.  Johnson's  diction 
ary — capital  London  edition,  etc.,  etc.;  and,  after  I 
use  up  all  the  words  in  that,  I  will  supply  myself  with 
Webster's  wondrous  quarto,  appendix  and  all.  Thus 
prepared,  think  you  not  I  should  be  able  to  put  some 
thing  in  the  shops  of  the  literary  caterers — something 
that,  for  once  in  my  life,  would  give  me  a  real  errand 
into  Broadway  ?  Maybe  you  of  the  New  Mirror  pay 
for  acceptable  articles — maybe  not.  Comprenez-vous  ! 

"O  I  do  hope  that  beautiful  balzarine  like  'Bel's 
will  not  be  gone  before  another  Saturday  !  You  will 
not  forget  to  answer  me  in  the  next  Mirror ;  but  pray, 
my  dear  editor,  let  it  be  done  very  cautiously,  for 
'Bel'  would  pout  all  day  if  she  should  know  what  I 
have  written.  Till  Saturday,  your  anxiously-waiting 
friend,  "FAN^Y." 

Well — we  give  in  !  On  condition  that  you  are  un 
der  twenty-five,  and  that  you  will  wear  a  rose  (recog- 
nisably)  in  your  boddice  the  first  day  you  appear  in 
with  the  hat  and  "balzarine,"  we  will  pay 
the  bills.  Write  us  thereafter  a  sketch  of  "  'Bel'  "  and 
yourself  as  cleverly  done  as  this  letter,  and  you  may 
"snuggle  down"  on  the  sofa  and  consider  us  paid  and 
the  public  charmed  with  you. 


In  the  days  when  we  were  "  possessed"  with  horses, 
and  horse-racing,  we  were  sadly  well-acquainted  with 
a  jockey  who  lost  his  wits  in  the  excitement  of  losing 
a  race.  He  hung  about  race-courses  for  some  years 
after  becoming  an  idiot,  and  by  dint  of  always  denying 
a  horse's  good  qualities  in  the  stable,  and  of  never 
speaking  well  of  one  except  at  the  winning  moment, 
he  contrived  to  preserve,  through  all  his  idiocy,  some 
influence  in  the  judgment  of  horseflesh.  We  have 
been  reminded  of  our  old  friend  Spavin  (call  him 
Spavin  — "  nil  mortuis")  by  certain  of  our  critical 
brother  editors,  and  their  very  kindly-intended  (pos 
sibly)  critiques  on  the  Mirror;  Come  a  week  (as  such 


weeks  will  come)  when  our  health  is  queasy,  and  when 
our  spirits  are  gathering  violets  in  dells  where  a  pa 
ving-stone  would  be  stoned  to  death  as  a  monster  (and 
there  are  dells  incapable  of  a  paving-stone) — come 

beautiful  little  purse  in  the  world,  but  it  is  only  kept  i  such  a  week,  we  say,  and  let  the   Mirror  go  forth, 
for  show;   I  even  find  myself  under  the  necessity  of     without  such  quantity  of  our  own  work  as  strains  our 


126 


EPHEMERA. 


extremest  fibre  to  the  crack,  and  down  comes  this 
vigilant  critic  upon  us  with  a  cry  of  "  no  go,"  "  falling 
off,"  "  idle,"  and  "  better  formerly" — disparagements 
that  would  take  the  conceit  out  of  a  church  steeple  ! 
And  why  does  he  do  this  ?  Why  should  we  not  be 
better  at  some  times  than  at  others,  without  being 
criticised  like  a  steam-engine — a  thing  incapable  of 
mood,  humor,  and  caprice?  Simply  because  this 
sort  of  critique  is  easy  to  tvrite,  and  so  favors,  in  the 
writer,  the  very  idleness  he  criticises  in  us.  But,  good 
heavens  !  are  we  not  entitled  to  our  worser,  as  well  as 
our  better  moments  !  Shall  we  always  be  at  tiptop 
speed,  and  never  have  freedom  from  disparagement 
except  when  winning  a  race  ? 

We  boldly  lay  claim  to  more  industry  than  rightly 
falls  to  us  as  our  share  of  the  curse  !  Supposing,  for 
the  moment,  that  our  writings  are  better  for  the  Mir 
ror  than  what  takes  their  place  occasionally  (a  flatter 
ing  inference  from  our  critic's  critique),  we  do  more  in 
quantity,  in  the  course  of  the  year,  than  one  editor  in 
a  hundred.  There  is  more  copied  from  the  Mirror 
(we  have  often  had  occasion  to  observe)  than  from  any 
two  periodicals  in  the  country.  The  truth  is,  we  are 
too  famous  for  comfort ! 

"  Oh  mediocrity, 

Thou  priceless  jewel  only  mean  men  have 
But  never  value— like  the  precious  gem 
Found  in  the  muck-hill  by  the  ignorant  cock." 

You  see  what  troubles  us,  dear  reader  ! 


The  flowering  into  glory  of  such  a  century-plant 
of  excellence  as  our  worthy  friend  and  fellow-publish 
er,  JAMKS  HARPER,  has  in  it,  with  all  our  willing  ac 
clamation,  some  occasional  provocation  to  a  smile. 
The  sudden  call  for  "  his  picture" — the  eager  litho 
graph  of  his  fun-bestridden  nose  and  money-making 
spectacles — the  stir  he  has  made  among  the  abuses, 
with  his  Cliff-street  way  of  doing  business,  and  the 
salutary  feel  we  get  of  the  wand  of  power  in  his 
clutch,  while  we  still  see  him  in  his  accustomed 
haunts,  busy  and  unpedestaled  as  before — there  is 
something  in  the  contrast  which  makes  us  say,  with 
Prince  Hal,  "  Ned,  come  out  of  that  fat  room  and 
give  us  thy  hand  to  laugh  a  little,"  though,  with  all 
our  heart,  we  rejoice  in  his  authority.  The  Courier, 
speaking  of  the  likeness  just  published  of  Mr.  Har 
per,  says :  "  The  new  mayor's  pleasant,  shrewd,  and 
half-quizzical  countenance  is  cleverly  hit  off,  and  he 
is  peering  through  the  official  eye-glasses  in  a  manner 
that  portends  trouble  to  all  municipal  delinquents. 
Let  them  look  to  their  ways,  and  Jet  all  subordinate 
official  functionaries  look  to  the  streets  ;  for  this  por 
trait  would  convince  us,  even  if  we  were  not  acquaint 
ed  with  the  original,  that  the  chief  magistrate  has  an 
eye  upon  them." 

This  bit  of  speculation  as  a  preface  to  our  lauda- 
mus  of  Mayor  Harpers  administration,  as  felt  particu 
larly  in  two  or  three  abated  nuisances.  The  hack- 
men  are  no  longer  permitted  to  devour  passengers  on 
their  arrival  in  steamboats,  nor  to  make  a  clievaux-dc- 
frise  of  their  whips  at  the  landing-piers,  but  must  sit 
quietly  on  their  coach-boxes  till  called  for.  The 
omnibus-racing  is  to  be  put  a  stop  to,  we  understand, 
and  that  should  really  be  celebrated  in  an  appropriate 
"  northern  refrain.1"  There  are  two  refrains  more 
that  we  would  suggest  to  our  city  Harper — that  hose- 
boys  should  be  made  to  refrain  from  flooding  the 
sidewalks  under  the  thin  shoes  of  ladies,  and  that  gen 
tlemen  who  must  smoke  in  the  street  should  refrain 
from  the  windward  side  of  ladies,  particularly  those 
who  prefer  air  that  has  not  been  used. 

And  apropos — (it  will  be  seen  that  we  were  born  to 
make  a  world) — we  wish  to  suggest  to  enterprise  an 
other  abatement  of  the  nuisances  of  Broadway.  It 


is  desirable  to  reduce  the  number  of  omnibuses  in 
this  great  thoroughfare,  for  many  very  cogent  rea 
sons — but  as  long  as  they  pay — that  is  to  say,  as  long 
as  the  public  require  them — they  must  even  go  on — 
deafening  promenaders,  and  endangering  private  car 
riages  and  the  lives  of  people  crossing  the  street.  But 
who  that  is  down  town  in  a  summer's  day,  and  wishes 
to  go  anywhere  to  the  western  side  of  the  city,  would 
not  prefer  to  take  a  ferry-boat  (if  there  were  one) 
from  the  foot  of  Maiden  lane  round  the  Battery  to 
Chelsea  ?  How  preferable  the  fresh  air,  and  beautiful 
scenery  of  the  rivers  and  bay,  to  a  crowded  omnibus 
in  hot  weather  !  How  much  more  desirable  would  be 
a  residence  in  Chelsea,  if  there  were  such  a  conveni 
ence  !  The  boats  might  touch  at  the  foot  of  Cort- 
land  street  and  the  Battery,  and,  indeed,  extend  their 
course  up  the  East  river  to  the  foot  of  Pike  street — 
plying,  say,  every  ten  minutes,  from  Pike  street  to 
Chelsea,  and  back — rounding  the  Battery,  and  touch 
ing  wherever  it  was  convenient.  \V^ho  would  not  pre 
fer  this  to  omnibussing  ?  Let  this  line  communicate 
with  Stevens's  upper  ferry  to  Hoboken,  and  the  line 
would  be  continuous  from  that  beautiful  spot,  all 
round  the  city.  Quite  aside  from  its  utility,  this 
would  be  one  of  the  prettiest  pleasure  trips  that  could 
be  invented.  Pensez-y,  Messrs.  Stevens. 


If  any  charitable  person  has  an  old  man  or  woman 
whom  he  would  like  to  set  up  in  an  easy  and  profita 
ble  business,  we  have  a  plan  to  suggest.  Give  them 
half  a  dozen  light  chairs,  and  send  them  to  the  Bat 
tery  or  the  Park.  In  all  public  promenades  in  France 
there  are  chairs  to  be  hired  for  two  cents  an  hour,  and 
besides  being  a  good  trade  for  the  lame  and  old.  this 
convenience  is  wanted. 


By  the  way,  where  are  the  good  things,  clever 
couplets,  and  flings  of  wit,  that  used  to  fly  about  at 
the  municipal  elections  ?  Squibs  grow  dull.  Where 
is  that  witty  conservative  whig  who,  when  "  Forest 
and  Liberty"  was  placarded  by  the  democrats,  put  up 
a  rival  bill  of  "Povey  and  the  Constitution  ?"  Wit 
and  poetry  (we  might  have  remembered)  seem  to 
have  gone  into  advertisements.  When  people  have 
done  with  "Who  is  Seatsfield  ?"  we  shall  start  a  new 
query — "  Who  is  the  bard  of  Stoppani  ?"  Moore's 
oriental  flow  of  melting  stanza  and  balmy  imagery  is 
quite  paled  in  its  glory  by  Stoppani's  advertisement: — 

'  Will  you  come  to  the  BATHS  IN  BROADWAY, 

Where  the  genius  of  luxury  presides, 
And  the  glorious  Croton,  by  night  and  by  day, 
Through  the  conduits  silently  glides  ? 

"  The  ceiling  al  fresco,  the  beautiful  bar, 

Rich  drapery,  and  sumptuous  screens, 
The  marble  as  white  as  a  Persian  Cyrnar, 
The  painting — of  Italy's  scenes,"  etc. 

Mellifluously  musical!     Who  is  the  distinguished  au 
thor  ? 


The  advertisement  of  a  hatter  plausibly  sets  forth 
that  the  Miller  prophecy  being  exploded,  and  the 
world  really  not  coming  to  an  end  (at  least  within  a 
hat's-wear  of  time),  the  prospects  of  the  globe's  con 
tinuance  justifies  the  venture  of  a  new  hat !  We 
think  we  see  a  hat  bought  on  that  hypothesis  ! 


We  are  happy  to  see  that  our  imported  word,  rococo, 
is  coming  into  general  use.     A  critic  in  the  Herald, 


EPHEMERA. 


127 


noticing  the  opera,  says  :  "  This  concert-piece  has 
been  rococo  for  some  time,  and,  like  an  old  maid,  is 
getting,  every  year,  two  years  older."  This  is  a  clever 
critic,  by  the  way,  though  in  the  sentence  we  have 
quoted  he  reminds  us  of  a  bit  of  dialogue  in  an  old 
play  : — 

"  Manes.— Didst  thou  not  find  that  I  did  quip  thee  ? 

Psy. — No,  verily.     What  is  a  quip  ? 

Manes. — A  short  saying  of  a  sharp  wit,  with  a  bit 
ter  sense  in  a  sweet  word." 


The  True  Sun  quotes,  with  a  clincher,  from  the 
Buffalo  Commercial,  "  The  common  use  of  the  word  | 
lady,   instead   of  the  definite   honored  term  wife,   is 
an    atrocious   vulgarism   that   should    be    universally 
scouted."     We  think  the  ladies  should  be  informed 
of  the   etymological  meaning  of  the  two  words,  and 
take  their  choice  after.     Wife  is  derived  from  the  An-  j 
glo-Saxon  word  signifying  to  weave,  and  means  the  j 
person  who  weaves  for  the  family.     Lady  originally  j 
meant  a  woman  raised  to  the  rank  of  her  husband —  j 
from  the  Saxon  word  signifying  elevated.     The  pro-  j 
priety  of  calling  a  man's  better  half  his  lady,  depends, 
of  course,  on  the   fact  whether  she  was  made  more  I 
respectable  by  the  match;  and  the  propriety  of  calling  | 
her  his  wife,  hangs  upon  her  expertness  and  industry  ' 
at  the  loom.     Which  will  the  fair  sex  prefer  ? 


NEW  LITERARY  EPOCH. — We  have  been,  for  the 
last  year,  not  only  working  among,  but  ivatching,  "  the 
signs  of  the  times"  in  the  way  of  literature.  We  have 
been  trying,  not  only  to  make  out  a  living,  but  to 
make  out  head  and  tail  to  our  epoch — to  see  what  ; 
way  the  transition  was  tending,  and  when  there  was 
likely  to  be  any  reliable  shape  and  form  to  American  j 
literature  ;  or  (to  change  the  figure)  whether  the  lit 
erary  boatmen,  who  stand  with  their  barques  hauled 
ashore,  uncertain  of  the  current,  and  employing  them 
selves  meantime  in  other  vocations,  could  be  called 
upon  to  launch  and  dip  their  oars,  sure  at  last  of  tide 
and  channel. 

International  copyright  has  died  a  natural  death. 
There  was  not  a  statesman  in  the  country  who  had  the 
courage  to  take  the  chance  of  making  or  marring  his 
political  fortunes  by  espousing  the  question.  At  the 
same  time — palpably  just,  honorable,  and  expedient, 
as  would  be  the  giving  of  copyright  to  English  au 
thors — there  was  some  excuse  for  shying  the  subject, 
in  the  violent  abuse  that  was  indiscreetly  showered 
upon  us  by  Dickens  and  the  Reviews,  at  the  very 
moment  when  general  public  attention  had  been 
called  to  the  subject,  and  when  there  was  every 
prospect  of  its  turning  the  crisis  favorably.  It  would 
have  taken  the  statesmanship  and  eloquenc*  of  Clay 
or  Webster  to  have  made  the  discussion  at  all  endura 
ble  to  congress,  and  we  are  quite  sure  that  it  will  be 
ten  years  before  the  public  irritation  against  English 
travellers  and  critics  will  have  sufficiently  abated  to 
tolerate  any  measure  in  their  favor.  Dickens,  and  his 
friend,  the  critic  of  the  Foreign  Quarterly,  therefore, 
have  sanded  their  own  bread  and  butter  in  throwing 
dirt  at  us. 

But  the  great  end  of  international  copyright  is  coin 
ing  about  without  the  aid  of  legislation.  The  abuse 
has  been  that  American  authors  were  thrown  out  of  j 
the  market  by  English  works  that  were  to  be  had  for 
nothing — (justice  to  the  English  author,  of  course,  a 
secondary  consideration).  But  this  abuse  is  losing 
strength  by  surfeit.  The  publishers  and  periodical 
agents  are  aghast,  at  this  very  moment,  of  the  falling 
off  of  interest  in  ihe  most  attractive  publications.  The 
zest  for  novelty  has  been  so  pampered,  that  only  the 
first  number  or  two.  of  anything  new,  sells  well.  And 


not  from  any  falling  off  in  their  character.  The  Eng 
lish  pictorial  papers  (for  one  example)  have  rather  im 
proved  in  merit,  but  a  publisher  informed  us  a  day  or 
two  since  that  they  do  not  now  sell  ten  where  they 
sold  a  hundred  a  month  or  two  ago.  Such  enter 
prises  used  to  begin  small,  and  grow  into  favor  gradu 
ally.  Noic,  the  cornucopia  of  their  prosperity  is  re 
versed — the  small  end  turned  from  the  publisher. 
Copyrighted  American  books,  and  American  periodi 
cals,  though  dearer  than  reprints,  sell  much  better, 
and  in  our  opinion  the  American  public,  in  three 
months  more,  will  give  a  preference  so  decided  to 
home  literature,  and  home  periodicals,  that,  as  far  as 
protection  to  our  native  authors  is  concerned,  the  in 
ternational  copyright  will  be  useless.  The  truth  is, 
that  literature,  to  be  permanently  popular,  must  be 
produced  under  the  meridian  of  the  country  it  is  to 
supply.  Who  will  pretend  that  any  periodical  in  this 
country  is  edited  with  half  the  ability  of  the  London 
magazines  and  reviews  ?  The  leading  intellects  of 
the  age — men  who  in  this  country  would  be  eminent 
lawyers  and  politicians,  devote  themselves  to  maga 
zine-writing  abroad,  and,  besides,  they  are  a  trained 
class  of  professed  authors,  such  as  we  have  no  idea  of 
in  America.  Our  contributors  are  men  who  dash  off 
an  article  as  by-play,  and  make  no  investment  of 
thought  or  money  in  it — and  of  course  it  can  not  com 
pare  to  the  carefully-written  and  well-considered  arti 
cles  of  English  weeklies  and  monthlies.  But  look  at 
the  difference  of  circulation.  See  how  periodicals 
languish  that  are  made  up  of  the  cream  of  these  Lon 
don  magazines,  and  see  how  Graham  and  Godey,  In- 
man  of  the  Columbian,  and  ourselves,  quadruple  them 
in  vogue  and  prosperity  !  It  was  to  be  expected — it 
is  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world — that  America 
should  grow  American,  at  last !  What  more  natural 
than  that  we  should  tire  of  having  our  thinking  done 
in  London,  our  imaginations  fed  only  with  food  that 
is  Londonish,  and  our  matters  of  feeling  illustrated 
and  described  only  by  London  associations,  tropes, 
and  similitudes  ?  This  weariness  of  going  to  so  dis 
tant  a  well  for  better  water,  we  do  say,  is  to  be  relied 
upon  as  a  sign  of  the  literary  times.  The  country  is 
tired  of  being  bc-Brilished.  It  wants  its  own  indige 
nous  literature,  and  we  think  we  should  be  safe  to 
morrow  in  issuing  a  replevin  upon  law,  politics,  and 
commerce,  for  the  men  of  genius  draughted  for  their 
employ,  during  the  want  of  a  literary  market,  (live 
up  the  blood  horses  harnessed  into  your  dull  drays, 
oh,  Wall  street  and  Pearl !  Untie  your  fetters  of  red 
tape,  and  let  loose  your  enslaved  poets  and  novelties, 
oh,  Nassau  and  Pine  !  Discharge  Halleck,  oh,  Astor; 
and  give  up  Wetmore,  oh,  crates  of  crockery !  Lead 
off  with  a  new  novel,  Mr.  Cooper,  and  let  the  public 
give  us  a  five  years'  benefit  of  their  present  disgust 
with  imported  literature,  to  recover  from  the  numb 
ness  of  inaction  and  discouragement.  Give  us  five 
years  of  the  home  tide  of  sympathy  that  is  now  setting 
westward,  and  we  will  have  an  American  literature 
that  will  for  ever  prevent  the  public  taste  and  patron 
age  from  ebbing  back  again  to  England. 


THINGS  AS  THEY  COME. — We  know  of  a  matter  we 
mean  to  write  about,  somewhere  between  this  and  the 
bottom  of  the  next  column— somewhere  within  this 
half-cent's-worth,  that  is  to  say — (this  page  costs  you 
not  quite  half  a  cent,  dear  reader !)— but  we  must  first 
haul  out  two  or  three  things  that  lie  a-top  of  it  in  our 
fact-drawer  ;  facts  being,  as  everybody  knows,  obstinate 
as  nails  in  a  keg,  when  you  want  a  particular  one  from 
underneath. 

We  have  whims  (this  lies  a-top),  about  the  face  of 
newspaper  type.  There  are  some  most  worthy  and 
able  periodicals  that  we  could  not  read  our  own  obitua- 


128 


EPHEMERA. 


ry  in,  without  an  effort — the  type  is  so  unexplainably 
anti-pathetic.  Every  editor  who  turns  over  exchange 
papers  will  know  precisely  what  we  mean.  There  is 
no  necessity  for  naming  those  which  we  should  never 
open  if  we  had  them  in  our  pocket  "forty  days  in  the 
wilderness,"  but  we  can.  without  offence,  name  an  op 
posite  example — the  PICAYUNE — which,  from  the 
mere  witchery  of  type,  a  man  would  like  to  take  out 
of  the  postoffice  on  his  way  to  execution.  The  BOS 
TON  TRANSCRIPT  is  another — (fact  No.  2) — which  we 
fatuitously  read,  and  slwuld  read,  even  if  it  were  edited 
by  that  broken  mustard-spoon,  the  Portland  Thersites. 
The  type  is  captivating — a  kind  of  insinuating,  piquant, 
well-bred  brevier,  that  catches  the  eye  like  a  coquette 
in  a  ball-room.  And  this,  be  it  noted,  spite  of  the 
"  burnt  child's"  prejudice,  for  the  fair  editress  does 
not  always  put  on  her  gloves,  before  taking  a  tweak  at 
our  immortality!  And,  apropos — there  is  an  editor 
"  down  south"  who  sympathises  with  this  typical 
weakness  of  ours — declaring  in  a  late  paper  that  the 
reputation  of  our  letters  to  the  Intelligencer  "  was 
entirely  owing  to  the  large  type  in  which  they  were 
sd."  And  this  we  not  only  believe,  but  if  we 


fork  over  the  swindle"  to  our 


printe 

ever  get  rich,  we  will 

deluded  employers. 

The  reader  will  see  that  we  are  trying  to  apologise 
for  our  dissipation  in  reading — newspapers  being  such 
very  loose  mental  company,  and  we,  as  news-writer, 
having,  no  more  business  with  the  luxury  of  news 
written,  than  a  shoemaker  with  wearing  the  patent 
leathers  he  makes  for  his  gentlemen  customers.  But 
we  have  read  an  article  in  the  seductive  type  of  the 
Transcript  which  led  us  to  philosophise  a  little  touch 
ing  a  point  of  contrast  between  Boston  and  New 
York  ;  and  as  we  grew  up  in  Boston,  but  were  dug 
up,  and  trimmed,  and  watered  into  flowering,  in  New 
York,  we  claim  to  know  both  places  well  enough  to 
run  a  parallel  with  fairish  fidelity. 

The  article  we  speak  of  was  a  letter,  containing, 
among  other  things,  a  touch-up  of  the  Astor  house  ; 
but  the  Astor  is  so  much  the  best  hotel  in  the  world, 
that  fault-finding,  merited  as  it  may  be,  will  send  no 
body  from  its  door  in  search  of  a  better.  Without 
alluding  farther  to  the  letter,  let  us  jot  down  the  specu 
lation  it  suggested. 

New  York  is  far  more  vicious  than  Boston,  without 
a  doubt.  But  it  is  not  much  more  vicious  than  it  was, 
when  it  was  of  Boston's  size.  We  have  often  wished 
to  preach  a  sermon  to  the  Bostonians  from  1  Corin 
thians  iv.  7:  "For  who  maketh  thee  to  differ  from 
another  ?  And  what  hast  thou,  that  thou  didst  not 
receive?"  Up  to  the  present  time,  the  Puritan  obedi 
ence  to  authority,  and  the  "  power  paramount"  of 
good  principles,  have  never  been  sapped  or  shaken  in 
Boston.  It  is  but  one  community,  with  one  class  of 
leading  prejudices,  and  worked  by  one  familiar  set  of 
moral,  social,  and  political  wires.  The  inhabitants 
are  nearly  all  Americans,  all  church-goers  of  some  j 
sect  or  other,  implicitly  subject  to  general  and  time-  j 
honored  principles,  and  as  controllable  by  mayor  and  ; 
aldermen  as  an  omnibus  by  passengers  and  driver,  j 
Indeed,  the  municipal  history  of  Boston  for  the  last 
twenty  years,  is  a  Utopian  beau-ideal  of  efficiency  and  I 
order,  which  will  never  bercpeated.  The  authoritative 
break-up  of  the  first  formidable  symptom  of  mob- 
ocracy  two  years  ago,  for  example — when  bold  mayor 
Elliott  quietly  took  the  fire-engines  from  their  turbu 
lent  companies,  and  put  them  into  the  hands  of  a  paid 
fire-police — could  never  have  been  done  in  any  other 
city  of  this  country  ;  and  ten  years  hence  (Boston 
continuing  to  increase  and  vitiate),  a  similar  pluck  at 
the  beard  of  mob  license  would  be  a  dangerous  experi 
ment. 

But  look  at  New  York  in  comparison.  There  are 
at  least  a  hundred  thousand  Irish  in  this  city,  twenty 
thousand  French,  sixty  thousand  Germans,  and  a 


miscellany  of  other  nations,  that  probably  leaves  scarce 
one  fourth  of  the  population  (say  a  hundred  thousand), 
for  indigenous  and  home-spirited  Neiv-Yorkers.  One 
quarter  too,  of  the  general  population,  is  in  a  condition 
that  is  scarce  known  in  Boston — that  of  desperate  ex 
tremity  of  livelihood,  and  readiness  to  do  anything  for 
the  moment's  relief,  vicious,  turbulent,  or  conspirative. 
The  municipal  government  of  New  York  is,  unfor 
tunately,  in  some  measure,  a  political  tool,  and  com 
pelled  to  shape  its  administration  somewhat  with  a 
view  to  politics.  Harsh  measures,  used  in  Boston 
upon  the  first  germ  or  symptom  of  license,  are  reserved 
in  New  York  for  such  signal  instances  as  are  melo 
dramatically  flagrant — such  as  can  not  be  perverted, 
by  the  party  out  of  power,  into  a  counter-current  of 
sympathy  and  resentment.  What  there  is  now  remain 
ing  of  the  Knickerbocker  influence  in  New  York,  is  the 
degree  in  which  New  York  can  compare  with  Boston 
— and  this  small  remainder  of  the  old  Dutch  character 
is,  as  to  power  and  check,  about  equal  to  what  will  be 
left  of  Puritan  character  in  Boston,  when  Boston,  by 
aid  of  railroads  and  inducements  for  foreign  residence, 
shall  have  four  hundred  thousand  inhabitants.  Look 
at  the  difference  in  the  observance  of  Sunday  in  the 
two  places  !  At  least  twenty  thousand  people  cross 
to  Hoboken  alone,  to  pass  the  sabbath  in  the  fields — 
foreigners,  mostly,  who  have  been  in  the  habit  of 
making  it  a  holyday  at  home.  The  Bostonians  would 
suppress  the  ferry,  without  the  slightest  hesitation! 
There  are  four  or  five  Sunday  newspapers  in  New 
York,  and  Boston  will  not  support  one.  There  are 
German  balls  in  various  places  in  this  city,  on  Sunday 
evening ;  and  oyster-shops,  and  bar-rooms,  and  the 
drinking-places,  in  all  directions  in  the  suburbs,  have 
overflowing  custom  on  that  day.  The  government 
of  the  city  is,  of  course,  in  some  degree,  a  reflex  of 
this  large  proportion  of  the  sovereign  voters,  and  when 
public  opinion  countenances  a  degree  of  license,  it  is 
next  to  impossible  to  bring  in  a  city  government  that 
can  control  it.  We  have  not  room  to  follow  out  this 
comparison  in  detail — but  we  wished  to  outline  it,  as 
a  reply  to  the  condemnations  of  New  York  (for  the 
sale  of  vicious  publications,  etc.,  etc.),  made  from 
time  to  time,  by  our  more  virtuous  brethren  in  the 
north.  We  shall  take  another  opportunity  to  enlarge 
upon  it. 


We  have  received  several  truly  delightful  and  grati 
fying  letters  from  eminent  clergymen  of  different  per 
suasions,  thanking  us  for  the  Sacred  Numbers  of  the 
Mirror  Library,  and  sending  us  the  choice  poems 
which  they  had  severally  laid  aside,  to  add  to  another 
collection.  We  had  no  idea  there  was  so  much  beauti 
ful  religious  poetry  in  existence  !  This  rich  vein  of 
literature  has  been  unworked  and  overlooked,  and  we 
assure  the  religious  world,  confidently,  that  we  are 
doing  a  most  important  work  in  the  collection  of  these 
gems  of  piety  and  poetry  in  a  cheap  and  accessible 
form.  "  SONGS  FOR  THE  SABBATH,"  falls  behind 
none  of  them  in  interest,  and  will  be  a  classic  in  re 
ligious  books,  as  long  as  religious  literature  exists. 


We  do  not  know  whether  we  were  particularly  in  a 
mood  to  be  pleased  on  the  night  of  Simpson's  benefit 
at  the  Park,  but  several  things  pleased  us  more  than 
they  seemed  to  please  other  people — the  dancing,  for 
example,  both  of  KORPONAY,  and  of  DESJARDINS. 
(Of  the  acting  we  do  not  speak,  and  by-the-way,  we 
may  as  well  say,  here,  that  the  stage  is  so  much  bet 
ter  kept  in  hand  by  the  theatrical  critic  of  the  Albion 
than  we  could  possibly  do  it,  that  we  generally  shie 
that  part  of  criticism,  from  a  sort  of  consciousness 
that  it  will  be  done  for  the  public  by  abler  hands.  AVe 


EPHEMERA. 


129 


love  good   criticism,   nnd  we  love  "honor  to  whom  i   accompaniments   as   well.     See   how  eloquence  was 


honor  is  due.")  We  did  not  see  Korponay  at  his 
debut  at  Palmo's — but  a  friend  pronounced  his  dan 
cing  a  failure.  As  an  attempt  at  anything  in  Vestris's 
line,  it  certainly  was  a  failure.  But  that  is  not  the 
dish  to  which  the  well-made  Pole  invites  us.  He  is, 


made  ;\  pleasure  in  the  gardens  of  the  academy  of 
Athens  !  Instead  of  treating  our  orators  as  we  do  the 
fountain  in  the  Park  (eiving  them  a  broad  margin  of 
bare  ground),  we  should  surround  their  oratory  with 
tributary  ornament.  The  audiences  now,  at  lectures, 


amon°-    dancers,    what   olives   are   at   a   feast—"  bad   j  are  that  passionless  and  abstract  portion  of  the  coin- 
pickle's"   to  the  vulgar,   but   artful   appetisers  to  the  j   munity  that  can  stand  anything  in  the  shape  of  an  m- 
refined.     Korponay  seemed  to  us  like  a  symmetrical 
and  dashing  nobleman,  doing  gracefully  a  difficult  and 
grotesque  dance  for  the  amusement  and  admiration  of 
a  court — leaning  as  far  away  as  possible  from  the  airs 
of  a  professed  dancer,  and  intent  only  on  showing  the     eloquence,  from  being  a  jewel  dulled  with  the  dirt  o 
superb  proportion  of  his  figure  and  the  subtle   com-  j!  mine,  will  be  a  gem  in   the   fit  setting  of  a  sparkling 


tellectual  bore — the  Grahamites  of  amusement.  But 
give  us  orators  on  popular  subjects,  at  Palmo's,  with 
dress-circle,  bright  lights,  opera-music,  scenery,  and 
interludes  for  conversation  and  change  of  place,  and 


maud  over  his  limbs. 
role  of  performance. 


His  face  expressed  exactly  this 

fi 


tiara.     This  would   be,    beside,   a  kind   of   premium 


It  was  full  of  mock  solemnity  1 1  upon  eloquence,  that  would  foster  it  into  a  national 

„.<!  hi<>h-bred  assurance.  He  seemed  to  us  exactly  !  excellence.  There  are  men  at  the  bar,  in  the  press, 
the  sort  of  noble  masquer  \hrt,  at  a  Venetian  festival  and  in  business,  who  have  the  "  volcano  ol  burning 
of  old  time,  would  have  "topped  the  jaunty  part,"  and  !j  words"  within  them,  and  would  make  eloquence  a 

|  study,  were  it  a  source  of  renown  and  profit-.  What 
say  to  a  new  niche  for  oratory,  oh,  amiable  public  ! 
|  Let  us  get  a  new  screw  upon  public  feeling,  to  use 
i  with  effect  when  we  have  patriotism  to  arouse,  or 


carried  away  the  flower,  the  ladies'  favor. 

But  the  untrumpeted  deservings  of  Monsieur  Kor 
ponay  are   less  surprising  than  the  want  of  apprecia 
tion  of  Mademoiselle  Desjardins.     We  never  saw  her 
before,  though  she  has  been  dancing  in  town  for  some 
time,  and,  considering  how  easily  most  any  hook  and 
line  of  public  amusement  catches  us,  it  is  very  plain 
that  the  bait  has  not  been  skilfully  angled.     In  the  '   oly  of  th 
first  place,  as  to  qualifications,  we  never  have  seen,  in  | 
all  our  travels  from  Niagara  to  the  Black  sea  (the  two  | 
poles 
at 

SllUUlU     UUTC    oiwtfu    m    wvui*    v»      .^v.^^..—     .«.       j 

Me.cury1     There   is   not    a   woman's    heart    better     should  be,  with  captivating  flowers. 
mounted,  we  venture  to  sav,  between  Ontario  and  the   I      And  while  we  have  this  thread  in  our  loom,    e    i 
Suxine.     And    she    uses  "these   communicators  with    I  express  the  delight  with  which  we  listened,  not  long 
earth  deftly  and  Ariel-wise !     We  only  saw  her  in  the  !  j  since,  to  oratory  in  a  silk  gown-an  oration  on  cov- 
fhich  isa  kind  of  attitudinizing  dance,  and  J  TKMPT,  that  was  linked  naturally  enough  to  a  text  and 


,11  our  travels  from  Niagara  to  the  Black  sea  (the  two  |   orchestra,  a  glowing  oraiwn,   a,  i  •    ,  'il, 

x>lesof  our  "inky  orbit"),  so  well-bridaed  an  instep,    !  and  we  shall  have    public   amusement  in    which     I. 
u,d  so  Dianesque  a  pair  of  serviceable  ankles.     She  ;!  serious   classes  will  join  with   the   gay,  and   in  wh, 
mould  have  stood  to  John  of  Bologna  for  his  poised  ;'  instruction  shall  be  dressed,  as  it  always  may  be,  an 


buses  to  overthrow — passions  to  awake  for  good  pur 
poses.  Let  us  have  a  power  at  the  public  ear  that  will 
be  a  check-balance  to  newspapers,  that  have  a  monop 
oly  of  the  public  eye.  Let  music,  oratory,  and  paint 
ing,  combine  in  a  tripod  to  support  each  other — ;\fine 
orchestra,  a  glowing  oration,  and  beautiful  scenery — 

which   the 
which 
d 


Polacca, 
possibly, 
ficult  pas 


ch  is  a  kind  or  attitudinizing  aance,  ana     TKMFT,  iiwi  «««  j~~  .          . 

possibly,  better  suited  to  her  abilities  than  a  more  dif-  j  j  a  pulpit,  but  which  would  have  been  a  noble ^p.ece  of 
But  she  walked  and  acted  it  with  spirit!   intellectual  oratory  in  a  public  hallo^the 


and  grace  enough  to  be  charming,  and  though  she  is  j 
not  to  be  named  with  Ellsler,  she  is  enough  of  a  dan-  j 
sense,  in  Ellsler's  absence,  to  give  one's  eyes  their 
night's  rations  very  satisfactorily.  Underrated  she  is  !  \ 


We  see,  by  one  of  the  careful  and  elaborate  reports 
of  the  Republic,  that  the  Mercantile  Library  Associ 
ation  have  had  a  report  from  a  despair-committee,  on 
the   subject    of  the    decline   of  lectures.     Eloquence 
don't   pay  for  the   candle,   it   seems.     This  excellent 
association,  however,  shrinks  the  wrong  way  from  the 
plaoue  they  have  had  with  it.  The  taste  for  eloquence 
is  n"o  more  dead  or  torpid  in  New  York  than  the  love 
of  war  or  the   relish  for  lions.     \V  hile   people  have 
brains  and  hearts  they  will  love  a  true  orator.     But  \ 
they  are  tired  (and  reasonably  enough)  of  th*  bald  and  . 
untarnished  style  i"  which  oratory  is  served  up  to  I 
them.     To  go  moping  into  the  dark  and  silent  Taber-  j 

n;ic|e! tne  gas  economized  till  the  rise  of  the  orator,  j 

and  a  deathly  and  gloomy  silence  maintained  for  an 

hour  (more  or  less)  before  the  commencement  of  the  jl 

lPCtl),-e_to  have  the  orator's  first  opening  addressed  M  sing  the  entire  summer  i 

to  chilled,  oppressed,  and  unelevated  minds,  and  all  !|  a  few  alleviations  which  have   as  yet 


orator  was  Rev.  HKNRY  GILKS,  and  the  sermon  was 
delivered  in  a  place  that  is  used  to  eloquence— the 
pulpit  of  Mr.  Dewey.  There  were  passages  in  this 
discourse  that  were  worked  up,  both  in  (ervor  ol  lan 
guage  and  concentrated  fire  of  delivery,  to  a  pitch 
that  we  should  call  truly  Demosihenian.  Mr.  Giles 
is  a  natural  orator — a  man  of  expanded  generalizing 
powers.  It  is  a  treat  to  hear  him,  such  as  would  not 
be  second  in  interest  to  any  dramatic  entertainment, 
and  properly  combined  xvith  other  things  as  agreeable 
to  the  taste,  there  would  be  an  attraction  in  such  ora 
tory  that  would  draw  better  than  a  play.  We  really 
wish  that  some  "  manager"  would  undertake  the  get 
ting  up  of  the  scenery  and  musical  accessories  to  ora 
tory,  and  let  secular  eloquence  take  leave  of  the  pul 
pit  where  it  does  not  properly  belong,  and  come  into 
a  field  more  natural  to  its  aims  and  uses. 


We  had  a  June  May,  and  a  May  June,  and  the  brick 
world  of  Manhattan  has  not,  as  yet,  become  too  hot  to 
hold  us.  This  is  to  be  our  first  experiment  at  p 

n  the  city,  and  we  had  laid  up 


ftTs  making  of  eloquence  what  the  ascetic  makes  of 
religion— a  dry  crust  instead  of  a  relishing  loaf.  No, 
no! 


attired;  and  eloquence  has  its  natural 
9 


130 


EPHEMERA. 


privnfe  yachts!  We  know  no  plensanter  trip,  after 
(lie  dusU  of  the  evening,  than  to  stroll  down  to  the 
ferry,  haul  a  bench  to  the  bow  of  the  ferry-boat, 
and  "open  up"  the  evening  breeze  for  two  miles  and 
back,  for  a  shilling!  Afier  eight  o'clock,  there  are, 
on  an  average,  ten  people  in  the  boat,  and  you  have 
the  cool  shoulder  under  the  railing  as  nearly  as  possi 
ble  to  yourself.  The  long  line  of  lamps  on  either 
shore  makes  a  gold  flounce  to  the  "  starry  skirt  of 
heaven" — the  air  is  as  pure  as  the  rich  man  has  it  in 
his  grounds,  and  all  the  money  in  the  world  could  not 
mend  the  outside  of  your  head,  as  far  as  the  horizon. 
(And  the  horizon,  at  such  place  and  hour,  becomes  a 
substitute  for  the  small  hoop  you  have  stepped  out  of.) 
No  man  is  richer  than  we,  or  could  be  better  off — till 
we  reach  the  Jersey  shore — and  we  are  as  rich  going 
back.  Try  this,  of  a  hot  evening,  all  who  prefer 
coolness  and  have  a  mind  that  is  good  company. 

Then,  there  is  our  substitute  for  an  airing.  There 
is  a  succession  of  coaches,  lined  with  red  velvet,  that, 
in  the  slope  of  the  afternoon,  ply,  nearly  empty,  the 
whole  length  of  Broadway — two  or  three  miles,  at  an 
easy  pace,  for  sixpence.  We  have  had  vehicles,  or 
friends  who  had  vehicles,  in  most  times  and  places 
that  we  remember,  and  we  crave  our  ride  after  dinner. 
We  need  to  get  away  from  walls  and  ceiling  stuck 
over  with  cares  and  brain-work,  and  to  be  amused 
without  effort — particularly  without  the  effort  of  walk 
ing  or  talking.  So — 

"  Taking  our  hat  in    our   hand,   that   remarkably   requisite 
practice," 

we  step  out  from  our  side  street  to  the  brink  of  Broad 
way,  and  presto,  like  magic,  up  drives  an  empty  coach 
with  two  horses,  red  velvet  lining,  and  windows  open; 
and  by  an  adroit  slackening  of  the  tendons  of  his  left 
leg,  the  driver  opens  the  door  to  us.  With  the  lei 
surely  pace  suited  to  the  hour  and  its  bcsoin,  our  car 
riage  rolls  up  Broadway,  giving  us  a  sliding  panorama 
of  such  charms  as  are  peculiar  to  the  afternoon  of  the 
great  thoroughfare  (quite  the  best  part  of  the  day,  for 
a  spectator  merely).  Every  bonnet  we  see  wipes  off  a 
care  from  our  mental  slate,  and  every  nudge  to  our 
curiosity  shoves  up  our  spirits  a  peg.  Easily  and 
uncrowded,  we  are  set  down  for  our  sixpence  at 
"  Fourteenth  street,"  and  turning  our  face  once  more 
toward  Texas,  we  take  the  next  velvet-lined  vehicle 
bound  down.  The  main  difference  betwixt  us  and 
the  rich  man,  for  that  hour,  is,  that  he  rides  in  a 
green  lane,  and  we  in  Broadway — he  sees  green  leaves 
and  we  pretty  women — he  pays  much  and  we  pay 
little.  The  question  of  envy,  therefore,  depends  upon 
which  of  these  categories  you  honestly  prefer.  While 
Providence  furnishes  the  spare  shilling,  we,  at  any 
rate,  will  not  complain.  Such  of  our  friends  as  are 
prepared  to  condole  with  us  for  our  summer  among 
the  bricks,  will  please  credit  us  with  the  two  foregoing 
alleviations. 

The  postoffice  irregularities  of  which  we  have  so 
often  complained,  have  drawn  from  one  of  our  good- 
natured  subscribers,  a  lament  in  poetry.  We  wish  all 
our  friends  would  take  it  as  kindly,  but  give  voice  to 
it  as  expressively  : — 

"  No  Mirror  to-day — 

No  price,  no  pay  ; 
No  chance  to  spend  a  sixpence  all  day  long ; 

No  work  at  all  to  do, 

No  help  for  feeling  blue  ; 
No  plate,  no  tale,  no  '  trifle,'  and  no  song  ! 

No  why  and  no  because  ; 

No  faith  in  the  whole  race  of  editors  • 

No  remedy,  'tis  true  ; 
No  seeing  exactly  what  it's  best  to  do ; 

No  chance  of  being  heard, 

No  profit  in  a  word  ; 

No  grumbling  at  the  keepers  of  the  keys  ; 
No  hope  of  men  who  do  just  what  they  please ; 

No  chance  to  raise  a  breeze  ; 

No  hope,  no  sign, 


No  promise  that  I  can  divine  ; 
No  faith  to-day  in  high  humanity  ; 

No  doubt  that  life  is  vanity  ; 
No  dawn,  no  rising  of  a  better  day  ; 

No  faint  foreshadowing  of  a  golden  way  : 
No  knowing  when  Wicldifie  will  be  turned  away  ; 

No  last  resort  but  a  vile  parody. 
No  Mirror   " 


We  very  seldom  buy  a  volume  of  new  poetry,  but 
jj  the  portrait  on  the  first  leaf  of  Mrs.  Butler's  book,  a 
jj  portrait  by  the  admirable  and  spiritualizing  pencil  of 
I  Sully,  and  engraved  by  the  as  admirable  and  spirituali 
zing  burin  of  Cheney,  was  worth  quite  the  price  of  the 
volume.  We  have  since  read  the  poetry.  The  pic 
ture  bears  a  slight  resemblance  to  the  poetess,  Mrs. 
Norton,  and  the  poetry  is  very  like  Mrs.  Norton's  in 
its  intention.  But  both  in  features  and  verse,  Mrs. 
Butler  is  very  far  that  glorious  woman's  inferior.  We 
have  been  vexed  to  see  how  narrow  an  escape  Mis. 
Butler  has  had,  of  being  a  fine  poetess,  however — how 
easily  with  a  little  consistent  labor,  and  some  little 
unity  of  sentiment  and  purpose,  she  might  have  filled 
out  ihe  penumbra  which  provokingly  shows  what  she 
might  have  been — but  for  the  eclipse  of  caprice  or 
carelessness.  We  have  struck  a  word  in  this  last 
sentence  which  seems  to  us  to  be  the  master-chord 
of  all  her  poetry — caprice!  She  begins  nobly  and 
goes  evenly  and  beautifully  half  through  her  strain, 
and  then  falters  and  winds  weakly  or  inconsequently 
off.  We  could  quote  passages  from  this  book  as  fine 
as  anything  of  Mrs.  Norton's,  but  there  is  no  one  fin 
ished  poem  in  it  worth  reprinting.  Jn  all  this,  we 
are  looking  at  it  with  the  world's  eye.  To  a  poet, 
who  judges  of  a  fragment,  as  the  connoisseur  knows 
the  statue  of  Hercules,  by  the  foot,  this  volume  is  full 
of  genius.  There  is  a  massy  fulness  in  the  use  of 
epithets  and  figures  that  shows  a  Sapphic  prodigality 
of  fervor  and  impulse,  and  there  is,  moreover,  a  mas- 
j  culine  strength  of  passionateness  in  the  moulding  and 
flinging  off  of  emotion,  that,  well  carried  out,  would 
have  swept  the  public  heart  like  a  whirlwind.  We  had 
marked  many  passages  of  Mrs.  Butler's  book  for  ex 
tract,  but  on  looking  at  them  again,  we  find  the  best 
and  most  creditable  blemished  with  flaws,  and,  with 
strong  admiration  for  what  the  authoress  might  have 
been,  we  lay  the  book  aside. 


Our  readers  will  remember  a  very  clever  letter, 
wiitten  to  us  by  an  anonymous  lady  who  wished  to 
conjure  a  new  bonnet  and  dress  out  of  her  inkstand. 
The  inveiglement  upon  ourselves  (to  induce  us  to  be 
her  banker),  was  so  adroit  and  fanciful  that  we  sus 
pected  the  writer  of  being  no  novice  at  rhetorical  trap 
—one,  indeed,  of  the  numerous  sisterhood  who,  denied 
the  concentrated  developments  of  maternity,  scatter 
their  burthensorne  ammunition  of  contrivance  and  re 
source  upon  periodical  literature.  We  "  gave  in," 

however — walking  willingly  into  the  lady's  noose on 

a  condition,  that  she  should  wear  a  rose  recognisably 
in  Broadway  the  day  she  first  sported  the  balzarine 
and  Neapolitan,  and  afterward  send  us  a  sketch  of 
herself  and  her  cousin.  The  "  sketch"  we  have  re 
ceived,  and  when  we  have  seen  the  rose  we  shall  not 
hesitate  to  acknowledge  the  debt.  Jn  the  following 
parts  of  the  letter  which  accompanied  the  sketch,  the 
reader  will  see  that  the  authoress  feels  (or  feigns  mar 
vellously  well)  some  resentment  at  our  suspicions  as 
to  her  age  and  quality  : — 

"  Have  you  never  heard,  my  de — (pardon  !  I  fear  it 

is  a  habit  of  mine  to  write  too  'honeyedly') but  have 

you  not  heard  that  'suspicion  is  a  heavy  armor,  which, 
with  its  own  weight  impedes  more  than  it  protects.' 
Suspicion  is  most  assuredly  a  beggarly  virtue.  It 


EPHEMERA. 


131 


may,  now  and  then,  prevent  you  from  being;  '  taken  in,' 
but  it  nips  you  in  the  costs  most  unmercifully.  Oh! 
sharpsighU'dnessis  the  most  extravagantly  dear  whistle 
that  poor  humans  ever  purchased!  That  you  should 
suspect  me  too,  when  1  was  opening  my  heart  away 
down  to  the  core.  How  could  you  ?  '  inveigle  !'  no 
inveigling  about  it!  I  want  a  bonnet  and  dress,  and 
said  so,  frankly  and  honestly.  And  I  never  wrote  a 
line  for  Graham  in  my  life,  no  !  nor  for  Godey  either. 
As  for  le  couleur  tics  bas,  your  keen-eyed  hawk  pounced 
on  less  than  a  phantom  there.  From  the  day  that  I  j 
stood  two  mortal  hours  with  my  linger  poked  into  my  I 
eye,  and  a  fool's-cap  on  my  head,  because  I  persisted  i 
in  spelling  '  b-a-g,  baker,'  to  the  notable  morning  of  | 
christening  my  cousin  by  her  profession,  I  have  been 
voted  innocent  of  all  leaning  toward  the  uncelestial. 
Indeed  it  is  mote  than  suspected  by  my  friend  (cousin 
'Bel'  excepted)  that  I  affect  dame  Nature's  carpet, 
rather  than  her  canopy.  Maybe  I  am  'some  varlet 
of  a  man  scribbler' — Oh!  you  are  such  a  Yankee  at 
guessing  !  '  Old  !'  ah,  that  is  the  unkindest  cut  of  all ! 
You  an  editor,  and  the  son  of  an  editor,  and  not  know 
that  '  old  maids'  are  a  class  extinct  at  the  present  day, 
save  in  the  sew  ing  societies,  etc.,  of  some  western  village, 
suliject  only  to  the  exploring  expeditions  of  the  in 
defatigable  '  Mary  Clavers  !'  "  Have  you  never  heard 
of  five-and-twenty's  being  a  turning  point,  and  ken  ye 
not  its  meaning  ?  Why,  faire  maydens  then  reverse 
the  hour-glass"  of  old  gray-beard  ;'  and,  one  by  one, 
drop  back  the  golden  sands  that  lie  lias  scattered,  till, 
in  five  years,  they  are  twenty  again.  Of  course,  then, 
I  must  be  '  under  twenty-five  ;'  but,  as  a  punishment  1 
for  your  lack  of  gallantry,  you  shall  not  know  whether  I 
the  sands  are  dropping  in  or  out  of  my  glass.  One 
thing,  however,  is  indisputable:  lam  not  'sharp,'  my 
face  has  not  a  single  sharp  feature,  nor  my  temper  (it 
is  I,  who  know,  that  say  it),  a  sharp  corner,  nor  my 
voice  a  sharp  tone.  So  much  in  self-justification,  and 
now  to  the  little  package  which  you  hold  in  the  other 
hand. 

"  I  send  my  sketch  in  advance,  because  I  nm  afraid 
cousin  'Bel'  and  I  might  not  interest  you  and  the  pub-  j 
lie  so  much  as  we  do  ourselves;  and  then  how  are  we 
to    'consider  you    paid.'      In   truth,   I  can   not   write   j 
clever  things.    'Bel'  might,  but  she  never  tries.     Some-   : 
times  she  plans  for  me;  but,  somehow,  I  never  can  1 1 
find  the  right  words  for  her  thoughts.     They  come  into 
my   head    like  fixed-up  visitors,  and   'play   tea-party' |! 
with  their  baby  neighbors,  until  I  am  almost  as  much  || 
puzzled    by    their   strange    performances    as   the  old 
woman  of  the  nursery  rhyme,  who  was  obliged  to  call 
on   her  'little  dog  at  home' to  establish  her  identity. 
No,  no  !  I  can  not  write  clever  things,  and  particularly 
on  the  subject  to  which  I  am  restricted  ;  but  if  it  is 
the  true  sketch  that  you  would  have  for  the  sake  of 
the   information,  why  here  it  is.     You  will   perceive 
that  I  have  been  very  particular  to  tell  you  ell. 

"  Pray,  do  you  allow  us  carte  blanche  as  far  as  the  hat 
and   dress  are  concerned  ?     You  had   better  nor,  for  ' 
'Bel'  never  limits  herself.     How  soon  may  we  have  j 
them  ?     The  summer  is  advancing    rapidly,  and   my 
old   muslin  and  straw  are  unco'  shabby.     Yours  with  j 
all  due  gratitude,  "  FANNY  FORESTER." 

Whoever  our  fair  correspondent  may  be,  old  or  j 
young,  naive  or  crafty,  we  can  tell  her  that  talent  like 
hers  need  never  want  a  market.  We  commend  her,  [ 
thus  in  print,  to  those  princes  of  literary  paymasters,  | 
Graham  and  Godey,  with  our  assurance  that  no  more  j 
entertaining  pen  strides  a  vowel  in  this  country.  The 
sketch  of  "  The  Cousins,"  which  we  shall  give  here-  j 
after,  has  a  twi.rt-tear-and-smile-fulness  which  shows 
the  writer's  heart  to  be  as  young  as  a  school-girl's  , 
satchel,  whatever  kind  of  wig  she  wears,  and  whatever 
the  number  of  her  spectacles.  And  she  will  be  as 
young  forty  years  hence— -for  genius  will  be  a  child, 
eternity  through,  in  Heaven.  If,  by  chance,  the  lady 


is  a  sub- twenty -fwity,  she  is  a  star  rising,  and  we  should 
like  to  visit  her  before  she  culminates. 


TIIK  REST  OF  WHAT  WE  HAVE  TO  SAY. — There  is  a 
circulation  that  beats  newspapers — beatsthem  particu 
larly  in  this — the  Tuesday's  paper  overtakes  the  Mon 
day's,  but  the  lie  of  Monday  is  never  overtaken  by  the 
truthof  Tuesday.  Some  time  since  a  sketch  appeared 
in  the  Mirror,  written  by  a  correspondent,  which  was 
sei/.ed  upon  immediately  by  some  of  the  busy-bodies  of 
society,  as  an  intentional  attack  upon  one  of  the  first 
families  in  this  city.  A  week  or  two  after  its  publica 
tion,  a  friend  informed  us  of  the  rumor,  and  we  read  the 
sketch  over  again  to  see  what  was  objectionable  in  it. 
With  the  exception  of  a  correction  made  by  the  proof 
reader,  and  one  accidental  circumstance,  invented  by 
the  writer  to  round  a  sentence,  there  was  nothing  in 
it  that  could  possibly  apply  to  the  family  in  question, 
and  we  were  amazed  at  the  interpretation  put  upon  it. 
Subsequent  knowledge  of  the  writer  and  her  object 
has  completely  removed  from  our  mind,  and  that  of 
the  family  alluded  to,  all  shadow  of  suspicion  that  any 
particular  person  or  persons  were  in  her  mind  while 
writing  it.  The  story  has  again  come  round  to  us, 
however,  and  in  so  bold  a  shape  that  we  think  it  worth 
while  to  nail  it  again  with  a  denial.  There  never  has 
been,  in  the  Mirror,  and  there  never  icill  be,  any  offen 
sive  allusion  to  individuals  in  private  life.  Descriptive 
writers  constantly  describe  classes,  and,  if  they  describe 
them  well,  they  will  apply  as  the  essays  in  the  Specta 
tor  do.  to  hundreds  of  persons.  The  amiable  Mis3 
Sedgwick,  utterly  incapable  of  an  intentional  wound 
to  the  feelings  of  any  one,  has  lived  in  constant  hot 
water,  from  the  offence  taken  at  the  supposed  person 
alities  of  her  descriptions.  It  is  very  easy  for  a  mali 
cious  person  to  take  any  sketch  of  character,  and  find 
for  it  a  most  plausible  original.  But  there  should  be  a 
watch  kept  for  those  who  first  name  these  discoveries — 
the  first  finders  of  the  key  to  a  mischievous  allusion. 
The  first  time  you  hear  a  malicious  story,  MARK  THE 
TELLER  OF  IT — for  ten  to  one,  in  that  person,  male  or 
female,  lies  the  whole  malice  of  the  invention  and  ap 
plication.  Such  people  do  not  work  in  the  dark, 
however.  Mischief-making  is  a  most  unprofitable 
trade,  and  we  trust  that,  in  the  future  school  of  Ameri 
can  morals,  the  certain  infamy  of  being  the  first  teller 
of  a  malicious  tale,  will  be  a  predominant  feature.  It 
can  easily  be  made  so,  by  "  keeping  the  subject  be 
fore  the  people." 


One  of  the  most  curious  features  of  New  Yrork  is 
the  gradual  formation  of  a  PATERNOSTER  Row— or 
the  making  of  Aim  street  to  correspond  with  that 
famous  book-mine  and  fame-quarry  of  London.  Our 
enterprising  and  thrifty  friends  and  neighbors,  BUR- 
GFSS.  STRINGER,  &  Co.,  are  the  "LONGMANS"  ol  this 
publishing  Row,  and  truly,  the  activity  of  their  sales, 
and  the  crowds  leaning  continually  over  their  counter, 
give  a  new  aspect  to  the  hitherto  contemplative  current 
of  merchandise  in  literature.  Their  central  and  spa 
cious  shop  on  the  corner  of  Broadway,  is  a  thronged 
book-market,  as  vigorously  tended  and  customered  as 
the  sales  of  pork  and  grain.  They  have  lately  added 
to  their  establishment  two  stores  intervening  between 
them  and  us,  and,  with  the  office  of  our  friends  of  the 
"  NEW  WORLD"  farther  down  the  street,  and  several 
intermediate  publishing  and  forwarding  offices,  we  of 
the  Mirror  are  in  the  midst  of  a  formidable  literary 
mart,  that  seems  destined  to  concentrate  the  book- 
trade,  and  make,  of  Ann  street,  as  we  said  just  now,  a 
Paternoster  Row.  The  Turks  (who,  by  the  way, 
have  many  other  sensible  notion,  besides  washing 
themselves  instead  of  their  shirts),  devote  each  differ- 


133 


EPHEMERA. 


ent   lane  of  their  grand   bazar  to  a  single  commodity 

no  shoemakers  to  he  found  out  of  Shoemaker-lane, 

anJ  no  books  out  of  Book-alley.  The  convenience 
of  ihis  arrangement,  to  the  public,  is  very  great,  and 
it  would  be,  in  this  city,  a  prodigious  saving  of  labor, 
in  cartage  and  tiaffic,  to  the  booksellers  themselves. 
We  have  a  faint  hope  of  seducing  over,  to  our  Row, 
the  agreeable  clique  of  our  friend  Porter  of  the 
'•  Spirit,"  and  we  hope  Inman  of  the  Columbian  will 
follow  after  (to  save  rent),  and  in  this  way,  we  shall 
h;ive  a  morning  lounge  in  Ann  street  for  the  beaux 
esprits,  that  will  enable  us  to  combine  into  a  literary 
social  order  and  have  some  fun  and  more  weight. 
Nothing  like  combination,  oh,  fellow-pensrnen  !  Why 
shou'd  we  not  have  a  head,  and  wag  ir,  like  the  cham 
ber  of  commerce  and  the  powerful  presbytery  ?  For 
a  cl.iss  that  keeps  the  key  of  the  city's  to-morrow,  the 
press  in  New  York  is  as  strangely  unorganized  and 
segregate  a  body  as  anarchy  of  public  opinion  could 
possibly  desire.  But  we  are  trenching  here  on  some 
thing  we  have  in  petto,  to  write  upon  more  gravely 
hereafter. 


We  seldom  read  a  novel.  We  can  not  afford  the 
sympathy,  even  when  we  have  the  time.  But,  some 
what  liquefied  on  a  warm  afternoon  of  last  week,  our 
resolution  would  not  hold,  and  we  took  up  "  THK 
Jiosw  OF  THISTLE  ISLAND,"  a  Swedish  novel  by  Etn- 
ilie  Carlen,  just  published  by  Winchester.  The  story 
took  hold  of  us  immediately,  and  we  read  the  book 
through  before  going  to  bed,  charmed  with  its  earnest 
and  sjraphic  truth  of  narration  and  char  ter,  and  par 
ticularly  with  the  entire  fusion  of  the  style,  betraying 
no  thumb-spot  from  the  dictionary-cover,  and  no 
smack  of  haste  or  clumsiness  in  the  transfer.  It  reads 
like  a  book  original  in  English,  and  that,  to  our  pro 
fessional  superfinery  of  noun  and  pronoun,  is  no  small 
difference  from  ordinary  translations. 


THE  REMAINDER. — One  of  the  greatest  pleasures 
of  living  in  our  free  country,  is  the  unceasing  satis 
faction  one  feels  at  not  having  died  last  week — fortu 
nately  surviving  to  put  down  one  more  lie  that,  if  you 
hud  been  dead,  would  be  as  durable  as  your  tomb 
stone.  Another  peculiarity  of  our  country — good  or 
bad  as  you  chance  to  feel  about  it — is  the  necessity  to 
talk  a  great  deal  about  yourself,  if  you  would  keep 
up  a  lively  popularity.  With  these  two  patriotic 
promptings,  let  us  say  a  word  of  a  trip  we  made  lately 
to  Albany. 

h  is  not  perhaps  generally  known  that  Albany  was 
our  birthplace.  We  were  born  once  before,  it  is  true, 

in  Portland,  somewhere  about  half  a  life  ago a 

'•man-child."  But  in  Albany,  in  1827,  we  first  open 
ed  our  eyes,  as  an  adult  lion.  Up  to  that  period  we 
had  been  under  tutors,  and  had  known  only  boy 
friends.  By  a  fortunate  chance  we  suddenly  acquired 
the  friendship  of  a  man  of  great  talent  and  accom 
plishment,  and  on  a  visit  to  this,  our  first  man-friend 
at  Albany,  we  stood,  for  the  first  time,  clear  of  the 
imprisoning  chalk-lines  of  boyhood.  Those  who  have 
"  hived  the  honey"  of  their  summers  of  the  heart 
know  well  how  intoxicatingly  sweet  was  the  first  gar 
den  of  life  in  which  they  walked  as  men.  Still  a  child 
at  home,  and  still  a  college-boy  at  New  Haven,  we 
were,  at  Albany,  a  man  who  had  written  a  book,  and  as 
the  companion  and  guest  of  our  fashionable  and  popu 
lar  friend,*  we  saw  beauty  enough,  and  received  kiud- 

*  I  trust  it  will  not  be  considered  mistimed  or  unnatural  if 
I  follow  the  impulse  of  my  heart,  and  put,  into  a  note  to  so 
worldly  a  theme,  the  substance  of  a  tearful  and  absorbing 
revery,  which,  for  the  last  half  hour,  has  suspended  my  pen 
over  the  paper.  The  name  of  the  gentleman  I  have  just  al- 


ness  enough,  to  have  whipped  a  less  leathery  brain  into 
syllabub.  The  loveliness  of  the  belles  of  Albany  at 
that  time,  and  the  brilliancy  of  its  society,  are  perpet 
uated  in  a  remembrance  that  will  become  a  tradition ; 
and  we  have  never  since  seen,  in  any  country  or  so 
ciety  of  the  world,  an  equal  proportion  of  elegant  men 
and  beautiful  and  accomplished  women.  It  was  so 
acknowledged  over  the  whole  country.  The  regency 
of  fashion,  male  and  female,  was  confessedly  at  Alba 
ny.  New  York,  Philadelphia,  Boston,  and  Baltimore, 
were  provinces  to  this  castle  of  belle-dom  !  We  have 
an  object  in  showing  what  Albany  was,  at  the  time 
we  were  in  the  habit  of  visiting  it,  and  how  inevitably, 
from  a  combination  of  circumstances,  it  becaiue  and 
has  remained,  to  us,  a  paradise  of  enchanting  associa 
tions.  There  is  no  spot  in  this  country  which  we  re 
member  with  equal  pleasure.  It  was  the  first  leaf 
turned  over  in  our  book  of  manhood. 

We  went  to  Albany  with  these  memories  upon  us, 
a  week  or  more  ago,  to  lecture.  We  spent  the  morn 
ing  in  finding  old  friends  and  reviving  old  associations, 
and  in  the  evening  we  had  an  audience  much  larger 
than  we  looked  for,  and  as  brilliant  as  hope  born  of 
such  memories  could  have  prefigured  it;  and  we  re 
turned  to  the  city  the  morning  after,  gratified  and  de 
lighted.  But  (and  here  comes  the  matter  in  hand) 
there  seems  to  have  been  a  gentleman  in  Albany  who 
was  unwilling  we  should  be  delighted.  We  have  not 
seen  the  article  he  wrote,  but,  as  condensed  in  another 
paper,  it  goes  to  show  that  the  reasons  why  we  were 
unsuccessful  at  Albany  were,  first,  that  we  have  been 
in  the  habit  of  abusing  its  Dutch  aristocracy,  and 
second,  that  two  years  ago  we  "insulted  a  liidy  there 
and  refused  a  challenge  from  her  friend  !"  Now  here 
are  four  items  of  absolute  news  to  us:  1,  that  we  did 
!  not  succeed — 2,  that  we  ever  insulted  a  lady  any- 
!  where — 3,  that  we  ever  declined  any  fight  that  was 
ever  proposed  to  us — 4,  that  we  ever  abused  the 
Dutch  at  Albany. 

j  On  the  fourth  count  of  the  indictment,  alone,  a 
I  friend  has  thrown  a  little  light.  We  did  once,  inad- 
i  vertently,  use  an  adjective,  in  a  way  which  has  been 
i  remembered  fifteen  years!  We  said  of  the  swine  in 
j  the  streets  of  Albany  (in  some  trifling  article  for  a 
newspaper),  that  they  were  a  nuisance  "  more  Dutch 
than  decent."  The  alliteration  seduced  us  somewhat, 
but  there  was  provocation  as  well — for,  the  night 

luded  to,  JOHN  BLEECKER  VAN  SCHAICK,  will  call  up,  at  once, 
to  the  memory  of  the  Albanians,  as  well  as  to  the  prominent 
men  of  all  parts  of  the  country,  a  loss,  by  early  death,  of 
one  of  our  most  accomplished  gentlemen,  and  most  admira 
bly-gifted  minds.     The  proportion— the  balance  of  character 
and  intellect,  in  Mr.  Van  Schaick— the  fine  sense  of  honor, 
and  the  keen  discrimination  of  wit,  the  manliness  and  the  del 
icacy,  the  common  sense  and  the  strong  poetical  perception 
— made  him,  to  me,  one  of  the  most  admirable  of  studies,  as 
well  as  the  most  winning  and  endearing  of  friends.     I  loved 
and  honored  him,  till  his  death,  as  few  men  have  ever  won 
from  me  love  and  honor.    It  was  a  matter  of  continual  urging 
on  my  part,  to  induce  him  to  devote  his  leisure,  given  him  by 
ample  means,  to  literature.     Some  of  his  poetry  appeared  in 
the  magazines,  and  is  now  collected  in  a  volume  of  the  Amer 
ican  poets.     But  he  had  higher  studies  and  more  vigorous 
aims  than  light  literature,  and  he  had  just  broken  ground  as  a 
I  j  brilliant  orator  and  statesman,  when  disease  unnerved  and 
'prostrated  him.    Mr.  Van   Schaick   had,  however,  another 
Ij  quality  which  would  have  made  him  the  idol  of  society  in 
j!  England— (though,  comparatively,  little  appr-.oiated  here)— 
I  unequalled  wit  and  brilliancy  of  converse  .IP-.     I  say  ur.e- 
\)  mailed — for  I  have  lived  long  in  the  soo'  .y  of  the  men  of 
I    svft  most  celebrated  in  London,  and  I  hv  t  '.ver  thought  that 
jl  ibis  countryman  of  my  own  was  their  V  ^P'livocal  superior. 
'  His  "Syonderful  quickness  and  fineness  o^  r.-rception,  and  the 
ready  facility  of  his  polished  language,  combined  with  his 
universal  reading  and  information,  made  his  society  in  the 
highest  degree  delightful  and  fascinating  ;  and  though,  as  my 
first  friend  of  manhood,  I  gave  him  warm  nnd  impulsive  ad- 
miration,  my  subsequent   knowledge   of  mankind  has  con 
stantly  enhanced  this  admiring  appreciation      In  all  qualities 
of  the  heart  he  was  uprightly  noble;    and,  altogether,  we 
think  that  in  him  died  the  best-balanced  and  most  highly- 
giflod  chnractpr  we  have  ever  intimately  known. 


EPHEMERA. 


133 


before  writing  it,  strolling  home  from  a  party  in  Al 
bany,  we  had  been  brought  from  the  seventh  heaven 
to  the  sidewalk,  tripped  up  by  a  pig !  Now,  to  us, 
the  pig  was  Dutch.  We  had  lived  only  in  New  Eng 
land,  where  this  animal,  from  some  prejudice  against 
his  habits,  has  not  the  freedom  of  the  city.  Visiting 
two  Dutch  cities,  New  York  and  Albany,  we  found 
the  pig  master  of  the  pave,  and  the  offending  adjec- 
.ive,  lubricated  by  our  disaster,  slipped  into  its  place 
with  inevitable  facility.  We  have  heard  from  time  to 
time,  of  this  perversion  of  the  word  Dutch,  as  a  thing  • 
remembered  against  us.  We  had  hoped  that  the 
great  fire  in  Wall  street,  the  death  of  Harrison,  the 
Miller-prophecy,  and  the  other  events  of  the  last  fif-  ; 
teen  years,  would  have  wiped  that  small  adjective  out. 
We  do  not  know  why  it  should  outlive  the  poets  who 
have  written  and  been  forgotten  in  that  time — the  > 
steamboats  that  have  been  built  and  used  up — the  i 
politicians  who  have  flourished  and  fallen — the  com 
ets  that  have  glittered  and  gone — the  newspapers  that 
have  started  and  stopped.  The  secret  of  that  little 
adjective's  imperishableness  is  worth  analyzing — 
especially  by  poets  and  the  patentees  of  "asbestos 
safes."  We  wish  we  could  stumble  upon  as  long- 
lived  a  conjunction  I 

Seriously,  we  are  annoyed  and  hurt  at  the  discov 
ery  of  a  hostility  that  could  make  itself  heard,  in  a 
place  we  owe  so  much  to  for  past  happiness.  We 
beg  the  Albanians  to  forgive  us  for  the  unintentional 
offence,  and  to  take  us  and  our  Mirror  into  that  favor 
of  which  we  have  always  been  ambitious. 


The  spot  where  all  the  winds  of  heaven  turn  the 
corner — the  coolest  and  most  enjoyable  spot  in  the 
hottest  and  least  enjoyable  summer's  day — is  the  out 
side  bastion  of  Castle  Garden.  We  made  our  way 
there  a  few  days  ago,  when  the  streets  were  fairly  in 
a  swoon  with  the  breathless  heat,  and  it  was  as  cool 
and  bree/.v,  outside  the  round  castle,  as  a  hill-top  on 
a  May  mo'rning.  For  children— for  happy  idlers  with 
a  book — for  strangers  who  wish  to  study  the  delicious 
panorama  of  the  bay— there  is  no  place  comparable 
to  the  embrasures,  parapets,  and  terraces  of  Castle 
Garden. 


TWO    OR    THREE    LITTLE    MATTERS. There    is    HO 

struggling  against  it — we  have  a  need  to  pass  the  sum- 
merln  some  place  that  God  made.  We  have  argued 
the  instinct  down— every  morning  since  May-day — 
while  shaving.  It  is  as  cool  in  the  city  as  in  the 
c 

II! 


country,  we  believe.  We  see  as  many  trees,  from 
our  window  (living  opposite  St.  Paul's  churchyard), 
and  as  much  grass,  as  we  could  take  in  ai  a  glance. 
The  air  we  breathe,  outside  the  embrasures  of  Castle 
Garden,  every  afternoon,  and  on  board  the  Hoboken 
and  Jersey  boats,  every  warm  evening,  are  entire  rec 
ompenses  to  the  lungs  for  the  day's  dust  and  stony 
heat.  And  then  God  intends  that  somebody  shall  live 
in  the  city  in  summer-time,  and  why  not  we?  By 
the  time  this  argument  is  over,  our  chin  and  our  re 
bellious  spirit  are  both  smoothed  down.  Breakfast  is 
ready — as  cool  fruit,  as  delicious  butter  under  the  ice, 
and  as  charming  a  vis-a-vis  over  the  white  cloth  and 
coffee-tray  as  we  should  have  in  the  country.  We 
go  to  work  after  breakfast  with  passable  content.  The 
city  cries,  and  the  city  wheels,  the  clang  of  the  char 
coal  cart  and  the  importunities  of  printer's  imp — all 
blend  in  the  passages  of  our  outer  ear  as  unconsciously 
and  fitly  as  brook-noises  and  breeze-doings.  We  are 
well  enough  till  two.  An  hour  to  dinner — passed  in 
varnished  boots  and  out-doors-inesses — somewhat  a 
weary  hour,  we  must  say,  with  a  subdued  longing  for 
some  earth  to  walk  upon.  Dinner— pretty  well ' 


Discontent  and  sorrow  dwell  in  a  man's  throat,  and  go 
abroad  while  it  is  watered  and  swept.  The  hourafier 
dinner  has  its  little  resignations  also — coffee,  music, 
and  the  "  angel-visit"  from  the  nursery.  Five  o'clock 
|  comes  round,  and  with  it  nature's  demand  for  a  pair 
of  horses.  (Alas  !  why  are  we  not  centaurs,  to  have 
a  pair  of  horses  when  we  marry  ?)  We  get  into  an 
omnibus,  and  as  we  get  toward  the  porcelain  end  of 
the  cicy,  our  porcelain  friends  pass  us  in  their  car 
riages,  bound  out  where  the  earth  breathes  and  the 
grass  grows.  An  irresistible  discontent  overwhelms 
us!  The  paved  hand  of  the  city  spreads  out  beneath 
us,  holding  down  I  he  grass  and  shutting  off  the  salu 
tary  earth-pores,  and  we  pine  for  balm  and  moisture! 
The  over-worked  mind  offers  no  asylum  of  thought. 
It  is  the  out-door  time  of  day.  Nature  calls  us  to 
her  bared  bosom,  and  there  is  a  floor  of  impenetrable 
stone  between  us  and  he.r!  At  the  end  of  the  omni 
bus-line  we  turn  and  go  back,  and  resume  our  paved 
and  walled-up  existence,  and  all  the  logic  of  philoso 
phy,  aided  by  icecreams  and  bands  of  music,  would 
fail  to  convince  us,  that  night,  that  we  are  not  vic 
tims  and  wretches.  For  Heaven's  sake,  some  kind  old 
man  give  us  an  acre  off  the  pavement,  and  money 
enough  to  go  and  lie  on  the  outside  of  it  of  summer 
afternoons ! 


Let  us  out  of  this  great  stone  oven  !  The  city  is 
intolerable  !  Oh,  from  these  heated  bricks  and  stones, 
what  moistureless.  what  wilted,  what  fainting  air  comes 
to  the  nostrils  !  The  two  river-breezes  doing  their  best 
to  meet  across  the  island,  swoon  in  Broadway.  The 
pores  gasp,  the  muscles  droop,  the  mind  is  blank  and 
nerveless.  Let  us  out  somewhere  ! 

We  had  such  a  fever  upon  us  as  is  expressed  above, 
when  a  friend  offered  to  drive  us  to  ROCKAWAY.  With 
a  mental  repetition  of  the  affecting  prayer  of  the  poor 
woman  in  the  ballad, 

("  Take  a  white  napkin,  and  wrap  my  head  softly, 
And  then  throw  me  overboard,  me  and  my  baby  !") 

we  crept  into  his  wagon,  and  bowled  away  silently  on 
the  road  to  Jamaica.  It  was  a  hot  evening,  but  the 
smell  of  the  earth,  and  the  woods,  and  the  dairy-farms, 
roused  our  drooping  petals  a  little.  Jamaica  lies 
somewhat  in  the  island's  Jap,  however,  and  it  was  not 
till  we  began  to  sniff  the  salt  of  the  open  Atlantic,  that 
we  were  once  more  "  capable  creatures."  But  what 
a  revivification  as  we  approached  Rockaway  !  The 
sea-breeze  nudged  up  our  drooping  eyebrows,  gave  a 
pull  to  the  loose  halliards  of  our  let-go  smiles,  crisped 
our  pores,  and  restored  everything  to  its  use  and  its  ac 
tivity — the  irrevocable  starch  in  our  shirt-collars  alone 
incapable  of  rally.  Rockaway  (we  write  only  for 
those  who  know  nothing  of  it)  is  part  of  the  snowy 
edge  of  the  Atlantic — St.  George's  hotel,  at  Ports 
mouth,  England,  being  all  but  next  door  to  the  Rock- 
away  pavilion.  Of  course  there,  is  nothing  to  take  the 
saline  coolness  out  of  the  breeze  (unless  by  chance 
it  has  come  across  St.  Helena  or  the  Azores),  and  the 
difference  between  the  "entire  quadruped"  in  tbe 
way  of  a  sea-breeze,  and  the  mixtures  they  get  in 
some  other  sea-side  places,  is  worth  taking  pains  for. 
But  let  us  tell,  in  plain  language,  ivhat  sort  of  place 
Rockau'ayis—for  the  benefit  of  those  who  are  choos 
ing  a  month's  resort  for  health  or  pleasure. 

The  pavilion  of  Rockaway  is  an  immense  hotel, 
whose  majestic  portico  forms  the  centre  of  a  curving 
beach  of  two  or  three  miles  in  the  bend,  on  the  south 
ern  shore  of  Long  Island.  From  this  portico,  and 
from  the  windows  of  the  hotel,  the  delightful  sight 
and  sound  of  the  beating  surf  are  visible  and  audible 
— eternal  company  to  eye  and  ear.  The  beach  ex 
tends  for  miles  either  way— a  broad  floor  as  smooth  as 
marble,  and  so  hard  that  a  carriage  wheel  scarce 


134 


EPHEMERA. 


leaves  a  print,  and  this,  as  a  drive,  we  presume  to  be 
the  most  delightful  and  enjoyable  in  the  world.  The 
noiseless  tread  of  the  horse,  and  the  unheard  progress 
of  the  wheels,  the  snowy  surf  along  the  edge  of  which 
you  keep  your  way,  and  the  high  exhilaration  given 
to  the  spirits  by  the  sea-breeze,  and  the  enlivening 
beat  of  the  waves  upon  the  sand  at  your  feet,  form, 
altogether,  an  enchantment  to  which,  in  the  way  of 
out-door  pleasure,  we  scarce  know  a  parallel.  And, 
as  a  walk,  the  pure  hard  floor  of  that  interminable 
beach  is,  of  course,  equally  delightful. 

The  arrangements  for  bathing  are  very  well  man 
aged.  There  are  some  twenty  bathing-houses  on  the 
beach,  near  the  house,  and,  between  the  hours  of  ten 
and  twelve  in  the  forenoon,  the  ocean-side  is  guarded 
and  kept  exclusive  to  the  ladies  and  their  attendants. 
An  omnibus  constantly  plies  between  the  bathing- 
bouses  and  the  hotel,  and  to-  ladies  and  children,  to 
old  men  and  young,  the  hour  spent  in  the  invigorating 
surf  is  the  pleasure  of  the  day.  All,  alike,  come  back 
elated  and  animated,  and  the  society  of  the  place 
shows  very  markedly  the  fillip  given  by  the  sea-bath 
ing  to  health  and  spirits.  Children,  more  especial^, 
who  have  drooped  in  the  city,  pluck  up  appetite  and 
vigor  immediately  at  Rockaway. 

As  the  favorite  and  regular  resort  of  many  of  the 
best  families  of  the  city,  the  society  of  the  pavilion  has 
always  been  acknowledged  to  be  of  a  more  refined 
quality  and  on  a  more  agreeable  footing  than  that  of 
any  other  watering-place.  It  is  equally  removed  from 
useless  ceremony  and  undesirable  freedom.  Those 
who  wish  to  combine  gayety  with  the  pursuit  of 
health  and  the  enjoyment  of  luxury,  have  facilities  for 
all  these  at  Rockaway,  in  a  degree  as  desirable  as  it  is 
unusual.  The  table  is  not  surpassed  by  that  of  any 
hotel  even  in  the  city,  and  this,  in  a  watering-place,  is 
a  peculiarity  !  Mr.  Cranston,  the  keeper  of  the  house, 
thoroughly  understands  his  business. 

As  to  facilities  for  getting  to  Rockaway,  the  railroad 
from  Brooklyn  ferry  takes  you  to  Jamaica  in  half  an 
hour;  from  Jamaica,  on  the  arrival  of  the  cars,  starts 
regularly  a  mammoth  omnibus  with  six  horses,  and 
other  roomy  conveyances  are  supplied  if  necessary, 
which  bring  you  to  Rockaway  in  an  hour.  All  de 
lays  included,  it  is  about  two  hours  from  the  city. 

Certain  coolness  and  certainly-improved  health  thrown 
into  the  scale,  the  desirableness  of  Rockaway,  as  a 
summer  resort,  far  outweighs  that  of  every  other  wa 
tering-place  in  the  country. 


A  late  number  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger 
contains  two  poems  of  uncommon  merit  for  the  drift 
of  a  periodical.  One  is  by  Mr.  Gilmore  Simms 
(whose  much-worked  mine  has  now  and  then  a  very 
golden  streak  of  poetry),  and  the  other  is  by  H.  B. 
Hirst — a  poem  of  fifty-seven  stanzas  on  the  subject  of 
ENDYMION.  This  latter  is  after  Keats.  It  is  very 
highly  studied,  very  carefully  finished,  and  very  airily 
and  spiritually  conceived.  Its  faults  are  its  conceits, 
which  are  not  always  defensible — for  instance,  the  one 
in  italics,  in  the  following  beautiful  description  of  Di 
ana  as  she  descended  to  Endymion: — 

"  A  crescent  on  her  brow — a  brow  whose  brightness 
Darkened  the  crescent ;  and  a  neck  and  breast 

On  which  young  love  might  rest 

Breathless  with  passion  ;  and  an  arm  whose  whiteness 
Shadowed  the  lily's  snow  ;  a  lip  the  bee 

Might  dream  in,  and  a  knee 
Round  as  a  period ;  while  her  white  feet  glancing 
Between  her  sandals,  shed  a  twilight  light 

Athwart  the  purple  night. 

Cycling  her  waist  a  zone,  whose  gems  were  dancing 
With  rainbow  rays,  pressed  with  a  perfect  grace 
Her  bosom's  ivory  space." 

Now  we  know  as  well  as  anybody  what  the  "  round  of 
a  period"  is,  and  we  have  seen,  here  and  there,  a  god 


dess's  knee,  and  we  declare  there  is  no  manner  or 
shape  of  likeness  that  justifies  the  comparison  !  With 
the  exception  of  two  or  three  of  these  lapses  away 
from  nature,  however,  it  is  a  beautiful  poem — this 
"Endymion" — and  will  read  well  in  a  volume.  By 
the  way,  let  us  wonder  whether  the  sweet  poetess  by 
the  same  name  is  a  sister  of  Mr.  Hirst. 


We   consider  Niblo's    garden    one    of   the   chief 

"broideries"  upon  our  woof  of  probation  in  this  dirty 

planet,  and  if  there  are  to   be  offsets  for  good  things 

enjoyed   this  side   of  Cocytus,  we   expect  to  pay  for 

Mitchell.     Oh,  thou  pleasant  Mitchell !     And  he  to 

j  grow  fat  under  the  exercise  of  such  a  wand  of  indus- 

|  trious  enchantment !     What  is  the  man  made  of,  be- 

:  sides  brains! 

We  sat  through  the  "  RKVOLT  OF  THE  HAREM,"  a 
j  night  or  two  ago,  and  saw  all  its  funny  sights,  seriatim. 
The  ballet,  as  intended  to  be  seen,  was  excellent — for 
the  time  and  material,  indeed,  quite  wonderful.    But 
1   we  had  our  little  pleasures  (not  down  in  the  bill),  and 
|:  one  of  them  was  to  see  pretty  Miss  Taylor,  the  clever 
i:  opera-singer,  figuring  as  an  Odalisque  danseuse  !     If 
that  pretty  actress  be  not  abducted,  and  sold  to  the 
sultan  within  a  year,  we  shall  think  less  of  the  enter 
prise  of  Salem  privateers!     She  only  wants  to  forget 
that  she  is  Miss  Taylor,  indeed,  to  dance  uncommonly 
ji  well — the  consciousness  of  her  silk  stockings  being  at 
present  something  of  a  damper  to  the  necessary  aban- 
j  don.     But,  modesty  and  all,  she  is  very  charming  in 
j   this  ballet,  and  one  wonders  what  Mitchell  will  make 
!   of  her  next  !     Korponay,  too — the  elegant  Korponay 
— figuring  as  an  Abyssinian  eunuch  !      That,  truth  to 
|   say,  had  for  us  a  dash  of  displeasure!     He  entered 
i   into  it  with  all  his   might,  it   is   true,  and  played   the 
I    nigger  with  Jim  Crow  facility  ;  but  the  part,  for  him, 
|  was  out  of  character,  and  we  shall  not  be  content  till 
he  \sdis-mggered  by  appearing  once  more  in  the  role 
I!  of  a  gentleman.     The  bath-scene  was  well  arranged, 
though  the  prettiest  girls  were  not  in  the  water — (pray 
why.  Master  Mitchell  ?)     And  the  military  evolutions 
of  the  revolted  ladies  were  very  well  done,  and  will  be 
better  done — with  a  little  more  practice,  and  the  mend- 
i  ing  of  that  corporal's  stocking  with  a  hole  in  it.     The 
town  seemed  pleased,  we  thought. 

We  have  not  yet  mentioned  the  premiere  danseuse, 
Mademoiselle  Desjardiris,  who  did  very  well  in  the 
way  of  her  vocation,  but  from  whose  feet  have  de 
parted,  with  the  boots  she  wore,  the  exquisite  symme- 
i  try  we  admired  at  Simpson's  benefit.  Ah,  ladies,  you 
j  should  wear  boots!  Here  were  two  feet  in  tightly- 
sandalled  shoes,  looking  like  two  tied-up  parcels  from 
Beck's,  which,  a  night  or  two  before,  in  brodeqvins 
bien  fails,  looked  models  of  Arabian  instep!  Can 
boots  do  that?  We  hereby  excommunicate,  from  the 
church  of  true  love,  all  husbands,  fathers,  and  guard 
ians,  who  shall  rebel  against  the  preference,  by  wife, 
ward,  or  daughter,  of  Nunn's  boots  at  $3  50,  over 
Middleton's  slippers  at  ten  shillings.  The  embellish 
ment  is  worth  the  difference! 


We  have  received  a  very  testy  letter  from  some  old 
gentleman,  requesting  us  to  reform  the  gait  of  the 
New  York  ladies.  He  manages  to  convey  what  pecu 
liarity  it  is  that  offends  his  eye,  but  he  is  mistaken  as 
to  the  stoop.  The  lady  within  stands  straight  enough! 
If  he  knows  this,  and  means  covertly  to  attack  the  ar 
tificial  portion  of  the  outline,  we  can  tell  him  that  he 
rashly  invades,  not  merely  a  caprice  of  fashion  (which 
in  itself  were  formidable  enough),  but  the  most  jealous 
symbol  and  citadel  of  female  domination  !  There  are 
thousands  of  ladies  who  would  resign  carriages  and 


EPHEMERA. 


135 


die  by  fire  and!1  city  of  worship  between   men   and  women   in    those 
ount  on  horse-  j  days! — and  as  innocent  as  joyous  !     Compare  it  with 


satin  without  a  sigh,  but  who  would 
fagot  rather  than  yield  the  right  to   mount  on  horse 
back  in  the  masculine  riding  habit!     "Wearing  the 
breeches"   is  a  worn-out  figure  of  speech,  but  does 
anybody  in  his  senses  believe  that  the  usurpation  has         And   now,  my  dear  Willis,  a  cautious  word  or  two 
not  taken  refuge  in  a  new  shape  ?     Need  we  open  our  i  about  the  women.     There  are  "  belles"  at  Saratoga, 


the  arms'-length  superfmery,  and  dangerous  pent-up- 
itude  of  now! 


respondent's  eyes  any  further  ?     What  bird  is  the 
most  pronounced  and  unequivocal  type  of  martial  and 


masculine  bravery  ?  What  bird  is  the  farthest  re 
move,  in  shape,  air,  and  habits,  from  his  female  part 
ner  ?  What  bird  lives  up  systematically  to  woman's 
ideal  of  a  hero  —  a  life  of  fighting  and  making  love? 
Draw  the  outline  from  the  comb  of  a  fighting-cock  to 


well-born,  well-moulded,  and  well-dressed — five  or  six 
of  the  first  degree  of  perilous  loveliness,  none  of  ihe 


second  degree  (I  don't  know  why)  and  fifty  or  sixty 
with  beauty  enough  to  make,  each  one,  a  dull  man 
happy.  The  rest  are  probably  immortal  creatures, 
and  have  angels  to  look  after  them — but,  as  they  make 
no  sacrifices  in  proportion  to  their  mortal  plainness, 
the  feather-tip  of  his  bustle,  and  you  have  the  eidolon  they  are  ciphers,  fit  least  till  doomsday.  I  will  not 

of  male  carriage and  the  dressmaker's  ne  plus  ultra!     impa:r  my  advantages  by  telling,   to   an  enterprising 

We  warn  off  our  correspondent!  ji  admirer  like  yourself,  even  the  names  of  the  adorables, 

for  as  I  slide  into  the  back-swath  of  the  great  mower, 
I  am  jealous  of  opportunity — but  there  is  one  woman 
here  who  was  the  electric  light  of  the  court  of  France 
'i  when  I  was  abroad,  a  creature  of  that  airy  stateliness 
that  betrays  the  veiled  symmetry 


LETTER     FROM     CINNA      BKVKRLEY,     ESQ.,     TO     N. 
WILLIS. 

SARATOGA,  U.  S.  Hotel,  August  1. 


Of  the  fair  form  that  terminates  so  well 


an  se  g  as    eaun    now  as          , 

•«».  my  dear  poet,  and  I  am  trying  on   the  old   trick  maternal  nioUrnfulness  of  eye  has  more  than  mad, 

f   gayety  at  Saratoga.     Which  of  us  should  write  ,  for  (he  fainter  roses  and  mOre  languishing  lilies  ol 

ie  other  a  letter  ?      You,  if  you  say  so— though  as  J        >  ^  ch<jeU      (God  be  pl-aised  for  compensations  ! 


You  are  feed.ng  the  news-hopper  of  your  literary     ^  ^  jg  ag  beailtiflll  now  as  then,  for  a  kind  of  tender 
mill,  my  dear  poet,  and  I  am  trying  on   the  old   trick   !  _  ^  ,v,Qto,.n,1  mnnrnfn|npsa  Of  eve  has  more  than  made 
of 
the 

get  older,  I  am  beginning  to  think  well  of  the  town, 
even  in  August.  You  have  your  little  solaces,  my  fast 
liver  ! 

Well— what  shall  I  tell  you  ?     This  great  khan  in 
in  the  desert  of  dulness  is  full,  to  the  most  desirable 


lilies  of 

(God  be  praised  lor  compensations  !) 
^u.'i'witho'ut  specifying  more  to  you,  I  must  hold  back 
a  bit  of  speculation  that  I  have  in  reserve,  while  1 
make  you  marvel  at  a  triumph  of  toilet— achieved  by 
the  kind  of  short  gown,  or  kirtle,*  never  before  seen 
but  at  a  wash-tub,  but  proinpted  now  to  be  the  lode- 


uncomfortabieness.  Shall  I  begin  with  the  tnen  •!  star 'Of  the  drawing-room  !  There  are  articles  of  dress, 
God  made  them  first,  and  as  it  is  a  test  of  the  ultimate  ;l  u  ^now,  which  are  inlensijiers — making  vulgarity 
degree  of  refinement  to  reapproach  nature,  why,  let  j  more  vu|g;)r,  aristocracy  more  aristocratic — and  the 
men  have  the  precedence  !  Less  American  than  phi-  ;  ^^  who  comes  Ujrt|ed  to  breakfast  at  Saratoga,  is  of 
losophical,  you  will  say! — but  men  first,  let  it  be  .  l  jfature'B  daintiest  fabric,  only  less  proud  than  win- 
must  have  my  way  in  my  post-meridian,  nine — but  fancy  a  buttoned-up  frock-coat  over  a 
There  used  to  be  dandies!  That  was  in  the  time  ,|  gn  petticoat,  and  you  can  picture  to  yourself  the 
when  there  was  an  aristocracy  in  the  country.  V"thi|saucv  piquancy  of  the  costume.  Titania  in  the 
the  levelling  (from  the  middle  to  the  top)  that  has  been  I  laundrv  ; 


going  on  for  the  last  ten  or  twelve  years,  the  incentive 
somehow,  seems  gone,  or,  account  for  it  how  you 
will—  there  are  no  dandies!  I  am  inclined  to  think 


I  was  going  to  philosophize  upon  the  changes  in 
lady-tactics  within  the  last  few  years,  but  I  will  just 
hint  at  a  single  point  that  has  impressed  me.  The 


that  two  causes  may  have  contributed ^to  it— the  mdis-i       .n).tive   confidin1gness    of    American    girlhood    (the 
cretion  of  tailors  in  using  gentlemen  s  ideas  pro       '  ||  jove|je8t    8OCja|    phase   that   ever  ascended    from  the 

shepherd's  fold  to  ihe  drawing-room)  has  been  aban 
doned  for  the  European  mamma-dom  and  watchful 
restraint,  but  without  some  of  the  compensatory  Eu 
ropean  concomitants.  I  will  not  "lift  the  veil"  by 
telling  what  those  concomitants  are.  It  would  be  a 

-    — -  .     delicate  and  debateable   subject.     But  the   effect  of 

woman's  being  beautiful  enough  to  adore,  and  yet  not   i  ^  ^  a(]      tation  ig)  in  my  opinion,  far  more  dan- 

wise  enough  to  know  that  degree  of  dilierence  .     AH,  'ug  than  what  it  seeks  to  SIlpplant  or  remedy,  and 


cuously.  and  the  attention  paid  to  dress  by  all  classes— 
everybody  who  can  buy  a  coat  at  all,  being  within  one 
decree  of  comme  it  faut  !  The  other  side  of  that  degree 
is  not  far  enough  off  from  the  mob,  and  so  dandyism 
is  discouraged.  Needlessly,  it  is  true,  for  the  differ 
ence  is  marked  enough;  but  the  possibility  of  a 

~ 


my  dear  Willis,  that  an  angel  may  "  walk  unrecog 
nised  !"     It  has  killed  the  class  ! 

Tliere  is  one  dandy  only,  at  Saratoga,  and  he  is  but 
the  dovetail  upon  the  age  gone  by — a  better-dressed 


man  ten  yea 


rs  ago  than  this    morning  at  breakfast. 


among  other  evils  is  that  of  making  culpable  what  was 
once  thought  innocent.  I  shudder  at  the  manuiac- 
ture  of  new  sins  in  a  world  where  enough,  for  all 
needful  ruin,  grows  wild  by  the  road-side.  I  do  not 
believe  we  shall  grow  purer  by  Europeamzmg. 

1  lie  wjitcr 


One  dandy  among  three  thousand  "fashionables!"    It,       wii-it  else  would  you   like  to  know;      i  ne  waier 
is  early  in  the  season,  it  is  true,  and  (as  a  youth  said  j   ^^  gg  metamc  as  ofoij,  though  the  beauties  around 


purer  by  Europeanizing. 
ou    like  to  know  ?     Th 


to  me  yesterday,  with  a  clever  classification)  "all  Car-   j  ^  ^  of-the  jounl;iin  are  an  increased  congregation. 
venter's  coats  are  gone  this  year  to  Newport."     But,   j  _,.      -,      •       k     p  ,)iejr  great  caravansary  admirably 
still,  there  are  those  here— done  into  stereotype,  and 
reckless  of  the  peculiarities  in  themselves  which  are 
susceptible  of  piquant  departures  from  the  fashion— 
who    would    have    been,    twenty     years    ago,    each 
one    a    phenix    unresembled  !     How   delightful    the 
springs  were,   in  those  days  of  marked  men!     How 
adored  they  were  by  the  women  !     How  generously 


The  Marvms  keep  ter  grea    c 

well,  as  usual,  though,  surviving  amid  such  a  cataract 
of  travel,  they  should  rather  call  their  hotel  "Goat 
Island"  than  "United  States."  Un.on  hall  is 
making  a  fortune  out  of  the  invahd  saints,  and  Con 
gress  hall  looks  romantic  and  flirt-w.se  as  ever  ;  ; 
by-the-way,  they  are  about  to  enlarge  it,  with  a  portico 
overlooking  the  spring.  Delicious  dinners  can  be  had 
•  and  an  omnibus  runs  there  regularly,  and 


at  the  lake 


HI  IIIO  la*  w«  au*»  «••*»»•»•»  -  -      I/-* 

in  all  matters,  Saratoga  enlarges.     It  serves  a  needful 


(by  such  petting  as  is  now  unknown)  their  anxieties 
of  toilet  were  repaid  and  glorified  !  How  the  arrival 
of  each  "  particular  star"  was  hailed  by  the  rushing 

out  of  the  white  dresses  upon  the  portico  of  Congress         M  nave  smi;f.  ulstuvc,rvi  „._ r.... 

hall    the  acclamations,  the  felicitations,  the  inquiries     was  «  dug  up"  by  the  spirited  belles  of  Carolina,  anc 
tender  and  uproarious  !     There  was  a  joyous  recipro-     at  the  south  a  «  Jib-along-josey: 


T  have  since  discovered  that  this  promo 


ted  article  of  dress 


136 


EPHEMERA. 


purpose  in  this  gregarious  country;  and  on  the  whole, 
no  place  of  escape  is  pleasanter  to  man  or  woman. 
How  is  the  joyous  brigadier?     Make   my  homage 


acceptable  to  his  quill  and  his  epaulets,  and  ask  him,  j 
in  his  next  hour  of  inspired  song,  to  glorify  proud  j 
beauty  in  humble  kirtle. 

Come  to  Saratoga,  my  dear  Willis,  and  let  me  tell 
your  how  sincerely  I  am  yours, 

CINNA  BEVERLEY. 


The  time  will  come,  perhaps,  when  we  shall  be  a 
connoisseur  in  snuff-boxes,  insects,  or  autographs  — 
but,  meantime,  we  are  curious  in  the  cultivation  of 
the  rarer  kinds  of  friendship.  The  ingenious  idea  oc 
curred  to  us,  some  ten  years  ago,  of  turning  the  waste 
overflow  of  our  heart  into  some  such  special  and 
available  irrigation,  and  the  result  we  shall  leave  to  be 
published  posthumously,  under  the  title  of  AMICUL- 
TURK,  or  a  TREATISE  ON  LOVE-WASTE.  Our  proper 
channels  of  affection  being  first  supplied  to  the  point  ! 


the   world   goes,   and   stuff  for   moralizing  —  eh,    old 
Willis  ? 

The  charm  of  society  at  Saratoga  lies  in  getting 
the  thing  without  paying  for  it.  To  see  a  pretty 
woman  in  town,  one  has  to  resolve  at  breakfast,  shape 
his  arrangements,  stick  three  hours  to  his  resolve,  trav 
el  a  mile,  ring  a  bell,  run  the  chance  of  intruding  or 
"not  at  home,"  talk  to  some  bore  in  the  way  of  aunt 
or  brother,  and  two  to  one,  after  all,  you  light  upon 
an  undress  humor  in  the  lady  visited.  In  the  great 
drawing-room  of  the  United  States,  on  the  contrary, 
the  whole  visitable  world  is  reduced  to  the  compass  of 
a  gamut,  and  you  have  it  all  within  the  spread  of  your 
hand,  and  all  in  tune  !  You  dress,  breakfast,  and  sit 
on  a  sofa,  and  in  ten  minutes  your  entire  female  ac 
quaintance  passes  within  three  feet  of  your  nose,  and 
every  one  as  ready  to  be  talked  to  as  if  you  had  ridden 
three  miles,  and  wasted  patience  and  a  forenoon  to 
have  that  pleasure.  You  leave  her  when  you  like, 
without  the  trouble  of  an  adieu,  see  and  talk  to  twenty 
more  with  the  same  charming  economy  of  time  and 


of  overflow,  we   have  felt  free  to  venture  upon  very  ;   labor,   and   having   got    through   your  duty-talks  by 


bold  experiments  with  the  remainder,  and  some  of  our 
specimens,  of  course,  are  simply  curiosities  ;  but  we 
have  them  (friends)  of  every  quality,  form,  and  condi 
tion,  male  and  female,   preserved  with  studious  care 
and  industry  —  guardedly  confining  ourselves  to  only 
one  of  a  kind.     Some  of  the  humbler  specimens  are  I 
of  great  beauty,   but  will   show  better  preserved  and  I 
pressed  in  a  posthumous  andbarium.     We   can  only  i 
venture,   in  our   lifetime,   to    give  specimens  of  the  j 
more  ornamental  varieties  ;  and  our  object  now  is  to 
introduce  a  leaf  of  the  species  "callow  dandy"  —  in 


eleven,  you  select  your  favorite  and  devote  yourself  to 
her  for  the  remaining  twelve  or  fourteen  hours  —  "a 
month's  love  in  a  day!"  This,  if  you  please,  is  letting 

"  the  serious  part  of  life  go  by 
Like  the  neglected  sand," 

and  very  glad  to  be  rid  of  it  !  Now,  don't  you  think, 
my  paternal  Willis,  that  society  in  town  has  too  many 
hinderances,  obstructions,  cross-purposes,  exactions, 
mystifications,  and  botherations  —  considering  tkat  a 
plague  slices  off  just  as  much  life  as  a  pleasure!  I 


oilier  words,  to  give  you  a  letter  from  a  very  elegant 

lad  with  a  nascent  mustache,  a  prized  friend  of  ours, 

now,  for  the  first  time,  at  Saratoga.     He  writes  about 

trifles,  but  in  hot  weather  we  (for  one)  like  trifles  best; 

and  as  he  writes,  after  all,  with  a  dash  of  philosophy,  j 

we  have  not  thought  it  worth  while  to  omit  or  alter,     loots,  my  dear  dandy  ?    Do  you  observe  what  aT>reak- 

Here  is  hisjetter,  written  in  the  vanishing  legibility  of!   down  they  give  to  the  instep,  and  how  shamble-footed, 

and  down  at  the  heel  the  men  seem  who  wear  them  ? 

After  all,  there   is  a  "  blood  look"  to  a  man's  leg  as 


wish  the  Marvins  would  take  a  lease  of  New  York, 
roof  it  in,  knock  away  walls,  and  make  a  "Springs" 
of  it  !  It  is  so  very  cumbrous,  letting  people  have 
whole  houses  to  themselves  ! 

Have  you  anatomized   this  new  fashion  of  Baiter- 


a  once  good  school-hand  :  — 

U.  S.  HOTEL,  Aug.  —. 

DFAR  WILLIS:  Your  kind  note  to  St.  John,  of  the 
Knickerbocker,  got  me  the  state-room  with  the  pic 
ture  of  "  Glenmary"  on  the  panel,  and  I  slept  under 
the  protection  of  your  household  gods  —  famously,  of 
course.  The  only  fault  I  found  with  that  magnificent 
boat,  was  the  right  of  any  "smutched  villain"  to  walk 
through  her.  It  is  a  frightful  arrangement  that  can 
sell,  to  a  beauty  and  a  blackguard,  for  the  same  money, 
the  right  to  promenade  on  the  same  carpet,  and  go  to 
sleep  with  the  same  surroundings  on  the  opposite 
sides  of  a  pine  partition  !  Give  me  a  world  where 
antipodes  stay  put!  But  what  a  right-royal,  "slap- 
up"  supper  they  give  in  the  Knickerbocker!  They'll 
make  the  means  better  than  the  end  —  travelling  better 
than  arriving  —  if  they  improve  any  more  !  I  had  a 
great  mind  to  go  back  the  next  day,  and  come  up 
again. 

Saratoga's  great  fun.  I  had  no  idea  there  were  so 
many  kinds  of  people  —  beasts  and  beauties.  Five 
hundred  men  and  women  in  one  house  is  a  lumping 
of  things  that  shoves  aside  a  great  many  secrets 
there's  no  room  for.  Old  women  popping  out  of  their 
rooms,  with  their  wigs  off,  to  call  a  waiter  —  lazy  men 
coming  to  breakfast  unshaved  —  cross  people  that  can 
not,  be  smiling  all  day  long  —  lovers  besieging,  when 
the  lady  would  prefer  cracker  and  cheese—  jealous 
people  looking  daggers  while  they  pretend  to  blow 
their  noses  —  bustles  flattened  by  dinner-chairs  into 
upright  pianos  —  ladies  spreading  their  nostrils  at  un 
expected  introductions—  old  maids  in  calm  disgust, 
and  just-outs  in  "  sweet  confusion"  —  a  Turk  in  the 
portico  selling  attars,  and  a  Jew  in  the  drawing-room, 
shining  in  patent  leather—  all  pretty  good  sights,  as 


well  as  a  horse's,  and  no  dandy  can  look  "clean 
limbed"  with  unstrapped  trousers  and  his  apparent  foot 
cut  in  two  by  shoes  of  two  colors.  The  eye  wants  a 
clean  line  from  the  point  of  the  toe  to  the  swearing- 
place  of  the  patriarchs,  and  an  unblemished  instep 
rising  to  the  pantaloon.  The  world's  tailors  have 
been  ever  since  breeches-time  learning  the  proper  ad 
justment  of  straps,  and  now  it  is  perfected,  the  capri 
cious  world  condemns  it  to  disuse!  Write  an  article 
about  it,  my  dear  Willis!  And  then  these  gathered 
French  trousers  —  making  a  man  into  a  "  big-hipped 
humble-bee"  —  as  if  we  needed  to  be  any  more  like 
women  !  I  see,  too,  that  here  and  there  a  youth  has 
a  coat  padded  over  the  hips!  Though,  apropos  of 
coats,  there  is  a  well-dressed  man  here  with  a  new  cut 
of  Carpenter's.  He's  a  Prometheus,  that  Carpenter  — 
heating  his  goose  by  undoubted  "fire  from  heaven!" 
The  skirts  of  the  last  inspiration  cross  slightly  behind, 
aiding  the  Belvidere  "pyramid  inverted"  (from  the 
shoulders  down)  and  of  course  promoting  the  fine  arts 
of  tailoring.  Allowing  freely  the  tip-toppiness  of 
Jennings  in  trousers,  waistcoats,  and  overcoats,  there 
is  nobody  like  this  Philadelphia  man  for  coats  !  You 
might  as  well  restore  the  marble  chips  to  the  nose  of 
a  statue  as  suggest  an  improvement  to  him.  And  what 
a  blessing  this  is,  my  dear  Willis!  Do  you  remem 
ber  the  French  dandy's  sublime  sentiment:  "  Si  I'on 
rencontrait  un  habit  parfait  dans  toute  sa  vie,  on  pour- 
rait  presque  se  passer  tV  amour  .'" 

Ah!  such  an  interminable  letter  as  I  am  writing! 
Your  friend  "  Jo.  Sykes,"  the  puller  of  the  big  wires, 
is  here,  handsome  and  thoughtful,  with  a  daughter 
who  is  to  be  the  belle  of  I860  —  the  loveliest  child  I 
have  seen  in  my  travels.  The  beautiful  women  I  will 


EPHEMERA. 


137 


tell  you  about  over  our  olives  and  tinta.     No  events 
that  I  can  trust  to  the  indiscretion  of  pen  and  ink. 
Ever  yours,  AUGUSTUS  ILIHO. 

Of  course  there  was  a  postscript,  but  that  we  must 
reserve  for  posterity.  Our  friend  'Gus  lliho  is  not  a 
man  to  write  altogether  upon  third  person  topics.  But 
we  have  another  friend  at  Saratoga — a  female  speci 
men — and  we  hope  to  hear  from  her,  'twixt  this  and 
the  season  over.  Our  readers  will  please  expect  it. 


THE  CABINET. 

("  The  Committee"  trimming  pencil  in  the  Eastern-most 
bdthin  g-house  on  Rockaway  beach.    Enter  the  briga-  i 
dier  with  nostrils  inflated.) 

Brig. — Fmff !  fmff !    God  bless  the  Atlantic  ocean  !  j 
Fmff!     "Salt  sea"   indeed!     I  never  smelt  a  breeze 
fresher.     Fmff!  fmff!  fmff!     You   got  the   start  of    j 
me,  my  dear  boy  !  (pulls  his  last  high  heel  out  of  the   \ 
deep  sand  and  sits  down  on  the  threshold.)     What  say 
to  a  strip  and  dip  before  we  come  to  business? 

Com. — Fie  ! — general,   fie  !      Look    through   your 
fingers  at  the  other  end  of  the  beach  !     It  is  the  hour  i 
of  oceanic  beatitude — the  ladies  bathing  !     The  mur-  j 
muring  waters  will  be  purer  for  the  interview.     Bathe  j 
we  in  the  first  wave  after ! 

Brig. — How  can  you 

'•'  Play  in  wench-like  words  with  that 
Which  is  so  serious  ?" 

Did  you  bring  a  towel,  mi-boy? 

Com. — Tut ! — would  you  offend  the  south  wind,  that 
proffers  the  same  office  so  wooingly  ?  Walk  on  the 
bench,  man.  and  let  the  sun  peruse  you,  whileyoudry! 

Brig. — So  should  I  be  more  red,  with  a  vengeance  ! 
But  1  don't  like  this  dry-salting,  mi-boy  !  It's  too 
sticky  !  Ye  gods  !  look  at  the  foam  upon  that  wave  ! 
What  is  that  like,  my  poet  ? 

Com. — Like  the  unrolling  of  a  bale  of  lace  on   a  • 
broad  counter!     The  "tenth  wave"  is  the  head  clerk, 
and  the  clams  and  soft  crabs  are  the  ladies  shopping!  ; 
How  I  love  the  affinities  of  Art  and  Nature! 

Brig. — Poll  !     Where's  Nature's  twine  and   brown  ! 
paper?     Don't  be  transcendental ! 

Com. — How  ignorant  you  are,  not  to  know  eel-grass  i 
and  devil's  apron — Nature's  twine  and  brown  paper  ! 
My  dear  general,  were  you   ever   introduced    to  the 
Atlantic?     Is  this  your  first  visit?     Stand  up  in  the 
doorway  ! 

(Brigadier  rises  and  the  surf  bows  to  the  ground.) 

General  Morris  !  the  Atlantic  ocean.  Atlantic 
ocean!  General  Morris.  I  am  happy  to  bring  two 
such  distinguished  "  swells"  together.  Thoagh  (apro 
pos,  Mr.  "Heaving  Main  !")  the  general  is  a  gay  man! 
Look  out  for  your  "  pale  Cynthia  !"  The  moon  is 
not  famed  for  her  constancy  ! 

Brig. — What  are  you  mumbling  there,  mi-boy! 
I  wish,  under  the  tender  influence  of  these  suggesting 
waters,  to  express  a  wish  that  you  would  write  some 
poetry,  or  give  us  a  new  tale,  or  dash  us  off  a  play,  or — 

Com. — Or,  in  some  other  way  make  rubbish  for 
posterity  !  No,  sir !  There  are  no  pack-horses  in 
Posthumousland,  and,  as  much  as  will  ride  in  a  ghost's 
knapsack,  with  his  bread  and  cheese,  is  as  much,  in 
quantity,  as  any  man  should  write  who  has  pity  for  his 
pedestrian  soul  on  its  way  to  dooms-day  !  Why,  ! 
general,  the  TALES  which  I  am  about  to  publish  (in 
cluding  "Inklings,"  "Loiterings"  etc.,  etc.),  will 
make,  of  themselves,  a  most  adult-looking  octavo. 
My  POEMS  and  PLAYS  have  tonnage  enough  to  carry, 
at  least,  all  the  bulk  necessary  to  a  fame ;  my  MISCEL 
LANIES,  yet  to  be  collected  will  make  a  most  sizeable 


volume  of  slip-slop  ;  PENCILLINGS  is  no  pamphlet:  and 
LETTERS  FROM  UNDER  A  BRIDGE,  and  other  episiolary 

production do  you  see  how   beautifully   the   sand 

immortalizes  the  industrious  waves  that  write  succes 
sively  their  sparkling  lines  on  the  beach  ! 

Brig. — Don't  malign  your  "eternal  fame,  mi-boy  !" 
Com — More  eternal,  I  believe,  than  the  love  of  the 
impertinent  Lothario  in  the  sonnet : — 

("  But  say,  my  all !  my  mistress  !  and  my  friend  ! 
What  day  next  week  th'  eternity  shall  end?") 

but  how  much  more  eternal  it  would  be,  if  they  would 
make  the  genesis  of  a  man's  works  like  (hat  of  the 
patriarchs — dateable  from  the  first  satisfactory  off-shoot 
of  his  manhood  !  Do  you  remember  the  expressive 
genealogy  of  Shem  ? 

12.  And  Arphaxad  lived  five  and  thirty  years  and  begat 
Salah  : 

13.  And  Arphaxad  lived  after  he  begat  Salah  four  hundred 
and  three  years  and  begat  sons  and  daughters. 

14.  And  Eber  lived  four  and  thirty  years  and  begat  Peleg  : 

15.  And  Eber  lived  after  he  begat  Peleg  four  hundred  and 
thirty  years,  and  begat  sons  and  daughters. 

And  so  on,  up  to  Abraham,  whose  father  was  seven 
ty  years  old  when  he  was  born.  But  don't  you  sup 
pose  these  boys  did  anything  before  they  were  thirty- 
odd  ?  Their  history  begins  with  their  first  creditable 
production  !  Eber  was  nothing  till  he  begat  Peleg, 
though,  very  likely,  the  critics  of  that  time  "preferred 
very  much  his  earlier  productions." 

Brig. — And  you  think  you  could  begin,  now,  with 
your  first  Peleg  and  Salah  ? 

Com. — You  have  said  it.  But,  as  I  hinted  before, 
my  posthumous  knapsack  is  already  full  of  rubbish, 
and a  thought  strikes  me  ! 

Brig. — "  Call  it  out  !" 

Com. — I'll  change  my  style  and  start  a  new  reputa 
tion,  incog! 

Brig. — Famous ! 

Com. — And  sell  some  man  the  glory  of  it  for  an 
annuity  ! 

Brig.-Good  ! 

Com. — ( Thoughtfully) — The  old  countess  of  Des 
mond  shed  her  teeth  three  limes. 

Brig. — A  precedent  in  nature. 

Com. — (Firmly) — Soit!  Done!  So  be  it!  Hang 
me  if  I  don't  !  You'll  hear  of  a  new  author  before 
long — one  that  beats  me  hollow !  Look  me  up  a 
purchaser,  my  dear  brigadier  !  Literary  fame  furnish 
ed  at — say,  three  thousand  dollars  per  annum  ! 

Brig.— Mi-boy,  the  ladies  have  left  the  beach — I 
wonder  if  the  sea  would  condescend  to  us,  now  ! 

Com. — Peltry  after  roses  and  ivory  ! — I  don't  know! 

Brig. — Talking  of  Esau— he  should  have  lived  in 
cravat-time.  Well-drest,  your  hirsute  customers  looks 
not  amiss  !  (No  pun,  you  villain  !)  Stand  back,  my 
unclad-boy  !  Here  comes  a  wagon  load  of  women  ! 

Com. — Chambermaids  and  nurses;  who,  by  the 
way  they  flock  to  the  beach  in  the  male  hours,  must 
either  have  eyes  with  a  nictitating  membrane,  or  a 
modesty  that  is  confined  to  what  they  hear.  I  wish  to 
heaven  that  all  females  were  patricians— undesecrated 
by  low  taste  and  servitude  !  It's  like  classifying  owls 
with  angels  because  they  are  both  feathered,  to  call 
these  rude  creatures  women  .'  What's  that  scar  on 
your  breast,  brigadier? 

Brio-. Slide  down  your  "nictitating  membrane," 

mi-boy,  and  don't  be  too  observing  !  Here  goes ! 
Hup!  (The  brigadier  rushes  into  the  surf,  takes  a 
stitch  through  three  frills  of  the  island's  shirt,  and  rises 
like  a  curly-headed  sun  from  the  ocean.) 

Com.  (so/us). — There  he  swims  !  God  bless  him 
for  a  buoyant  brigadier  !  How  the  waves  tumble  over 
his  plump  shoulders,  delighted  to  feel  the  place  where 
ride  his  epaulets  and  his  popularity!  Look  out  for 
sharks,  my  dear  general !  They  snuff  a  poet  afar  off! 


138 


EPHEMERA. 


Natural  victims  we  are  to  them — on  land  or  water! 
Hear  him  laugh  as  he  shakes  the  brine  out  of  his 
whiskers  !  Was  ever  such  a  laugh  !  His  heart  gives 
that  "  ha  !  ha  !"  a  fillip  as  it  sets  out !  I  must  swim 
off  to  him  !  Clear  the  beach,  soft  crab  and  sand-bird! 
Morris  and  Willis  must  swim  together! 

****** 

Brig.  (Sitting  down  to  dry.) — This  salting  freshens 
a   man,  and   this  wetting  makes  him  dry.     Oh  for  a 
drink  and  the  asp  of  Cleopatra — a  cobbler  and  a  riper!  ! 
Shake  yourself,  mi-boy  ! 

Com. — Suppose  we  roll  in  the  sand  and  take  a 
wrestle,  like  the  athleta?  of  old — eh  ?  How  do  you 
propose  to  get  the  sand  and  gravel  out  from  your 
doigts  da  pied,  general  ? 

Brig. — "  Gravelled,'1  we  are,  mi-boy,  but  not  "  for 
lack  of  matter !"  Let's  dress  first,  and  then  go  down 
and  rinse  our  feet  with  the  aid  of  the  moon's  lover — 
lacking  a  servant  to  bring  a  pail  !  Are  you  dry  ? 

Com. — Inner  and  outer  man — very  !     What's  this —  | 
dropped  out  of  your  pocket! 

Brig. A  song*  that  I  wrote  for  Brown   to  set  to 

musicT    Shall  I  read  it  to  you  ? 

(Brigadier  reads  with  his  hand  on  his  breast.) 

'TIS    NOW    THE    PROMISED    HOUR. 

"  The  fountains  serenade  the  flowers, 

Upon  their  silver  lute — 
And,  nestled  in  their  leafy  bowers 

The  forest-birds  are  mute  : 
The  bright  and  glittering  hosts  above, 

Unbar  their  golden  gates, 
While  nature  holds  her  court  of  love, 

And  for  her  client  waits. 
Then,  Jady,  wake — in  beauty  rise  ! 

'Tis  now  the  promised  hour. 
When  torches  kindle  in  the  skies 

To  light  thee  to  thy  bower. 

"  The  day  we  dedicate  to  care — 

To  love  the  witching  night  ; 
For  all  that's  beautiful  and  fair 

In  hours  like  these  unite. 
E'en  thus  the  sweets  to  flowerets  given— 

The  moonlight  on  the  tree — 
And  all  the  bliss  of  earth  and  heaven — 

Are  mingled,  love,  in  thee. 
Then,  lady,  wake— in  beauty  rise  ! 

'Tis  now  the  promised  hour, 
When  torches  kindle  in  the  skies 

To  light  thee  to  thy  bovver." 

Com. — True  and  smooth  as  a  locomotive  on  a  "T" 
rail !  Is  it  sold  and  set? 

Brig. — Beautifully  set  to  music  by  Brown,  and  sold 
to  Atwill,  who  will  publish  it  immediately. 

Com. — It's  a  delicious  song,  my  happy  troubadour, 
and  destined  to  tumble  over  bright  lips  enough  to  make 
a  sunset.  That  we  should  so  envy  the  things  we 
make  !  My  kingdom  for  a  comb  !  I  shall  never  get 
the  salt  out  of  my  hair — I'm 

"  briny  as  the  beaten  mariner, 
Oft  soused  in  swelling  Tethys'  saltish  tears." 

Tf  you  want  a  curl  to  keep,  now's  your  time  ! 

Brig.— Willis?  . 

Com. — My  lord  ? 

Brig. — I  hear  you  were  voted  in  to  the  "  Light 
Guard"  last  week. 

Cow. —Yes,  sir,  an  honorary  private!  I  feel  the 
compliment,  for  they  are  a  set  of  tip-top  capables,  joy 
ous  and  gentlemanly — but,  my  dear  martinet,  what  the 
devil  do  they  want  of  a  man's  dura  mater? 

Brig. — A  man's  what  ? 

Com. — The  weary  membrane  of  an  author's  brain. 

Brig. — They  want  it,  you  say  ? 

Com. — With  the  official  announcement  came  an 
order  to  equip  myself  according  to  directions,  and 

*  This  song,  set  to  music,  has  been  purchased  and  copy 
righted  by  Mr.  Atwill. 


"  deposite  my  fatigue-jacket"  in  the  armory  of  the 
corps  !  What  fatigue-jacket  have  I,  but  the  jacket  of 
my  brain  ? 

Brig. — True  !      Pick    up  your   boots   and   come 
along  ? 
(Exit  the  brigadier  barefoot, and  the  cabinet  adjourns.} 


Half  an  hour  later — room  No.  300,  Rockaway  Pavil 
ion.  Two  sherry  cobblers  on  the  table,  uith  two 
straws,  erect  in  the  ice.) 

Brig. — How  like  this  great  structure  on  the  sand 
must  be,  to  a  palace  amid  the  ruins  of  Persepolis  ! 

Com. — The  palace  of  Chilminar  with  forty  columns 
and  stairs  for  ten  horses  to  go  up  abreast ! — very  like 
indeed — especially  the  sand  !  Somewhat  like,  in 
another  respect,  by  the  way — that  the  palaces  of 
Persepolis  were  the  tombs  of  her  kings,  and  Rock- 
away  is  the  place  of  summer  repose  for  the  indignant 
aristocracy  of  Manhattan.- 

Brig. — True,  as  to  the  aristocracy,  but  why  "  indig 
nant  ?" 

Com. — That  there  can  be  fashion  without  them  at 
Saratoga  (which  there  could  not  be  once),  and  that 
"  aristocratic"  and  "  fashionable''  are  two  separate 
estates,  not  at  all  necessary  to  be  combined  in  one 
individual.  Rockaway  is  full,  now,  of  the  purest 
porcelain — porcelain  fathers,  porcelain  mothers,  porce 
lain  daughters  ! 

Brig. — Then  why  is  not  the  society  perfectat  Rock- 
away  ? 

Com. — Because  the  beaux  go  after  the  crockery  at 
Saratoga.  The  rush,  the  rowdydow,  the  flirtations, 
and  game  suppers,  are  all  at  Saratoga!  Aristocracy 
likes  to  have  the  power  of  complaining  of  these  things 
as  nuisances  inseparable  from  its  own  attraction.  Aris 
tocracy  builds  high  walls,  but  it  likes  to  have  them 
pertinaciously  overleaped.  The  being  let  alone  within 
their  high  walls,  as  they  are  now  at  their  exclusive 
watering-places,  was  not  set  down  in  the  plans  of  aris 
tocratic  campaigns  ! 

Brig. — But  they  are  charming  people  here,  mi-boy? 

Com. — The  best-bred  and  most  agreeable  people  in 
the  world,  but  the  others  give  a  beau  more  for  his 
money.  In  all  countries,  but  ours,  people  make  ac 
quaintances  for  life.  But  the  hinderances  and  obstacles 
which  are  not  minded  at  the  beginning  of  a  lifetime 
acquaintance,  are  intolerable  in  an  acquaintance  for  a 
week  (the  length  of  most  summer  acquaintances  with 
us),  and  the  floating  beaux  from  the  south,  the  west, 
the  Canadas,  and  the  West  Indies,  go  where  they  can 
begin  at  the  second  chapter — omitting  the  tedious 
preface  and  genealogical  introduction. 

Brig. — Rockaway  is  stupid,  then. 

Com. — Quiet,  not  stupid.  The  lack  of  beaux  and 
giddy  times  is  only  felt  by  the  marriageable  girls,  and 
there  are  a  great  many  people  in  the  world  besides 
marriageable  girls.  And  upon  this  same  "  many 
people,"  will  depend  the  prosperity  of  the  Pavilion. 
When  it  is  known  that  it  is  a  delightful  place  for 
everything  but  flirting,  it  will  be  a  centre  for  sober 
people  to  radiate  to,  and  a  paradise  for  penserosos  like 
you  and  me,  general — eh?  1  suppose  Cranston  would 
as  lief  (liefer,  indeed)  that  his  rooms  should  be  filled 
with  tame  people  as  wild. 

Brig. — How's  your  cobbler  ? 

Com — Fit  to  immortalize  the  straw  that  passes  it ! 

Brig. — What  birds  are  those,  my  Willis  ? 

Com. — Shore  birds  that  build  in  the  sedge  and  feed 
on  molluscous  animals — death  on  the  soft  crabs ! 
And,  general,  do  you  know  that  the  male  of  this  bird 
(called  the  phalarope),  is  a  most  virtuous  example  to 
our  sex  ?  What  do  you  think  he  does  ? 

Brig. — Feeds  the  little-uns  ? 


EPHEMERA. 


139 


Com. — Hatches  them,  half  and  half,  with  the  she- 
bird,  and  helps  bring  them  up  ! 

Brig. —  Is  the  gender  shown  in  the  plumage  ? 

Com.— No. 

Brig. — So  I  thought.  Your  handsome  peacock, 
now,  leaves  it  all  to  the  hen.  The  domestic  virtues 
are  their  own  reward — remarkably  so  !  Is  that  the 
dinner-bell  ? 

Com. — Yes,  it  is  that  music  ! 

"  Give  me  excess  of  it— that,  surfeiting, 
The  appetite  may  sicken,  and  so  die." 

I'll  meet  you  below,  my  dear  general !     Adieu! 

(Cabinet  adjourns  for  the  day.) 


THE    CABINET. 

( Rockawoy  beach,  Sunday  evening.  The  brigadier  and 
committee  seated  on  their  boot-legs,  after  walking  two 
miles,  barefoot,  on  the  hard  sand.) 

Brig. — Boots  are  durance  vile,  mi-boy  !  How  much 
we  lose  in  not  keeping  our  feet  open  to  female  assidu 
ities  !  Fancy  one  of  those  apostolic  washings — a 
sweet  woman  kneeling  before  you,  and,  with  her  hair 
breathing  perfumes  over  your  ankles,  performing  it  as 
an  office  of  tenderness  and  hospitality  !  Can  patent 
leather  be  weighed  against  desuetude  so  melancholy  ! 

Com. — I  am  satisfied  that  the  tender  pink  in  your 
toe-nails  was  intended  by  nature  to  be  admired,  my 
dear  brigadier  !  And  there  is  nature's  remonstrance — 
eloquent  in  a  corn — against  the  airless  confinement  of 
boot  and  stocking  !  Why  is  a  poet  like  a  sandal  ? 

Brig. — Philosophize,  my  dear  boy,  don't  quibble  ! 

Com. — Because  he's  a  soul  kept  under  with  a  thong  ! 

Brig. —  Willis,  1  love  the  sea  ! 

Com. — So  sung  Barry  Cornwall,  "  the  open  sea." 
As  if  Pharaoh  had  not  yet  passed  over!  To  me  the 
sea  seems,  on  the  contrary,  for  ever  slamming  down 
trap-doors  of  surf,  and  carefully  covering  the  "  treas 
ures  of  the  deep"  with  cold  water.  I  never  saw  any 
thing  less  "open!" 

Brig. — There  goes  the  sun  down  !  as  red  as — what 
shall  1  compare  it  to  ? 

Com. — A  wafer,  sealing  up  this  17th  of  August  for 
the  doomsday  postoffice.  Happy  they  who  have  not 
forgotten  the  P.  S.  of  repentance  ! 

Brig. — Ah,  mi-boy!  that  pious  infancy  of  yours! 
It  oozes  through  the  after-crust  of  your  manhood  in 
drops  of  poetry  !  Pity  you  are  less  of  a  saint  than 
you  were  at  seventeen  ! 

Com. — Less  of  a  saint  /  am  not,  though  more  of  a 
sinner  I  am  !  All  I  had  seen  at  seventeen  was  beauty 
and  goodness,  and  with  an  innate  sense  of  beauty  and 
goodness,  I  worshipped'the  Maker,  my  youth  jhrough, 
with  a  poet's  adoration  !  The  heart  melts  and  drops 
upon  its  knees  within  a  man,  at  any  sudden  revelation 
of  unusual  loveliness;  and  I  have  worshipped  God, 
and  loved  one  of  his  angelic  creatures,  with  the  white 
quivering  lip  of  the  same  rush  of  blood  inward.  If  to 
look  often  and  adoringly  "  through  nature  up  to  na 
ture's  God"  be  devotion,  I  am  still  devout.  No  sun 
set,  no  morning's  beauty,  no  rich  and  sudden  sight  of 
loveliness  in  scenery,  goes  by  without  the  renewal  of 
that  worship  in  my  heart  that  was  once  religion.  I 
praise  God  daily.  Worldling  as  I  am,  and  hardly  as  I 
dare  claim  any  virtue  as  a  Christian,  there  is  that 
within  me  which  sin  and  folly  never  reached  or  tainted. 
The  unprompted  and  irresistible  thoughts,  upsprings 
in  my  mind  in  any  scene  of  beauty,  would  seem 
prayers,  and  pure  ones,  to  many  an  humble  Christian. 
Pardon  me  for  reading  to  you  this  inner  leaf,  my  dear 
brigadier  ! 

Brig. — Thank  you,  on  the  contrary,  for  its  philos 
ophy,  my  dear  boy  !  Saints  and  worldlings  have  more 


!  feelings  in  common  than  the  pulpit  admits.     That  I 

j  believe. 

Com. — The   chasm    between    them    in    this    world 

'should  be  narrowed,  for  they  have  many  sympathies. 
The  bigot  makes  the  separation  unnaturally  wide. 

j  Who   is  the  one    man    mentioned    in    Scripture    as 

I  "loved"  by  the  Savior?  The  "young  ruler"  who 
could  not  give  up  his  "  great  possessions"  "to  inherit 

1  eternal  life  !"  Is  not  this  tender  interest  in  one  "  out 
of  the  fold,"  a  lesson — a  most  unheeded  lesson,  to  the 
strict  sect  ?  I  talk  feelingly  of  this,  for  I  have  an  ad 
miration  of  goodness  and  purity  that  has  never  sepa 
rated  itself  from  my  love  of  beauty.  I  love  a  simple 
and  unobtrusive  piety,  and  am  drawn  irresistibly 
toward  the  possessor.  Yet  this  better  part  of  my 
nature  is  excluded  with  the  rest,  when  1  am  denied 
Christian  sympathy.  Come  out  of  dream-land, 
brigadier,  and  observe  the  tender  violet  in  that  upper 

[  cloud  ! 

Brig. — I  was  thinking  whether  the  wave  that  falls 
upon  the  beach  is  to  be  congratulated  or  pitied — com 
paring  its  arrival,  that  is  to  say,  with  its  "swell"  time 
upon  the  sea. 

Com. — Congratulated,   I   should   say.     The   hoary 

!  locks  with  which  it  approaches  the  beach,  though 
they  are  breakers  ahead  when  seen  from  the  sea,  are 
beautiful  when  seen  from  the  shore — as  the  head, 
whitened  with  the  dreaded  troubles  of  life,  grows 
more  beautiful  in  the  eyes  of  angels,  as  it  is  more 
whitened  and  troubled,  approaching  heaven!  JJut 
what  hypocrites  these  shore-birds  are,  witli  their 

I  whitest    plumes   turned   earthward!      See    that    dark- 

!  backed  snipe  on  the  beach,  with  his  white  breast  and 
belly! 

Brig. — Rather  what  knowledge  of  mankind  they 
have — preferring  to  keep  their  darker  side  for  the 

:  more  forgiving  eye  of  Heaven  ! 

Com. — True — the  better  reading!  Do  you  like 
snipe  ? 

Brig. — With  a  pork  shirt  they  are  fairish — that  is, 
if  you  can't  get  woodcock.     But,  mi-boy,  it  isn't  you 
that  need  ever  eat  snipe  ! 
Com. — As  how  ? 

Brig. — (Pulling  out  the  Sunday  Mercury  and  read 
ing) — "Willis,  it  is  said,  has  profited  So, QUO  by  the 
sale  of  the  last  edition  of  '  Pencillings  by  the  Way.'" 
Com. — The  mischief  he  has! — for  "has"  read  would 
be  pleased  to.  Perhaps  the  editor  of  the  Mercury 
will  be  kind  enough  to  fork  over  the  difference  be 
tween  fact  and  fiction  !  By-the-way,  I  have  read  the 
book,  myself,  for  the  first  time  in  eight  years,  and  I 
have  been  both  amazed  and  amused  with  the  difference 
between  what  I  saw  then,  and  what  I  know  now  !  And 
I  am  going  to  give  the  public  the  same  amazement 
and  amusement,  by  writing  for  the  Mirror  a  review  of 
"Pencillings"  with  my  new  eyes — showing  the  inter 
esting  difference  between  first  impressions  and  after 
familiarity. 

Brig. — They'll  want  to  read  "  Pencillings"  over 
again,  mi-boy! 

Com. — For  a  hasty  pudding  it  has  held  out  surpri 
singly  already.  The  fifth  edition,  embellished  with 

1  engravings,  is  still  selling  well  in  England,  and  in  the 
most  stagnant  literary  month  of  the  year  we  have  sold 
two  editions,  as  you  know.  I  am  inclined  to  fear  that 
1  shall  be  less  known  by  my  careful  writings  than  by 
this  unrevised  book — written  between  fatigue  and 
sleep,  by  roadsides  and  in  most  unstudylike  places, 
and  r'epublished,  in  the  Mirror  edition,  exactly  as  first 
written  !  There  is  a  daguerreotypity  in  literal  first 
impressions,  my  dear  general,  and  a  man  would  write 
an  interesting  letter,  the  first  moment  after  seeing  the 

!  Colosseum  for  the  first  time,  though  a  description  from 

'  memory,  a  month  after,  would  be  very  stupid.     Did 
you  ever  feel  posthumous,  brigadier  ? 
Brig. — No.     1  never  was  dead. 


140 


EPHEMERA. 


Com.— Nor  I,  except  "in  trespasses  and  sins" — but 
a  letter  I  received  to-dny  has  given  me  a  most  pos 
thumous  sensation.  Tt  was  sent  me  to  publish,  by  a 
lady  who  has  lived  several  years  abroad,  and  has  lately 
revisiied  Saratoga.  It  will  "rub  my  brass"  as  the  | 
maids  say,  to  publish  the  passage  about  myself  (quoted 
from  the  letter  of  a  German  baron),  but  it  may  make 
somebodies  buy  "  Pencillings"  to  know  that  it  has: 
passed  abroad  into  a  vade-mecum  for  travellers.  So, 
down  modesty  and  swell  pocket!  Who  knows  but  ; 
that  the  "  Sunday  Mercury,"  that  "  lighted  on  the 
heaven  kissing  hill"  of  $5,000,  may  be  a  better 
prophet  than  historian  !  Set  your  heels  comfortably 
into  the  sand,  general,  and  listen  to  this  letter.  There 
are  some  sweet  lines  at  the  close,  written  by  the  same 
lady  after  visiting  the  home  of  the  young  poetess  Da 
vidson,  whose  precocious  genius  and  premature  death 
have  been  so  feelingly  written  upon  : — 

"  When  you  and  I,  my  dear  sir,  met  so  pleasantly  : 
some  weeks  since  at  Saratoga,  I  forgot  to  give  you  an  \ 
extract  from  a  letter  which  I  had  received  from  Ger 
many.  No  one  can  be  insensible  to  deserved  praise 
from  a  far  land,  and  I  know  you  will  read  with  gratifi 
cation  these  few  lines  from  a  distinguished  friend  of  ! 
mine  :  '  I  remember  with  pleasure  our  visit  to  your 
splendid  frigate,  the  United  States,  in  the  bay  of  Na 
ples.  We  met  Mr.  N.  P.  Willis  on  board,  and  after 
his  cruise  I  met  him  again  at  Lady  Parley's.  He  will 
not  remember  me,  but  if  you  ever  see  him,  tell  him 
that  a  person  who  lias  visited  almost  all  the  spots 
described  in  his  "  Pencillings  by  the  Way,"  feels  the 
greatest  pleasure  in  reading  his  book  at  least  twice  a 
year.  It  accompanies  him  regularly  from  Dresden  to 
his  estates  in  the  spring,  and  back  to  the  city  in  the 
autumn.' 

"  Not  having  seen  Saratoga  for  many  years,  I  was 
curious  to  perceive  what  changes  time  had  made.    Of 
course,  its  outward  condition  is  greatly  improved,  and 
the  remarkable  change  of  all  is  the  transition  of  the 
fashion  and  gayety  from  Congress  hall  to  the  United 
States  hotel.     It  would  be   unwise  to   compare  this 
latter  establishment  with  any  other  that  we  have  seen  I 
in  Europe,  inasmuch  as  the  whole  order  of  arrange-  j 
merit  is  entirely  different ;   but  this  must  be  conceded,  { 
that/or  a  fortnight,  no  place  in  the  world  offers  more  i 
amusement.     One   may  remain   months   at  Carlsbad,  j 
Baden-Baden,   &c.,  without  fatigue,   in  consequence 
of   the   entirely  independent  manner  of  living;    but 
Saratoga  must  be  taken,  to  be  enjoyed,  in  homeopathic 
doses  of  the   beforementioned   fourteen  days.     It   is 
really  extraordinary  how  well-ordered  and  conducted 
is  the  United   States  hotel,  when  we  remember  the  i 
crowds  that  dwell  within  its  four  walls  and  its  colo-  j 
nies;  and    assuredly  the    brothers*   who   bring   about 
this   state    of    things,   deserve   great    commendation,  j 
Having  been  repeatedly  told,  since  my  return  from  a 
long  absence,  that  Saratoga  had  deteriorated,  I  con 
fess  to   having  seen  nothing  of  the  sort.     I  had  the 
good   fortune   to   meet  some  of  the  most  remarkable 
men   of  my  country,   and   many  of  the  fairest  of  its 
daughters,   and   to  enjoy  their  society.     I   hold  that 
Saratoga  must  be  visited  upon  broad  American  prin 
ciples — no  cliques  (like  will  come  to  like) — but  a  gra 
cious  word  for  all.     At  Carlsbad,  and  all  other  conti 
nental    watering-places,    the   government    provides   a 
master  of  ceremonies,  who  introduces,  regulates  the 
balls,  &c.     The  voice  of  the  people  gives  this  posi 
tion,  at  the  United   States  hotel,  to  a  citizen  of  Balti 
more,  and  allow  me  to  say,  that  those  who  look  upon 
him  as  a  mere  manager  of  balls,  totally  mistake  his 
character;  for  a  kinder  and  better  heart  never  beat 
within  a  human  breast  than  he  possesses.  Indeed,  Bal 
timore  seems  to  have  been  singularly  well  represented 
this   year — the   incomparable    beauty  of   its   women 

•  Messrs.  Marvin— excellent  hosts  and  most  worthy  men. 


|  eclipsing  all,  and  the  wit  alone  of  one  finished  gentle 
man  of  that  town  being  sufficient  to  leaven  a  '  mass 

I  meeting.' 

"1  think  the  visits  of  clergymen  to  watering-places 
a  signal  benefit,  when  they  resemble  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Bethune,  engaging  in  pleasing  conversation  with 
young  and  old,  whom  he  enlivened  by  his  eloquence. 

j  He  never  lost  sight  of  the  great  aim  of  his  existence — 
their  improvement.  Ever  surrounded  by  eager  listen 
ers,  he  left  them  better,  wiser.  On  the  whole,  I  think 
we  must  consider  Saratoga  as  a  great  public  good — a 
neutral  ground,  where  the  south  discovers  that  the 
norih  is  not  a  Mont  Blanc,  and  the  north  perceives 
that  the  south  is  not  a  Vesuvius  ! 

"  My  last  visit  at  Saratoga  was  to  the  late  home  of  the 
gifted  Davidsons.  Their  brother  kindly  accompanied 
me,  and  presented  me  to  his  bereaved  father.  It 
seemed,  as  I  lingered  amidst  their  remains,  a  very  home 
of  shadows* — a  wondrous  contrast  to  the  surrounding 
scenes.  I  considered  myself  quite  fortunate  in  hiving 
paid  this  visit,  as  Dr.  Davidson  leaves  San-toga 
shortly,  and  the  establishment  will  thereby  be  enl'wly 
dismembered. 

*  "  A  home  of  shadows  !  mid  the  din 

Of  fashion's  gay  and  glittering  scene 
So  calm,  so  purely  calm  within 
Breathing  of  holiness  serene. 

"  A  home  of  shadows  !  where  the  twain, 
Who  dwelt  within  its  hallowed  core, 
Are  sought  with  wondering  eyes  in  vain, 
Alas !  to  bless  its  walls  no  more  ! 

"  The  pair  have  winged  their  glorious  flight, 

And,  borne  by  angels  through  the  air, 
To  realms  of  everlasting  light, 
Are  linked  with  cherubs  bright  and  fair. 

"  Some  student,  yet,  in  time  untold, 

Star-seeking  in  the  dark  blue  sky, 
Will,  midst  its  silver  lamps,  behold 
These  joyous  Pleiads  wandering  by. 

"  Back,  back  to  earth— its  pleasures,  cares- 
Must  thou,  my  soul,  my  thoughts  be  given, 
But,  bless  the  spot,  that,  midst  its  snares, 
Called  for  a  lingering  look  to  heaven." 

Brig. — Charming  verses,  and  she  must  be  a  fresh 
hearted  and  impressible  woman  who  wrote  them.  Do 
you  remember  the  first  thought  of  "  Pencillings,' 
mi-boy — the  oysters  at  Sandy  Welsh's,  over  which  1 
offered  to  send  you  abroad  ? 

Com. — Theodore  Fay, you,  and  I,  supping  together! 

Brig. — You  have  a  way  of  knowing  opportunity 
when^ou  see  it!  I  little  dreamed  of  so  long  a  leass 
of  you!  Dear  Theodore!  howl  should  like  to  eal 
that  supper  over  again  ! 

Com. — I  am  very  glad  it  agreed  with  you  (presuming 
it  is  me  and  Theodore  you  want  over  again— not  the 
oysters  !)  They  say  Fay  has  grown  fat,  handsome 
and  diplomatic.  When  shall  we  have  that  sweet  fel 
low  back  among  us? 

Brig. — When  they  want  the  place  for  a  green  sec 
retary,  who  knows  nothing  of  the  court  or  court  Ian 
guage.  As  soon  as  a  man  has  been  long  enough 
attached  to  a  legation  to  be  presentable  and  useful, 
they  recall  him  !  What  is  that  other  letter  I  brought 
you  ? 

Com. — From  a  lady  at  Fishkill,  who  is  dazzled  with 
the  upshoot  of  "Fanny  Forester."  She  thinks  Fan 
ny's  offhand  piquancy  is  easy  to  do,  and  the  lettei 
shows  how  much  she  is  mistaken.  I  would  fain  say 
an  encouraging  word,  however,  for  she  seems  to  have 
the  best  of  motives  for  wishing  to  be  literary.  Now, 
is  it  kinder  to  discourage  such  beginners  at  once,  or  to 
encourage  them  good-naturedly  into  a  delusion  ? 

Brig.— Always  discourage,  mi-boy,  for  if  they  have 
genius,  they  will  prosper 

"  like  a  thunder-cloud,  against  the  wind," 


EPHEMERA. 


141 


and  if  they  have  none,  they  are  better  stopped  where  II  thought.     Here,  it  is  thought's  hnrness— language  ! 
they  are.     How  many  heart-aching  authoresses  do  we  j   What  makes  these  people  throw  their  potato-parings 


they __ .,  

know  at  this  moment,  who  can  write  just  well  enough  j 
to  be  wof'ully  distressed  with  the  reluctance  of  the  i 
market!  The  only  style  saleable  is  the  spicy  but  dif-  j 


into  the  gutter,  my  dear  general  ? 

Brig. — Ann  street,  mi-boy,  rails  for  the  attention 
of  Mayor  Harper.     The  Mirror  has  a  dainty  nostril 


ficult  vein  of  brig'ht  Fanny  Forester,  and  yet,  to  all  or  two,  and  there  are  flower-pots  in  the  windows  op- 
neophyte,  that  very  woof  seems  the  easiest  woven!  f  posite,  and  Burgess  &  Stringer  keep  the  choicest  of 
A  woman  who  is  more  intelligent  than  the  people  I  literary  conservatories,  yet  we  reside  upon  a  rivulet 
around  her,  is  very  apt  to  believe  that  she  might  be  ,  of  swill!  The  simple  enforcement  of  the  law  would 
famous,  and  make  money  with  her  pen  ;  and  unless  \  sweeten  things,  but  there  is  no  police  except  for  crim 
inals  in  this  land  of  liberty.  Look  at  that  brace  of 
turtle-doves  coming  up-street!  What  loving  friend- 
;  ships  women  have,  at  an  age  when  boys  are  perfect 
she  endeavors  in  this  way  to  compensate  herself  for  Ishmaelites. 

the  lack  of  belleship.     Better  raise  flowers  and  sell          Com.— Pardon  me,  my  dear  general,  if  I  correct 
bouquets,  dear  Rosalie  Beverlv  !  your  cacology.     The  sportsmen   call   two   turtles  a 

Com.— The  gray  lace  of  twilight's  star-broidered  |  dule  of  turtles,  not  a  brace.  Though,  by-the-way,  1 
veil  has  fallen  over"  the  sea,  brigadier.  Let  us  paddle  have  not  long  been  in  possession  of  my  learning  upon 
back  through  the  surf-edge  to  the  bathing-houses,  boot,  !  that  point.  Let  me  read  you  a  chapter  on  the  nomen- 
and  reappear  to  a  world  (1  don't  think)  disconsolate  ;  clature  of  such  matters  from  this  book  in  my  hand. 


"  Fair  politure  walk  all  her  body  over, 
And  symmetry  rejoice  in  every  part," 


without  us. 


THE    CABINET. 


(Shop-door,  Ann  street.     The  Brigadier  and  Commit 
tee  standing,  sphinx-wise,  outside.) 

Brig. — The  "  devil"  was  here  just  now  for  "  copy," 
my  dear  boy ! 

Com. — The  devil  here  and  no  Fanny  Forester! 
We  have  given  our  readers  a  taste  of  this  charming 
incognito,  brigadier,  and  now  they'll  not  feast  with 
out  her!  I  wonder  whether  she's  pretty? 

Brig. — So  would  she  be  over-endowed.  No,  mi- 
boy  !  "  I  warrant  that,  with  all  her  cleverness,  she  has 
envied,  many  a  time,  the  doll  of  the  village ! 

Com. — A  woman  is,  sometimes,  wholly  unadmired, 
who  would  become  enchanting  by  a  change  of  her 


Will  you  listen?  The  book  is  "Goodman's  Social 
History  of  Great  Britain" — a  gem  of  delightful  read 
ing: — 

"The  stags  which  ran  wild  in  the  king's  forests 
were  named  as  early  (if  not  earlier)  as  Edward  III. 
(1307),  from  their  antlers;  thus  the  first  year  the  male 
is  called  a  calf,  second  year  a  brocket,  third  year  a 
spayer,  fourth  year  a  stag,  fifth  year  a  great  stag,  sixth 
year  a  hart  of  the  first  head. 

"In  the  notes  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  'Lady  of  the 
Lake,'  is  a  curious  account  of  the  brytling,  breaking 
up,  or  quartering  of  the  stag.  '  The  forester  had  his 
portion,  the  hounds  theirs,  and  there  is  a  little  gristle, 


called  the  raven's  bone,  which  was  cut  from  the  bris 
ket,  and  frequently  an  old  raven  was  seen  perched 
upon  a  neighboring  tree  waiting  for  it. 

"The  fallow-deer,  which  are  kept  in  the  English 
parks,  have  also  names,  but  not  exactly  the  same  as 

,.,.„   _. _ 6  „,  -  , „.  - ,   for  stags.     The  males  and  the  females  the  first  year 

surroundings.  That  playful  wit  of  Fanny  Forester's,  i  are  called  fawns,  second  year  the  females  are  callec 
what-like  shell  soever  it  inhabits,  would  make  her  the  ||  does,  which  name  she  always  retains;  but  the  male 
idol  of  a  circle  of  appreciators— for  its  work  is  in  her  >'  is  called  a  prickett;  third  year  he  is  called  a  shard; 
face,  somewhere!  Do  you  remember  George  Sand's  'fourth  year,  a  sword;  fifth  year,  a  sword-ell,  or  sor- 
description  of  one  of  her  heroines?  "Elle  6tait  jolie  j  rell;  sixth  year,  a  buck  of  first  head  ;  seventh  year, 
par  juxta-position.  Heureuse,  elle  eut  ete  ravissante.  l|  a  buck;  eighth  year,  a  full  buck;  he  is  then  fit  for 
Le  bonheur  est  la  poesie  des  femmes,  comme  la  toi-  ;  killing,  and  not  before:  and  in  the  summer  is  very  fat, 
lette  en  est  le  Card.  Si  la  joi  d'un  bal  eut  reflete  ses  j  which  he  loses  in  winter.  Buck-venison  is  not  fit  to 
teints  rosees  sur  ce  visage  pale,  si  les  douceurs  d'une  :!  eat  in  winter,  and  ought  not  to  be  killed, 
vie  ele»ante  eussent  rempli,  eussent  vermillione  ses  j  "When  beasts  went  together  in  companies,  there 
iouesdeia  Increment  creusees,  si  1'amour  eut  ranime  was  said  to  be  a  pride  of  lions,  a  lepe  ol  leopards,  a 
ses  yeux  tristes,  elie  aurait  pu  lutter  avec  les  plus  ;  herd  of  harts,  of  bucks,  and  all  sorts  of  deer;  a  bevy 
belles  jeunes  filles.  II  lui  manquait  «e  V*  cr*e  w»e  ::  of  roes,  a  sloth  of  bears,  a  singular  of  boars,  a  sowndes 
seconde  fois  la  fcmmc  :—les  chiffons  et  les  billet-doux .'"  of  swine,  a  dryfte  of  tame  swine,  a  route  of  wolves,  a 
Bri<r.—(whohad  gone  in  to  escape  the  French  quo-  \\  harass  of  horses,  a  rag  of  colts,  a  stud  of  mares,  a 
•  -ion°and  returned  as  the  last  word  lingered  on  the  pace  of  asses,  a  barren  of  mules,  a  team  of  oxen,  a 
nmittee's  lias).— Write  a  '•  billetdoux"  to  the  next  drove  of  kine,  a  flock  of  sheep,  a  tribe  ol  goats,  a 
risen  star,  mi-boy,  and  ask  her— (him,  it,  or  her)—  I  sculk  of  foxes,  a  cete  of  badgers,  a  nchess  of  mar- 
shine  first,  like  Fanny  Forester,  in  the  columns  of  tins,  a  fessynes  of  ferrets,  a  huske  or  a  down  of  hares, 


unnsen 

to  shine  first,  like  b'anny 
the  Mirror.  I  love  the  baptism  of  genius,  and  (mod 
estly  speaking)  I  have  been  the  St.  John  in  the  wil 
derness  of  new  writers. 

Com. — Apostolic  brigadier!  You  do  know  a  star, 
even  "  at  the  breast" — though,  from  sucking  poets  de 
liver  me  mostly,  oh,  kind  Heaven !  They  exact  a 
faith  in  their  call  and  mission  that  precludes  every 
thing  but  the  blindest  and  most  acquiescent  admira 
tion.  I  remember  my  own  difficult  submissions  to 
the  corrections  of  the  kind,  but  truthful  and  consist 
ent  critic  of  my  youth,  Buckingham  of  the  Boston 
Courier.  He  was  always  right,  but  it  is  hard,  when 


a  nest  of  rabbits,  a  clowder  of  cats,  a  kendel  of  young 
cats,  a  shrewdness  of  apes,  and  a  labor  of  moles. 

"When  animals  are  retired  to  rest,  a  hart  was  said 
to  be  harbored;  a  buck  lodged;  a  roebuck  bedded  ;  a 
fox  kennelled;  a  badger  earthed;  a  hare  formed;  and 
a  rabbit  seated. 

"  Dogs  which  run  in  packs  are  enumerated  by 
couples.  If  a  pack  of  fox-hounds  consists  of  thirty- 
six,  which  is  an  average  number,  it  would  be  said  to 
contain  eighteen  couples. 

"Dogs  used  for  the  gun,  or  for  coursing,  two  of 
them  are  called  a  brace,  three  a  leash;  but  two  span- 


your  feathers  are  once  smoothed  down,  to  pluck  oat  iels,  or  harriers,  are  called  a  couple.  They  also  say 
and  re-stick  them  in  vour  poetical  peacockery  !  Ah,  a  mute  of  hounds,  for  a  number;  a  kennel  of  raches, 
juvenilities!  We  build  bridges  over  chasms  of  mean-  '!  a  cowardice  of  curs,  and  a  litter  of  whelps, 
ing,  but  they  drop  away  behind  us,  as  we  pass  over!  "  '  The  seasons  for  alle  sortes  of  veiiery  were  regu- 
In  Heaven,  where  there  will  be  no  grammar  and  die-  ,  lated  in  the  olden  time  as  follows:  The  'time  ot 
tionarv  we  shall  have  a  new  standard  of  excellence—  grace'  begins  at  midsummer,  and  lasteth  to  holy-rood ; 


142 


EPHEMERA. 


the  fox  mny  be  hunted  from  the  nativity  to  the  an 
nunciation  of  our  lady;  the  roebuck  from  Easter  to 
Michaelmas;  the  roe  from  Michaelmas  to  Candlemas; 
the  hare  from  Michaelmas  to  midsummer;  the  wolf, 
as  the  fox  and  the  boar,  from  the  nativity  to  the  pu 
rification  of  our  lady. 

"  So  for  birds  there  is  a  vocabulary  ;  and  first,  for 
aquatic  birds:  a  herd  of  swans,  of  cranes,  and  of 
curlews,  a  dropping  of  sheldrakes,  a  spring  of  teals, 
a  serges  of  herons  and  bitterns,  a  covert  of  cootes,  gag 
gles  of  geese,  sutes  of  mallards,  baddylynges  of  ducks. 
Now  for  meadow  and  upland  birds  :  a  congregation 
of  plovers,  a  walk  of  snipes,  a  fall  of  woodcocks,  a 
muster  of  peacocks,  a  nye  of  pheasants,  a  dule  of 
turtles,  a  brood  of  hens,  a  building  of  rooks,  a  numer 
ation  of  starlings,  a  flight  of  swallows,  a  watch  of 
nightingales,  a  charm  of  goldfinches,  flights  of  doves 
and  wood-pigeons,  coveys  of  partridges,  bevies  of 
quails,  and  exaltations  of  larks. 

"When  a  sportsman  inquires  of  a  friend  what  he 
has  killed,  the  vocabulary  is  still  varied  ;  he  does  not 
use  the  word  pair — but  a  brace  of  partridges,  or 
pheasants,  a  couple  of  woodcocks;  if  he  has  three 
of  any  sort,  he  says  a  leash. 

"  If  a  London  poulterer  was  to  be  asked  for  a  pair 
of  chickens,  or  a  pair  of  ducks,  by  a  female,  he 
would  suppose  he  was  talking  to  some  fine  finicking  I 
lady's  maid,  who  had  so  puckered  up  her  mouth  into 
small  plaits  before  she  started,  that  she  could  not  open 
it  wide  enough  to  say  couple. 

"As  the  objects  sportsmen  pursue  are  so  various, 
and  as  the  English  language  is  so  copious,  various 
terms  have  been  brought  into  use:  so  that  the  ever 
lasting  term  pair,  this  pairing  of  anything  (except  in 
the  breeding-season)  sounds  so  rude,  uninstructive, 
and  unmusical,  upon  the  ears  of  a  sportsman,  that  he 
would  as  soon  be  doomed  to  sit  for  life  by  the  side  of 
a  seat-ridden  cribbage-player  as  to  hear  it. 

"  It  is  the  want  of  this  knowledge  which  makes  the 
writings  of  Howitt  and  Willis,  when  they  write  upon 
this  ever-interesting  national  subject,  appear  so  tame; 
the  sportsman  peruses  their  pages  with  no  more  zest 
than  he  listens  to  the  babble  of  a  half-bred  hound,  or 

'a  ranging  spaniel  that  barks  at  every  bird  he  sees 

leaving  his  game.'" 

Mr.  Goodman  adds,  in  a  note,  the  explanation  of 
my  blunders  in  dog-nomenclature: — 

"Mr.  Willis,  in  vol.  iii.,  p.  203,  'Pencillings  by  the 
Way,'  gives  the  following  information,  speaking  of 
the  duke's  greyhounds  (at  Gordon  Castle):  '"Dinna 
tak'  pains  to  caress  them,  sir,"  said  the  huntsman, 
"  they'll  only  be  hanged  for  it."  I  asked  for  an  expla 
nation.  He  then  told  me  that  a  hound  was  hung  the 
moment  he  betrayed  attachment  to  any  one,  or  in  any 
way  showed  superior  sagacity.  In  coursing  the  hare, 
if  the  dog  abandoned  the  scent,  to  cut  across  or  inter 
cept  the  animal,  he  was  considered  as  spoiling  the 
sport.  If  greyhounds  leave  the  track  of  the  hare, 
either  by  their  own  sagacity,  or  to  follow  the  master 
in  intercepting  it,  they  spoil  thfe  pack,  and  are  hung 
without  mercy.'  Perhaps  Mr.  Willis  will  excuse  me 
if  I  show  how  unsporlsman-like  this  is.  In  the  first 
place,  there  are  no  packs  of  greyhounds;  in  the  next 
place,  those  who  attend  on  them  are  not  called  hunts 
men  ;  in  the  next  place,  they  never  run  by  scent :  if 
they  did,  they  ought  to  be  destroyed.  As  to  the  ca 
ressing,  no  dog  ought  ever  to  be  caressed  without  he 
had  first  performed  some  extraordinary  feat,  and  then 
it  should  be  done  instantly.  The  everlasting  petting 
or  patting  a  dog,  spoils  it  in  its  nature,  its  disposition, 
its  temper,  and  its  habits.  It  becomes  worthless,  ex 
cept  as  a  lapdog,  and  that  is  the  most  contemptible 
and  worthless  thing  in  all  God's  creation. 

"  Many  years'  close  observation  has  convinced  me, 
that  where  the  dog  is  once  admitted  into  the  house,  ij 
and  petted,  the  dogs  rule  the  children,  and  the  chil-  ' 


dren  rule  the  rest;  bringing  in  its  train  all  the  usual 
concomitants  of  turbulence,  filth,  and  frowsiness;  and 
turning  the  room  into  a  dog-kennel. 

"  ( If  men  transact  like  brutes,  'tis  equal  then 
For  brutes  to  claim  the  privilege  of  men.'  " 

The  correction  is  very  right — thanks  to  Mr.  Good 
man.  My  attention  was  called  to  the  blunder,  by  the 
duke  of  Gordon  himself,  soon  after  the  publication 
of  the  book  in  England;  and  I  should  have  corrected 
;  it  in  this  new  edition,  but  for  determining  not  to  read 
the  proofs,  that  the  letters  might  be  published  literally 
from  the  first  copy.  But  what  beautifully  descriptive 
words  are  those  in  the  nomenclature  of  birds,  my 
dear  general:  "A  watch  of  nightingales! — a  charm  of 
goldfinches! — a  numeration  of  starlings,  and  exalta 
tions  of  larks!"  How  pretty  it  would  be,  instead  of 
"Here  come  two  pretty  women!"  to  say,  "Here 
comes  a  charm  of  women!"  Instead  of,  "There 
stand  Morris  and  Willis!"  to  have  the  shoemaker  op 
posite  say,  "  Look  at  that  pride  of  lions,"  or  that 
"exaltation  of  editors!" 

Brig. — A  "muster  of  peacocks"  hits  my  fancy — de 
scriptive,  say,  of  two  loungers  in  uniform!  Aha! 
mi-boy! — fine! 

Com. — Most  brigadierish  of  brigadiers!  You 
would  rather  be  the  sodger  men  have  "made  you  than 
the  poet  God  made  you  !  So  would  not  I ! 

Brig. — you  rejoice  in  a  destiny  fulfilled,  then? 
Com. — Quite  the  contrary.  I  mean  to  say  that  God 
made  me  a  natural  idler  and  trifler,  and  want  made  me 
a  poet  and  a  worky;  and  unlike  you,  I  would  rather 
be  what  God  made  me.  By-the-way,  do  you  know 
the  trouble  there  was  in  the  first  composing  of  a 
horse?  This  same  amusing  book  quotes  from  Fitz- 
herberfs  old  book  on  agriculture:  "A  horse  has  fif 
ty-four  properties,  viz. :  two  of  a  man,  two  of  a  bad 
ger,  four  of  a  lion,  nine  of  an  ox,  nine  of  a  hare,  nine 
of  a  fox,  nine  of  an  ass,  and  ten  of  a  woman.  This 
description  has  been  somewhat  altered,  but  perhaps 
not  improved  upon,  viz.:  three  qualities  of  a  woman, 
a  broad  breast,  round  hips,  and  a  long  mane;  three 
of  a  lion,  countenance,  courage,  anil  fire  ;  three  of  a 
bullock,  the  eye,  the  nostrils,  and  joints;  three  of  a 
sheep,  the  nose,  gentleness,  and  patience  ;  three  of  a 
mule,  strength,  constancy,  and  good  feet;  three  of  a 
deer,  head,  legs,  and  short  hair;  three  of  a  wolf, 
throat,  neck,  and  hearing  ;  three  of  a  fox,  ear,  tail, 
and  throat;  three  of  a  serpent,  memory,  sight,  and 
cunning;  and  three  of  a  hare  or  cat,  cunning,  walk 
ing,  and  suppleness." 


THE    CABINET. 

(Committee's  private  study.     Brigadier  lounging  in  a 
fauteuil.) 

Com.— My  dear  general,  what  do  you  think,  ab 
stractly,  of  industry  ?  Does  no  shuddering  con 
sciousness  of  awful  platitude  creep  over  you,  in  this 
dreadfully  exemplary  career  that  we  are  pursuing  ?  I 
feel  as  if  the  very  nose  on  my  face  were  endeavoring 
to  "  dress,"  as  you  military  men  say — striving  to  come 
down  to  the  dull,  cheek-bone  level  of  tedious  uni 
formity  !  I  declare  I  should  be  pleased  to  "hear 

tell"  of  something  out  of  the  "  way  of  business" 

sentiment  of  some  sort ! 

Brig. — Listen  to  a  song  that  I  have  just  \vritten. 
There  is  a  background  of  truth  to  it — the  true  sadness 
of  a  lovely  living  woman — that  would  supply  your 
need  of  a  sensation,  if  your  imagination  could  picture 
her. 

Com.— It  shall  !     .Read  away,  my  friend  ! 
(Brigadier  reads.) 


EPHEMERA. 


143 


Com.— Thai  is  a  peculiarly  musical  and  engaging  j  general,  lhat  I,  for  one,  shall  "  cast  my  slough,"  and 
measure,  and  you  have  hung  it  upon  hinges  of  honey,     try  my  youth  on  again  ! 
It  simcks  of  the  days  when  poets  wrote  a  song   a 
year,  finishing,  to  the  last  vanishing  point  of  perfec 
tion.     What  do  the  women  say  to  you  for  translating 
their  prose  into  angel-talk  ? 

Brio.: — They  love  poetry,  mi-boy  !  The  more  po 
etical  you  can  make  their  life,  the  more  they  love  life  ; 
and  you  !  They  would  rather  suffer  than  live  monot-  | 
onously.  So,  beware  ihe  "even  tenor !" 

Com. — Even  of  prosperity,  eh  ?     I'll  beware  when  jj 
1  see  it  coming  ! 

Brig: Ah,  mi-boy,  you  have  no  idea  of  the  intense 

abstraction  of  mind  necessary  to  bring  a  poetical  ima 
gination  down  to  habits  of  business. 

Com. — Do  you  really  wish  to  know  what  is  to  be 
the  new  race  in  society  this  winter? 
Brig.— What  ? 

Com. — Married  belles  !     The  'teens  dynasty  is  pas 
sing  away  !     The  talk,  this  summer,  at  all  the  water 
ing-places,  has  been  of  beautiful  women,  who  (if.  per-  I 
chance,  they  have  loved  out  their  love)  have  not  shone  i 
out  their  shine  !      Heavens  ! — how   many   there  are 
completely  shelved   in  American  society,  who    have 
never  had  more  than  two  winters  of  vogue   in    the 

world,  and  who  are  compelled  to  believe  that,  out  of 

thirty  years  of  loveliness,  only  two  are  to   be  rescued 

from  the  nursery — only  two  to  intervene  between  the 

nursery   filial   and    the   nursery   maternal!      What   a 

utensil  woman  is,  in  this  way  !     For  what  did  Heaven 

give  them  their  other  powers  ?     Heaven  did  iiot   put 

the  smile  of  woman   under  her  arm!      No!    it  was 

placed  where  it  could  not  be  covered  without  suffoca 
tion,  and,  doubtless,  with  a  purpose. :— that  the   lips 

and  their  outgoing  should  be  kept  open   to  society! 

Till  those  lips  fade — till  the  mind  that  speaks  through 

them  loses  its  playfulness  and  attraction,  woman  can 

not  be  monopolized  without  a  manifest  waste  of  the 

gifts  of  nature — making  that  bloom  for  two  years  only, 

that  was  constructed  to  bloom   for  forty  !     Besides — 

these  very  charms  are  withdrawn  from  the  world  be 
fore  ripening — flowers  permitted  only  to  bud  !      There 

never  was  a  belle  who  was  not  more 

marriage  than  before.      An   un 

agreeable   than   a   ripe  one.     The  elegant   repose 


"  For  when  the  life  is  quickened,  out  of  doubt, 
The  wits  that  were  defunct  and  dead  before, 
Break  up  their  drowsy  grave,  and  newly  move 
With  casted  slough  and  fresh  legerity," 

and   who   knows  ?     I   may    be    agreeable   in   the   re 
formed  baby-house  of  society  ! 
Brig. — "  Hope  on — hope  ever  !" 


THE    CABINET. 

(Committee  and  Brigadier  in  confidential  session.) 

Com. — My  dear  general,  it  won't  do  !  Read  these 
two  letters ! 

. — I  won't  waste  my  eyes  with  them  !     It  must 
do  !   who  says  it  won't  do? 

Com. — One  Noggs. 

.Bri,g-.— Who's  Noggs  ? 

Com. — By  Jove,  he  writes  a  capital  letter!  Hear 
this,  my  incensed  brigadier  ! — (reads.) 

"  DEAR  WILLIS  :  You  frightened  me  to-day,  terri 
bly,  in  the  hint  you  threw  out  in  the  course  of  con 
versation  with  the  '  brigadier,'  to  wit :  '  Shall  we 
make  it  into  a  monthly  ?' 

"  Make  the  WEEKLY  NKW  MIRROR  into  a  monthly  ! 
God  forbid  !  /  forbid,  anyhow.  'Who  are  you?'  I 
am  a  live  Yankee,  at  your  service,  who  lives  in  the 
land  of  soles  and  codfish,  whig  pow-wows  and  demo 
cratic  clam-bakes — one  who  has  not  been  so  '  deco 
rously  brought  up,'  perhaps  as  some  of  your  readers, 
but  '  a  man  for  a'  that' — a  constant  reader  of  the  Mir 
ror,  at  any  rate — proof  of  my  manhood,  eh  ? 

Well,  sir,  I,  Newman  Noggs,  Esq.,  of  Lynn,  coun 


ty  of  Essex,  etc.,  etc.,  do  hereby  seriously  and  ar 
dently  protest  against  any  such  nonsense  as  is  implied 
in  the  above  question.  Excuse  me,  sir,  but  1  couldn't 
help  it.  I  feel  so  worked  up  at  the  bare  idea  of  the 

agreeable  after  'visits  of  the  Mirror  coming  only  monthly,  that  I  can 

ripe  mind   is  far  less  .   hardly  stick  to  decency.     Why,  sir,  1  shouldn't  be  in 

agreeao.e   man   «   n,ic  u..c.      /he  elegant   repose  of     trim  for  my  sabbath-day  meeting— albeit  a  pious  man 
lovely  married  women  is  Jar  more  enchanting  than  the   I  am  I— were  it  not  for  the  '  preparatory   study  in  tli 
hovdenish   romping    or    inexperienced    sentiment  of    j  Mirror,  Saturday  nights.     Not  lhat  you  are  so  dread- 
girls      Speak  up,  brigadier  !     What  say  ?  i   fully  religious,  but  there   is  always  sure  to  be  some- 
fe  B^._It  is  highly  natural,  mi-boy,  that  this  change     thing  in  you  that  makes  me  feel  better,  and  when  I 

'      'i  nat-     feel  '  bolter'  I  want  to  go  to  church,  of  course,  to  let 
lorna-     myself  and  the  world  know  that  I'm  getting   kind  o' 
good.     As   for  the  literary   merils  of  ihe  Mirror,  it 
don't  become  ihe  like  o'  me  to  be  offering  an  opinion. 
All  I've  got  to  say  is,  that  I  '  individually'  like  it  first- 
rate.    There's  a  sort  of  racy,  spicy,  off-hand,  unstudied 
of  an'  operative  'i'n"a  nat\on*-?acTor^  !  wittiness  about  it  that  takes  my  eye  amazingly. 


should  be  coming  about,  now  !     But  it  was  botl 
ural    and    necessary    that,    hitherto  —  in    the   unorn 
mental  foundation  of  American  society,  woman  should 
be  reduced  to  her  simple  primitive  mission  —  shining, 
like  the  glow-worm,  only  long  enough  to  attract  the 
male.     When  married,  she  passed  into  the  condition 


a  working  educatress,  a  working  patriot-maker 


Her   i  for  God's  sake,  or  more  particularly  for  my  sake,  dear 


whole  time  was  then  needed  for  offices  that  are  now   |  Willis,  don't  ye  change   it.     Suppose    it   does  cost 
performed— (all  but  the  first)— by  schools,  moral  teach-  jj  some  folks  a  little  more  for  postage  than  it  wou 
ers   surrounding  example,  and  national  routine.     Lu-     something  else— what  o'  that?      Who  s  air?  ia  01  a 
bricate  the  child  now  with  money,  and  it  will  slide  on     cent  or  two  ?     I'm  a  poor  man  'long  s.de  o   some  folk, 


money 

to  manhood  over  an  inevitable  railroad  of  education 
and  good  influences.  Ot  course,  the  mother  is  now 
at  liberty  to  shine  as  long  as  nature  feeds  the  lamp; 
and.  indeed,  it  is  in  this  way,  only,  thai  she  can  fulfil 
her  destiny  —  dispensing  elsewhere  the  sweet  influ 
ences  no  longer  needed  exclusively  by  her  chil 
dren. 

Com.  —  Statesmanlike  and  pellucid  !     Well,  sir,  this 
great  national   metamorphosis  is  now  coming  about  ! 


t  has  been  secretly  resolved,  among  the  young  mar-  ;j  general,  the  'brigadu 
ried  men  of  New  York,  that  there  shall   exist,  this 
inter,  a  post-connubial  bclte-ocracy  :  and  that  mar 


and  yet  I  rather  pay  letter-postage  than  have  it  stop. 
So,- Willis  dear,  just  tell  your  postage  friends  to  econ 
omize  in  some  other  department,  or,  it  they  can't  do 
that,  tell  'em  I'll  make  it  up  to  'em. 

"No,  no,  friend  of  my  early  youth,  don't  think  of 
any  such  thing,  that  is,  if  ye  love  me— for  1  could 
better  spare — something  better,  than  the  piquant  dish 
of  conversation  which  weekly  (oh,  let  it  be  ever  week- 
\\\  occurs  between  '  mi-boy'  and  our  dearly-beloved 

J  '  i     .1    -    .  !...:_..  j:«,.  > 


Mrs.  Noggs,  loo — a  strong  woman,  by  the  way — 
„„,.     „   nevertheless,  weekly  on  this  point,  very.     She  says 

ried  belles' shall,  accordingly,  have  "the  pas,  in  waltz,  she'll  never  forgive  you  if  you  change  the  (air  form 
quadrille,  promenade,  and  conversation.  How  deli-  i  of  the  Mirror.  Think  o'  that  Though  not  a  vam 
cious  !— isn't  it  ?  It  enlarges  the  field  so !  I  believe, '!  woman,  she  has  a  passion  for  looking  into  the  Mirror 


144 


EPHEMERA. 


that  is  very  affecting.  On  the  other  hand,  she  says 
if  you'll  give  up  the  horrid  notion  of  changing  the 
form  of  the  Mirror,  she'll  fry  you  'a  nipper'  as 
brown  as  a  nut,  with  her  own  fair  hands,  when  next 
you  come  Bostonward,  and  will  visit  our  humble 
cottage  near  the  sea.  I  have  ye  now  !  For  my  well- 
tried  friends,  Gentleman  Charles  (him  of  the  Astor 
house,  I  mean)  and  his  handsome  partner,  tell  me 
you  are  a  gallant  youth  and  well  affected  toward  the 
ladies. 

"  We  shall  look  anxiously  in  the  next  Mirror  to  find 
our  anxious  hopes  confirmed,  and,  if  not  disappointed, 
shall  henceforth,  as  in  duty  bound,  ever  pray  for  your 
everlasting  welfare,  world  without  end. 

"  Yours  till  then,  "NoGGS." 

Com. — I  have  had  twenty  letters  the  last  week 
(none  as  good  as  that,  but)  all  to  the  same  purpose! 
I  am  inclined  to  think,  general,  that  Heaven's  first  pe 
riodical  (Sunday)  was  arranged  in  accordance  with 
some  revolution  of  our  mental  nature,  and  that  once 
in  seven  days,  as  it  is  good  to  rest,  so  it  is  good  to 
read,  or  grieve,  or  go  love-making.  Friends  dine  to 
gether  once  a  week,  making  friendship  a  weekly  peri 
odical.  Lovers  of  nature  in  cities  ride  to  the  coun 
try  once  a  week.  We  eat  a  boiled  dinner  once  a 
week.  Everybody  in  New  England  needs  beans  once 
a  week.  The  weather  comes  round  once  a  week — 
fair  Sundays  and  wet  Sundays  coming  in  successive 
dozens.  There  is  nothing  agreeable  in  nature  that  is 
monthly,  except  the  moon,  and  the  very  sight  of  that 
periodical  puts  people  to  sleep! 

Brig. — There  is  the  monthly  rose,  mi-boy  ! 

Com. — The  poorest  rose  that  blows! 

Brig. — But  here  is  a  point  I  should  like  to  make 
clear  to  the  public.  With  an  enormous  subscription 
every  day  increasing,  we  are  every  day  making  less 
money. 

Com. — How,  oh,  business  man  ? 

Brier. — Thus:  For  Mirrors  that  we  sell  through 
agents  in  cities,  we  get  but  four  cents  each.  For 
Mirrors  that  we  send  to  subscribers  by  mail,  we  get  the 
full  price — sixpence  each.  The  irregular  and  exor 
bitant  postage  has  nearly  killed  our  mail  subscription, 
on  which  we  chiefly  depended,  while  in  cities,  where 
our  patrons  get  them  from  the  agents  without  postage, 
we  have  a  sale  growing  daily  more  enormous.  The 
dense  of  it  is,  that  the  Minor  at  sixpence  is  as  cheap 
as  it  cnn  possibly  be  sold  with  anything  like  profit,  and 
selling  it  to  agents  literally  at  cost,  the  increase  of  the 
agency  circulation  does  us  no  manner  of  good  ! 

Com. — Why  sell  to  agents  at  cost? 

Brig. — It  was  a  necessary  evil  in  the  beginning — 
lacking  capital  to  hire  the  doing  of  what  agents  do. 

Com. — And  we  must  go  on  as  we  begun  ? 

Brig. —  Short  of  a  six  months'  paralysis,  which  we 
could  not  afford,  there  is  no  help  for  it  !  But  the 
postage  is  the  great  block  in  our  way  !  Most  people 
would  subscribe  and  have  it  sent  to  their  houses  by 
mail,  if  the  postage  were  not  more  than  the  subscrip 
tion. 

Com. — How  would  that  be  helped  in  the  monthly 
form. 

Brier. — Ah  !  now  you  come  to  the  matter.  The 
monthly  Mirror  goes  for  seven  cents  postage,  and  most 
of  our  mail  subscribers  who  remain,  have  the  Mirror 
sent  in  the  monthly  form,  by  mail — and  I  wish  all  who 
value  the  Mirror,  or  care  for  us,  would  do  the  same.  To 
take  it  weekly  from  an  agent,  does  not  bring  back  to 
you  a  single  leaf  of  Glenmary,  my  dear  boy  ! 

Com. — Ah,  my  dear  friend  —  Glenmary!  Some 
villain — some  wanton  and  unfeeling  villain — has  de 
stroyed  a  vine  I  planted,  which  had  completely  em 
bowered  that  sweet  cottage.  In  an  Ithaca  paper,  sent 
to  me  yesterday,  I  find  a  letter — here  it  is — from  some 
Owego  gentleman  to  the  editor.  Let  me  read  you 
part  of  it  : — 


"  The  cottage  you  know,  like  a  bird's  nest,  is  al 
most  hid  in  the  foliage.  On  one  side  is  the  road  pas- 
|  sing  over  'the  bridge,'  and  all  around  a  sweet  lawn, 
sloping  away  to  '  Owego  creek.'  The  bridge  was 
once  white,  and  neat  in  its  outward  appearance.  But 
how  Willis,  even  in  the  '  summer  months,'  made  his 
'  bridge-gipsying  delicious,'  is  now  a  mystery.  The 
'  groundwork'  is  flood-wood,  and  reptiles  crawl  where 
'  swallows  peeped  out  from  their  nests  against  the 
sleepers,'  while  every  five  minutes  a  baptism  of  dust 
comes  down  from  above,  as  a  benediction  from  the 
passing  traveller.  But  the  pruning  hand  of  a  man  of 
taste  has  been  wanting  to  all  this  rural  spot  for  two 
years  past,  which  may  account  for  the  blemishes  we 
find  in  the  picture  so  beautifully  drawn  in  'A  1'Abri. 
Some  Caligula  among  shrubbery  has  cut  the  root  of  a 
luxuriant  vine,  which  spread  itself  over  the  cottage 
front,  making  a  delightful  arbor  of  the  piazza  ;  and 
its  leaves  and  tendrils,  already  changed  in  hue,  are 
folding  themselves  to  die.  As  'through  it  the  night- 
breeze  rustled,  it  seemed  to  breathe  of  the  desolation 
that  had  stolen  upon  this  garden,  sacred  to  the  mem 
ory  of  a  lovely  exotic  which  made  it  a  paradise,  and 
the  fadeless  light  of  genius." 

That  is  written  by  some  kind  man,  who  understood 
how  a  heartstring  might  be  cut  through  with  a  vine 
one  had  planted  and  cherished.  Whoever  may  be 
the  perpetrator  of  that  needless  outrage,  I  commend 
him  to  the  notice  of  my  friendly  neighbors,  adding  a 
petition  from  me,  which  may  thus  reach  them,  that 
only  Time's  hand  may  be  suffered  to  ravage  my  lost 
paradise. 

Brig — The  subject  troubles  me,  mi-boy  !  Let  us 
change  it.  I've  a  funny  communication  here,  from  a 
Rip  Van  Winkle,  who  dates  fifty  years  hence,  and — 

Com. — Keep  it  till  next  week,  general,  and  let  us 
get  into  the  fresh  air.  I'm  manuscript  sick.  Allans  I 
Stay — while  I  mend  my  outer  man  a  little,  read  this 
funny  letter,  sent  me  by  the  lady  to  whom  it  was 
written.  She  thinks  her  friend,  young  "  Cinna  Bev- 
erley,"  is  a  genius. 

(Brigadier  reads,  with  an  occasional  laugh.) 

"TO    MISS    PHffiBE    LORN. 

"DEAR  BEL-PHOEBE:  I  have  been  'twiddling  my 
sunbeam'  (you  say  my  letters  are  '  perfect  sunshine') 
for  some  time,  more  or  less,  in  a  quandary  as  to  what 
is  now  resolved  upon  as  '  Dear  Bel-Phcebe' — the  be 
ginning  of  this  (meant-to-be)  faultless  epistle.  I 
chanced  to  wake  critical  this  morning,  and,  '  dear 
Phoebe,'  as  the  beginning  of  this  letter  of  mine,  looked 
both  vulgar  and  meaningless.  I  inked  it  out  as  you 
see.  A  reference  to  my  etymological  dictionary, 
however,  restored  my  liking  for  that  '  dear1  word.  It 
is  derived  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  verb  Dcr-ian,  which 
means  to  do  mischief.  Hence  dearth,  which,  by  doing 
mischief,  makes  what  remains  more  precious,  and 
hence  dear,  meaning  something  made  precious  by  hav 
ing  escaped  hurting.  '  Dear  Phoebe,'  therefore  (mean 
ing  unhurt  Phcebe),  struck  me  as  pretty  well — you  be 
ing  one  of  those  delicious,  late-loving  women,  destined 
to  be  '  hurt'  first  at  thirty.  Still,  the  sacred  word 
'  Phoebe'  was  too  abruptly  come  upon.  It  sounded 
familiar,  and  familiarity  should  be  reserved  for  the 
postscript.  I  should  have  liked  to  write  'dear  Lady 
Phoebe,' or 'dear  Countess  Phoebe' — but  we  are  not 
permitted  to  'read  our  title  clear,'  in  this  hideously- 
simple  country.  Might  I  invent  an  appellative?  We 
say  char-woman  and  horse-man — why  not  put  a  de 
scriptive  word  before  a  lady's  name,  by  way  of  re 
spectful  distance.  Phcebe  Lorn  is  a  belle — why  not 
eay  5e/-Phcebe ?  Good!  It  sounds  authentic.  This 
letter,  then,  is  to  Phosbe,  unhurt  and  beautiful  (alias), 
'  Dear  Bel-Phcebe  !' 

"  You  are  an  ephemeron  of  a  month — the  month 
at  Saratoga,  in  which  you   get  wings  to  come  forth 


EPHEMERA. 


145 


from  your  eleven  months'  chrysalis  in  the  country — 
and  you  are  now  once  more  'gathered  to  your  fathers,' 
and  mourning  over  the  departed  summer !  Your 
Arabian  mare  feels  your  thrilling  weight  again,  and 
you  astonish  your  pet  cow  with  sponge-cake  over  the 
lawn  fence,  and  give  caraways  to  your  top-knot  hens, 
and  say  •  Sir'  to  your  greyhound,  and  make-believe 
care  for  your  dahlias  and  tube-roses — but  the  pleas- 
antest  part  of  the  day,  after  all,  is  its  heavenly  twilight 
of  closed  eyelids,  when  you  can  live  over  again  that 
month  at  Saratoga — myself,  perhaps,  then,  cursorily 
remembered  !  For  you  rejoice  in  the  perils  of  love, 
unhurt  and  and  adorable  Phoebe  ! 

"But  you  know  enough  aboutyourself  and  you  wish 
to  hear  about  the  town  !  Well ! — the  flies  are  numb 
with  the  first  frost,  the  window-blinds  are  open  nearly 
to  Union  square,  somebody  has  been  seen  with  a 
velvet  waistcoat,  starch  is  '  looking  up,'  and  the  town 
is  full  of  palmetto-hatted  andready-made-clothing-ized 
southerners.  By  these  data  judge  of  the  epoch.  I, 
myself,  am  among  my  dusted  household  gods,  and, 
at  this  moment  (writing  in  my  bed-room)  see  my  boots 
phalanxed  in  their  winter  parade.  1  must  say  it  is,  so 
far,  pleasant !  Perhaps — but  you  want  news,  not  the 
philosophy  of  boots  in  repose. 

"  You  heard  of  the  marriage  of  one  of  our  wild  In 
dians  to  an  English  girl,  not  long  ago  in  London. 
She  has  been  at  the  Waverley  some  days,  and  has 
excited  no  little  curiosity.  She  is  moderately  hand 
some,  but  in  such  an  unusual  style  of  beauty  that  she 
out-magnetizes  many  a  more  strictly  beautiful  woman. 
My  vaurien  friend,  F.,  the  artist  (who  chanced  to  dine 
opposite  the  chief  and  chief-ess  at  the  taUc-iV kote  a 
day  or  two  since),  declares  the  face  to  be  wholly 
unique,  and  a  sufficient  explanation  of  the  extraordi 
nary  whim  of  her  marriage.  I  have  never,  myself, 
wondered  at  it.  The  crust,  impenetrable  upward,  of 
English  middle  life,  is  enough  to  drive  genius  of  any 
kind  more  mad  than  this  !  What  hell  like  inevitable 
mediocrity  in  anything  !  This  fine  woman,  now  going 
to  live  a  dog's  life  with  nn  Indian  in  the  wilderness, 
would  have  spent  her  days  in  a  brick  row,  and  grown 
idiotic  with  looking  out  upon  the  same  sidewalk  till 
death.  Which  would  you  rather  ? 

"Do  you  remember  (for  beautiful  women  don't  al 
ways  remember  beautiful  women)  the  adorable  Mrs. 
C.,  at  Saratoga— that  charming  specimen  of  a  healthy 
and  practicable  angel  ?  She  has  been  here  a  week  on 
her  return  from  Niagara,  and  Flagg,  the  beauty-painter, 
lias  stolen  a  copy  of  her  on  canvass.  Ah,  Bel-Phoebe! 
You  have  a  loss  in  not  realizing  what  it  is  to  a  man 
when  an  exquisite  face  holds  still  to  be  critically  ad 
mired  !.  You  can  see  the  grain  of  the  velvet  in  her 
brown  eye,  now,  and  trace  by  what  muscle  her  heart 
pulls,  to  keep  down  that  half-sad  cornerof  her  delicious 
mouth  !  He  is  an  appreciator,  that  Flagg,  and  paints 
a  woman  as  she  looks  to  appreciators — differently  from 
the  butchers'-meat  estimation  of  common  gazers  on 
beauty.  Mrs.  C.,  has  gone  to  Baltimore,  where 
beauty  is  an  indigenous  drug — belles  of  that  'city 
rich  in  women'  being  never  valued  till  transplanted. 
But  heavens  !  how  tired  you  will  be  of  reading  this 
long  female  paragraph !  Hasten  to  speak  of  some 
thing  with  a  man  in  it ! 

"One  of  the  most  fascinating  men  in  England  is 
ekeing  out  an  exile  from  May  fair,  by  singing  -and 
lecturing  on  songs  to  the  delighted  Croton  drinkers. 
He  is  a  man  of  that  quiet  elegance  of  address  that 
seems  nothing  in  a  woman's  way  till  she  has  broken 
her  neck  over  it,  and  he  sings  as  such  a  man  shouldn't 

to  be  a  safe  man,  that  is  to  say  !  Fancy  Moore's 

songs  any  more  bewitched  than  Moore  intended ! 
Mr.  McMichael's  voice  glides  under  your  heart  like 
a  gondola  under  a  balcony — Moore's  melody  represent 
ing  the  embellished  and  enriched  moonlit  water.  It 
is  the  enchanted  perfection  of  lover-like,  and  gentle- 
10 


man-like  song-singing. 

songs  in  England,  and  Mr.  McMichael  sings  them  in 


heard  Moore  sing  his  own 
"  ael  sings  them 
(Ask  your  papa 


the  same  style — only  in  apotheosis  ! 
to  translate  that  big  word.) 

"Do  you  care  about  theatres?  We  have  a  new 
tragedian,  about  whose  resemblance  to  Macready  the 
critics  are  quarrelling,  and  a  new  tragedian-ess  who 
has  put  the  boxes  into  fits  by  coming  on  the  stage 

without  a bustle!     (Fancy  Desdemona  without  a 

bustle  !)  Of  course  you  are  surprised,  for  this  is  one 
of  these  '  coming  events'  that  could  not  possibly  '  cast 
their  shadows  before,'  but  fashion  is  imperative,  and 

'  Where  ruled  the  (bustle)  Nature  broods  alone  ." 

I  understand  the  omnibuses  are  to  be  re-licensed  to 
carry  fourteen  inside,  and  the  shops  in  Broadway  are 
petitioning  (so  Alderman  Cozzens  told  me  to-day)  to 
put  out  bow-windows,  in  expectation  of  the  vacated 
space. 

"  Seriously,  there  has  been  a  growing  mistrust 
(Pearl-streetingly  speaking)  of  the  article  woman,  as 
shown  to  customers  !  Thank  fashion,  there  is  more 
chance  now  of  a  poor  youth's  knowing  the  ('  ground 
covered  by  the  imposing  obligations  of  matrimony  .") 

"  As  to  the  fault  found  with  Anderson — his  resem 
blance  to  Macready — I  see  it  in  no  objectionable 
particular,  unless  it  be  theincorrigible  one,  of  a  mutual 
brevity  of  nose.  He  was  educated  to  his  profession 
by  Macready,  and  of  course  has  his  master's  severe 
taste,  and  smacks  somewhat  of  his  school,  which  is  a 
good  one.  I  like  him  much  better  than  I  do  Mac- 
ready,  however,  for,  though  he  has  most  of  his  ex 
cellences,  he  has  none  of  his  defects,  and,  in  voice 
and  pliancy  of  action,  he  is  much  that  artificial  man's 
superior.  Criticism  aside,  Anderson  plays  agreeably 
and  makes  you  like  him,  whereas  Macready,  playing 
ever  so  well,  does  it  disagreeably,  and  makes  you  dis 
like  him  !  But  I  am  no  judge — for  I  would  rather  sit 
on  a  sofa  by  most  any  woman  than  sit  in  a  box  during 
most  any  play.  Pity  me  ! 

"  Hast  thou  great  appetite,  and  must  I  vouchsafe 
thee  still  another  slice  of  news  ?  The  new  hotel  up 
town  is  waxing  habitable,  and  the  proprietor  is  in  a 
quandary  what  to  call  it.  The  natural  inquiry  as  to 
what  would  be  descriptive,  has  suggested  a  look  at  the 
probabilities  of  custom,  and  it  is  supposed  that  it  will 
be  filled  partly  with  that  class  of  fashionables  who  feel 
a  desire  to  do  something  in  life  besides  laboriously 
'  keep  house,'  partly  by  diplomatists  and  dandies  wish 
ing  to  be  '  convaynient'  to  balls  and  chez-eltcs,  and 
partly  by  such  Europeanized  persons  as  have  a  distaste 
for  American  gregariousness,  and  desire  a  voice  as  to 
the  time  and  place  of  refreshing  and  creature.  The 
arrangements  are  to  surpass  any  previous  cis-Atlantic 
experience,  and  the  whole  project  is  considered  as  the 
first  public  flower  of  the  transplanted  whereabout  of 
aristocracy.  It  has  been  proposed  to  call  it  MAY  FAIR 
HOTEL '  May  Fair'  being  the  name  of  the  fashion 
able  nucleus  of  London.  HAUTEVILLE  HOTEL  has 
been  suggested,  descriptive  of  its  position  up-town. 
HOTEL  RECHERCHE,  HOTEL  CHOISI,  are  names  pro- 
nosed  also,  but  more  liable  to  criticism.  I,  myself, 
proposed  AL'ABi-as  signifying  a  house  aside  from 
the  rush  of  travel  and  business.  Praise  that,  if  you 
please  !  Billings,  the  lessee,  is  a  handsome  man,  ot  a 
very  up-town  address,  with  the  finest  teeth  possible  for 
the  welcome  to  new-comers— this  last  no  indifferent 
item  !  He  is  young— but  young  people  are  the 
fashion.  'Young  England'  and  'Young  France' 
wield  the  power.  I  have  not  mentioned  the  system 
of  the  hotel,  by  the  way,  which  is  that  of  Meunce's 
at  Paris— a  table-d'hote  and  a  restaurant,  and  dinner  in 
public,  or  private,  or  not  at  all,  at  your  option.  Charm 
ing—wont  it  be  ? 

"'  Crawford,  the  sculptor,  has  come  home  from  Italy, 


146 


EPHEMERA. 


and,  as  he  is  the  American,  par  excellence,  in  whom 
resides  the  sense  of  beauty,  I  trust  he  may  see  you. 

•'What  else  had  I  to  say?     Something — but  I' 
write  it  on  a  slip,  for  it  will  be  personal,  and  you  like 
to  show  all  your  letters  to  '  the  governor.' 

"  Adieu,  dear  Bel-Phoebe,  and  pray  tear  up  the  slip 
enclosed  as  soon  as  you  have  recovered  from  fainting. 
Yours  at  discretion.  "  CINNA  BEVERLEY,  JR." 


'•FANNY FORESTER." — We  have  been  accused, face 
to  face,  several  times,  and  by  letter  once  or  twice,  of 
being,  ourself,  that  bewitching  masquerader.  We  have 
conjured  some  variety  out  of  our  workyday  quill,  it  is 
true,  and  have  an  unfulfilled  and  recorded  vow  of  a 
new  alias — but  in  "  Fanny  Forester"  there  resides  a 
dimpled  youthfulness  and  elasticity  that  is  not  found 
so  many  miles  on  the  road  as  our  present  sojourn  ! 
Oh  no,  sweet  Fanny  !  they  slander  you  and  do  too 
much  credit  to  our  industry  and  versatility  !  Those 
who  wish  to  know  more  of  Fanny  Forester,  may  hear 
of  her,  now,  among  the  high-priced  contributors  of 
Graham  and  Godey. 


DR.  LARDNER'S  LECTURE. — We  did  not  chance  to 
hear  Dr.  Lardner's  excellent  and  amusing  lecture  on 
the  "  London  literati,"  etc.,  but  the  report  of  it  in  the 
"  Republic"  has  scraped  the  moss  from  one  corner  of 
our  memory,  and  we  may,  perhaps,  aid  in  the  true 
portraiture  of  one  or  two  distinguished  men  by  show 
ing  a  shade  or  two  in  which  our  observation  of  them 
differed  from  that  of  the  doctor.  We  may  remark 
here,  that  Dr.  Lardner  has  been  conversant  with  all 
the  wits  and  scholars  of  England  for  the  last  two  or 
three  lustrums,  and  we  would  suggest  to  him  that, 
with  the  freedom  given  him  by  withdrawal  from  their 
sphere,  he  might  give  us  a  book  of  anecdotical  biogra 
phy  that  would  have  a  prosperous  sale  and  be  both 
instructive  and  amusing.  \Ve  shall  not  poach  upon 
the  doctor's  manor,  by  the  way,  if  we  give  our  im 
pression  of  one  of  these  literati— himself— as  he  ap 
peared  to  us,  once  in  very  distinguished  company,  in 
England.  We  were  in  a  ball  in  the  height  of  the 
season,  at  Brighton.  Somewhere  about  the  later 
hours,  we  chanced  to  be  in  attendance  upon  a  noble 
lady,  in  company  with  two  celebrated  men.  Mr. 
Ricardo  and  Horace  Smith  (the  author  of  Bramblelye 
House,  and  Rejected  Addresses),  Lady  Stepney, 
authoress  of  the  "  New  Road  to  Ruin,"  approached 
our  charming  centre  of  attraction  with  a  proposition 
to  present  to  her  the  celebrated  Dr.  Lardner.  "  Yes, 
my  dear  !  I  should  like  to  know  him  of  all  things  ."' 
was  the  reply,  and  the  doctor  was  conjured  forthwith 
into  the  magic  circle.  He  bowed  "  with  spectacles 
on  nose,"  but  no  other  extraneous  mark  of  philosopher 
or  scholar.  We  shall  not  offend  the  doctor  by  stating 
that,  on  this  evening,  he  was  a  very  different  looking 
person  from  his  present  practical  exterior.  With 
showy  waistcoat,  black  tights,  fancy  stockings  and 
small  patent-leather  shoes,  he  appeared  to  us  an  ele 
gant  of  very  bright  water,  smacking  not  at  all,  in  man-  j 
ner  no  more  than  in  dress,  of  the  smutch  and  toil  of 
the  laboratory.  We  looked  at  and  listened  to  him,  ! 
we  remember,  with  great  interest  and  curiosity.  He 
left  us  to  dance  a  quadrille,  and  finding  ourself  acci 
dentally  in  the  same  set,  we  looked  at  his  ornamental 
and  lover-like  acquittalof  himself  with  a  kindofwonder 
at  what  Minerva  would  say  !  This  was  just  before  the 
doctor  left  England.  We  may  add  our  expression  of 
pleasure  that  the  Protean  facility  of  our  accomplished 
and  learned  friend  has  served  him  in  this  country- 
making  of  him  the  best  lecturer  on  all  subjects,  and 
the  carver  out  of  prosperity  under  a  wholly  new 
meridian.  * 


But,  to  revert  to  the  report  of  the  lecture  : — 
"  The  doctor  gave  some  very  amusing  descriptions 
of  the  personal  peculiarities  of  Bulwer  and  D'Israeli. 
the  author  of  '  Coningsby,'  observing  that  those  who 
have  read  the  works  of  the  former,  would  naturally 
conclude  him  to  be  very  fascinating  in  private  society. 
Such,  however,  was  not  the  case.  He  had  not  a 
particle  of  conversational  facility,  and  could  not  utter 
twelve  sentences  free  from  hesitation  and  embarrass 
ment.  In  fact,  Bulwer  was  only  Bulwer  when  his 
pen  was  in  his  hand  and  his  meerschaum  in  his  mouth. 
He  is  intimate  with  Count  D'Orsay,  one  of  the  hand 
somest  men  of  the  day,  and  in  his  excessive  admira 
tion  of  that  gentleman  has  adopted  his  style  of  dress, 
which  is  adapted  admirably  to  the  figure  of  the  second 
Beau  Brummell,  but  sits  strangely  on  the  feeble,  rick 
ety  and  skeleton  form,  of  the  man  of  genius." 

Now  it  struck  us,  on  the  contrary,  that  there  was  no 
more  playful,  animated,  facile  creature  in  London 
society  than  Bulwer.  He  seemed  to  have  a  horror 
of  stilted  topics,  it  is  true,  and  never  mingled  in  gene 
ral  conversation  unless  merrily.  But  at  Lady  Bles- 
sington's,  where  there  was  but  one  woman  present 
(herself),  and  where,  consequently,  there  could  be  no 
tetes-u-tetcs,  Bulwer's  entrance  was  the  certain  precur 
sor  of  fun.  He  ivas  a  brilliant  rattle,  and  as  to  any 
"  hesitation  and  embarrassment,"  we  never  saw  a 
symptom  of  it.  At  evening  parties  in  other  houses, 
Bulwer's  powers  of  conversation  could  scarce  be  fairly 
judged,  for  his  system  of  attention  is  very  concentra- 
tive,  and  he  was  generally  deep  in  conversation  with 
some  one  beautiful  woman  whom  he  could  engross. 
We  differ  from  the  doctor,  too,  as  to  his  style  of  dandy 
ism.  Spready  upper  works,  trousers  closely  fitting  to 
the  leg,  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  cornucopial  whisk 
ers,  distinguished  D'Orsay,  while  Bulwer  wore  al 
ways  the  loose  French  pantaloon,  a  measurable  hat- 
brim,  and  whiskers  carefully  limited  to  the  cheek.  We 
pronounce  the  doctor's  astrology  (as  to  these  stars) 
based  upon  an  error  in  "observation." 
The  reporter  adds  : — 

"  D'Israeli  he  described  as  an  affected  coxcomb, 
with  a  restless  desire  to  appear  witty  ;  yet  he  never 
remembered  him  to  have  said  a  good  thing  in  his  life 
except  one,  and  that  was  generally  repeated  with  the 
preface,  'D'Israeli  has  said  a  good  thing  at  last.'" 

That  D'Israeli  is  not  a  •'  bon-mot"  man,  is  doubtless 
true.  It  never  struck  us  that  he  manifested  a  "  desire 
to  appear  witty."  He  is  very  silent  in  the  general 
melee  of  conversation,  but  we  have  never  yet  seen  him 
leave  a  room  before  he  had  made  an  impression  by 
some  burst  in  the  way  of  monologue — eitheran  eloquent 
description  or  a  dashing  new  absurdity,  an  anecdote 
or  a  criticism.  He  sits  indolently  with  his  head  on 
his  breast,  taking  sight  through  his  eyebrows  till  he 
finds  his  cue  to  break  in,  and  as  far  as  our  observation 
goes,  nobody  was  ever  willing  to  interrupt  him.  The 
doctor  calls  him  an  "affected  coxcomb,"  but  it  is  only 
of  his  dress  that  this  is  any  way  true.  No  schoolboy 
is  more  frank  in  his  manners.  This  is  true,  even  since 
D'Israeli's  "  gobble  up"  of  the  million  with  a  widow. 
When  we  were  first  in  London,  he  was  the  immortal 
tenant  of  one  room  and  a  recess,  and  with  manners 
indolently  pensive.  Three  years  after,  returning  to 
England,  we  found  him  master  of  a  lordly  establish 
ment  on  Hyde  Park,  and.  except  that  he  looked  of  a 
less  lively  melancholy,  his  manners  were  as  untroubled 
with  affection  as  before.  We  do  not  in  the  least 
doubt  the  sincerity  of  the  doctor's  report,  but  it  shows 
how  even  acute  observers  (we  two  are  that,  doctor !) 
will  see  the  same  thing  with  different  eyes.  This 
article  is  too  long. 


New  York  has  an  unsupplied  want — no  less  a  thing 
than    a  FASHIONABLE   PROMENADE.     Broadway,   that 


EPHEMERA. 


147 


used  to  be  the  parade  of  all  that  wns  feminine,  fashion 
able  and  fair,  has  been,  for  some  time,  only  a  walk  of 
plain-dress-necessity  to  the  noli-me-tangcries,  and  it 
will  soon  be  left  entirely  to  the  deaf  and  the  humble 
— so  intolerable  is  the  Bedlam  racket  of  its  abominable 
omnibuses  !  (To  get  an  audible  answer  to  the  "  How 
do  you  do  ?"  one  has  need  to  take  one's  friend  into  a 
store.) 

Our  ladies  have  done  like  the  English,  in  giving  up 
shopping  and  walking  the  street  in  full  dress,  and  now, 
where  is  to  be  the  English  or  French  substitute — 
our  Hyde  park  or  our  Bois  de  Boulogne  ?  Ladies, 
in  London,  are  supposed  to  be  so  incapable  of  walk 
ing  at  ail  in  the  street,  that,  if  they  do  so,  it  is  rather 
\vell-bred  not  to  recognise  them  in  passing.  But 
after  shopping  in  disguise  in  Regent  street  (their 
Broadway)  they  go  home  and  "dress  for  the  carriage," 
and  drive  out  to  meet  all  the  world  in  the  "  Rotten 
row"  of  the  park.  Up  and  down  this  half  mile  they 
follow  in  slow  procession,  meeting  as  slow  a  procession 
going  the  other  way,  and  bowing  at  every  carriage 
length,  and,  no  public  hack  being  admitted  into  the 
park,  those  who  have  no  carriages  have  no  promenade  ! 

Don't  let  us  improve  with  our  eyes  shut !  We  have 
taken  off  our  foot  of  fashion  from  one  round  of  the 
ladder.  How  long  is  it  to  be  suspended  in  the  air — 
for,  a  driving  park  is  the  next  inevitable  step  upward  ? 


ODD  ENOUGH.— The  best  view  of  Trinity  steeple  and 
almost  the  only  view  of  Trinity  cliurch,  is  across  some 
old  one-story  wooden  groceries  in  Greenwich  street, 
the  spectator  standing  upon  the  opposite  sidewalk  ! 
"  We  never  know  to  whom  we  look  best,"  said  we  to 
the  steeple,  when  we  discovered  it !  To  Broadway- 
gazers,  Trinity  steeple  is  a  Gothic  column.  The  body 
of  the  church  is  wholly  lost  as  to  effect,  and  it  was  a 
great  mistake  not  to  set  it  sidewise  upon  the  street. 
But,  let  us  suggest  something  to  the  enormously 
wealthy  vestry  of  that  church.  There  is  not  a  valua 
ble  building,  nor  scarce  a  lot  unoccupied  by  a  nuisance, 
between  this  splendid  fabric  and  Greenwich  street. 
How  easy  to  buy  this  advantageous  slope,  and  make 
of  it  an  ascending  foreground,  unequalled  except  by 
the  ascent  to  the  capitol  at  Washington!  Besides 
the  addition  to  the  beauty  of  the  city,  it  would  give 
another  "lungs"  to  the  neighborhood  of  Wall  street, 
and  grace,  fitly  and  with  additional  beauty,  the  resting- 
place  of  the  gallant  and  lamented  Lawrence. 


CHANGE  IN  NEW  YORK  HABITS. — The  great  pecu 
liarity  of  America — our  gregariousness.  as  shown  in 
our  populous  hotels — has  taken  a  large  strid»  on  its 
way  to  the  exclusivism  of  Europe.  The  office  of  the 
lessee  of  the  new  hotel  up-town  lias  been  overrun  with 
applicants,  and  most  of  them,  we  understand,  with  a 
view  of  availing  themselves  of  its  privileges  as  a  hotel 
garni — or  furnished  house  where  the  meals  are  dis 
cretionary,  as  to  place,  time,  and  price.  Let  us  look 
a  little  into  this. 

A  gentleman  arrives  at  a  London  hotel.  He  alights 
at  the  door  of  what  resembles  a  private  house.  He  is 
shown  to  a  small  parlor  and  bed-room,  and  left  alone 
with  his  baggage  and  the  peculiarly  neat  and  unsoci 
able  chairs  and  table.  He  orders  his  dinner  and  tea, 
and  it  is  served  to  him  alone.  He  is  as  much  alone 
the  remainder  of  the  day  and  evening,  and  from  that 
time  to  doomsday,  if  he  stay  so  long  ;  and  there  is  no 
place  about  the"  house  where  he  can  vary  this  loneli 
ness,  except  the  coffee-room,  where  the  parlor  class 
of  lodgers  have  no  errand  and  rarely  go.  His  engage 
ment  with  the  landlord  is  to  pny  so  much,  by  the  day, 
for  his  rooms,  and  for  whatever  else  he  chooses  to  order. 


What  with  the  absence  of  books,  and  all  the  comforts 
and  trifles  that  give  a  look  of  home,  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  lack  of  the  American  compensations,  such 
:  as  reading-room,  ladies'  drawing-room,  sitting-rooms, 
and  thronged  halls  and  entries,  the  solitude  and  gloom 
of  a  hotel  in  the  heart  of  London  could  scarce  be 
exceeded. 

But,  admirably  suited  as  is  the  American  system  of 
hotel  to  the  relief  and  pleasure  of  the  stranger  and 
;  traveller,  there  is  a  class  of  hotel-lodgers  who  would 
|  be  more  comfortable  in  New  York  were  there  a  hotel 
after  the  European  fashion — and  it  is  with  a  view  td 
;  this   class,  mainly,  that   the   new  hotel  up-town   has 
!  been   designed.     We   refer  to   the  class  who  wish  a 
luxurious  home,  but  can  not  afford  time,  trouble,  or 
money,  to  be  housekeepers.     There  are  many  families 
of  this  description — families  who  pass  the  summer  in 
the   country,  but  in   the   winter  reside   in  town,  and, 
dreading  the  trouble  and  expense  of  a  town  house, 
would  still  prefer  a  private  table  and  drawing-room. 
j   For  such,  a  hotel  garni,  with  elegant  suites  of  apart- 
!   ments  and  a  restaurant  on  the  floor  before,  is  the  well- 
!   adapted  provision,  and  this  class  is  sufficiently  large 
to  more  than  warrant  the  enterprise  of  the  hotel  up 
town. 

The  great   mass,   however,   even  of  families  (and 
I  certainly   of  bachelors),   prefer  the  gregarious  hotel, 
\  where  two  or  three  hundred  people  form  almost  one 
[  family,  where  eating  and  dancing  and  social  pleasures 
are  all  enjoyed  in  common,  and  where  business  and 
amusement   are    closely,    and    without    foresight   or 
trouble,   closely   intermingled.     This  style  of  living 
best  suits  the  great  mass  of  a  business  community,  and 
it  will  not  be  till  we  have  a  ruling  proportion  of  aris 
tocratic  idlers,  that  the  gregarious  hotel  will  go  out  of 
fashion.     That  may  be  fifty  years  hence,  or  our  "gre 
gariousness"  may  become  a  national  peculiarity,  and 
the  Astor  "  stay  put"  for  a  century. 


We  speak  the  Tuscan,  and  lively  Mr.  Palmo  is 
betrayed  by  his  soft  c  to  be  a  Piedmontese  or  a  Vene 
tian — else  we  should  venture  to  give  him  the  ideas 
here-below  embodied,  in  his  own  lingua  de  belleza. 
We  beg  his  worthy  and  eloquent  legal  counsellor, 
however  (whom  we  have  the  pleasure  to  know),  to 
translate  to  him,  through  some  medium  more  pellucid 
than  the  last,  the  nicer  shades  of  our  meaning.  We 
put  up  our  prayer  for  its  happy  voyage  to  the  mana 
ger's  harbor  of  comprehension. 

An  OPERA,  like  a  woman,  is  never  to  be  taken  liter 
ally.  It  is  not,  exclusively  or  mainly,  a  place  wherein 
to  hear  good  music.  If  the  music  be  the  best  that 
can  be  procured  (though  it  were  only  the  best  in 
Ethiopia),  the  uncrowned  but  very  executive  King 
Public  is  content.  "  Our"  ear  is  merciful  !  But  the 
opera  is  a  place  for  the  advancing  of  two  ends  more — 
human  tenderness  and  human  vanity.  Ten  go  thither 
to  flirt,  and  forty  to  be  seen,  where  one  goes  to  pamper 
his  auricular  nerve  upon  a  cadenza.  We  don't  see 
that  this  requires  enlarging  upon. 

We  wish  to  enlighten  those  who  have  hitherto  been 
proudly  content  with  their  own  country  (haven't  trav 
elled,  and  that's  the  reason),  as  to  the  true  uses  of  the 
opera  abroad— the  way  it  is  truly  used,  that  is  to  say, 
where  sing  Rubini  and  his  starry  troupe.  P'irst,  as  to 
construction.  The  London  opera-house  (like  the 
Parisian)  is  composed  of  a  hundred  or  more  private 
boxes,  and  a  pit.  The  private  boxes  are  used  by  their 
lady-proprietors  to  receive  company  during  the  evening, 
and  the  pit  is  used  to  reconnoitre  the  boxes,  to  lounge, 
to  chat,  and  to  be  visible  in  white  gloves  and  opera- 
glass  (this  last  a  most  necessary  demonstration  by 
those  who  would  not  otherwise  be  considered  "  men 
about  town").  We  have  not  yet  mentioned  the  Us- 


148 


EPHEMERA. 


tening  to  the  opera.  This  very  subordinate  part  of  the 
evening's  entertainment  commences  at  the  signal 
«'sh!"  "sh!"  from  the  connoisseurs,  indicating  that 
some  favorite  aria  is  commencing  which  is  worth  lis 
tening  to,  or  a  duett  or  quartette,  or  fine  point  of 
action,  coming  off,  and,  till  this  is  past,  the  audience, 
above  and  below,  is  breathlessly  still  and  attentive.  At 
all  other  times  during  the  performance  of  the  opera, 
it  is  rather  green  than  otherwise  to  pay  attention  to 
the  stage,  and  anybody  who  should  request  that  his 
neighbors  would  not  converse  during  the  recitative 
secco,  would  be  smiled  at  as  "  capital  fun  !"  The 
opera,  in  short,  is  considered  as  a  help,  an  accompani 
ment  (or,  if  you  like,  a  stop-gap)  to  conversation,  and 
the  consequence  is  that  nowhere  are  people  so  much  at 
their  ease,  and  nowhere  are  so  many  bright  and  merry 
things  said  as  at  the  opera!  We'll  mend  our  pen, 
dear  reader,  while  you  compare  this  with  the  quaker- 
meeting  attention  so  tediously  given  at  Palme's. 

But  this  is  to  be  mended  (the  practice,  we  mean — 
the  pen  does  pretty  well),  and  the  first  thing  we  wish 
to  suggest  to  Mr.  Pal  mo  is  an  improvement  in  the 
"f°P's  alley"  Part  °f  if-  To  go  round  behind  the 
boxes,  as  the  house  is  constructed  now,  is  formidably 
conspicuous,  unless  one  has  a  direct  errand  to  the  lady 
next  the  stage;  yet  this,  with  the  exception  of  having 
a  seat  in  the  pit,  and  sitting  in  it,  is  the  only  way  to 
get  a  look  at  the  house  and  "  see  who  is  there."  Let 
Mr.  Pal  mo  drop  a  staircase,  passing  under  the  stage- 
box  to  the  front  of  the  pit,  and  there  would  be  an  ex 
cusable  lounge  of  observation  all  round  the  house — a 
prodigious  difference  in  the  attraction  for  the  dan 
dies,  let  us  assure  you,  signor !  You  need  the  dan 
dies!  You  wish  to  make  it  among  the  necessities  of 
a  "man  about  town,"  that  he  should  have  a  season- 
ticket  to  the  opera.  But  it  is  no  pleasure  to  sit 
cramped  and  silent  in  one  seat,  and  no  pleasure  to 
come  in  and  stand  behind  the  audience  for  the  whole 
evening,  or  for  an  hour.  It  would  be  a  pleasure  to 
see  the  audience  from  the  front,  and  that  can  not  be 
done  now,  without  a  pretty  "  cool"  walk  to  the  or 
chestra  and  back.  Now  could  it? 

We  have  two  or  three  other  propositions  to  make 
for  the  improvement  of  the  social  opportunities  of 
the  opera,  but  this  will  do  for  to-day.  Addio,  signore ! 


We  cordially  approve  of  the  reason  for,  and  the 
feeling  which  prompted  the  following  paragraph. 
We  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  the  three  gentle 
men  mentioned  in  it.  particularly  the  urbane  captain, 
and  we  wish  the  Howards  a  happy  retirement,  and 
Captain  Roe  ^.-bounding  prosperity — but  this  done, 
we  wish  to  note  a  nationality  as  it  passes  ;  and  first, 
to  quote  a  paragraph: — 

"It  has  been  announced  in  various  quarters  that 
the  Messrs.  Howard,  who  have  established  the  hotel 
so  extensively  and  favorably  known  as  Howard's  Ho 
tel,  have  disposed  of  that  establishment  to  Captain 
Roe,  of  the  "Empire"  steamboat.  *  *  * 

As  for  the  Howards,  we  are  glad  that  they  have  done 
so  well.  We  presume  that,  being  relieved  now  from 
the  labor  of  keeping  such  a  large  establishment,  they 
will  retire  to  some  of  those  beautiful  retreats  with 
which  their  native  state,  Vermont,  abounds." 

It  will  be  seen  at  once  that  a  traveller  who  should 
measure  this  trio  by  the  European  scale  of  condition 
in  life — (rank  these  gentlemen,  that  is  to  say,  with 
"mine  host"  in  any  other  part  of  the  world) — would 
make  a  blunder.  The  difference  between  an  Ameri 
can  hotel-proprietor,  and  a  London  Boniface,  is  not 
merely  that  our  hotels  are  six  times  as  large.  It  is 
not  merely  that  he  is  six  times  as  great  a  "  proprie 
tor."  The  vocation  is  almost  wholly  different — and 
the  difference  is  a  result  of  the  totally  different  hab 


its  of  the  two  countries.  In  London,  you  may,  by 
chance,  see  the  "  land-Zae/?/,"  daily,  but  you  may  be 
months  in  the  house  without  seeing  the  "  land-Zorc?." 
(Two  terrible  misnomers,  by-the-way,  for  the  hostess, 
though  she  has  no  land,  is  not  a  lady  but  as  a  land- 
lady,  and  mine  host  is  far  enough  from  a  lord  with 
land,  though  he  is  no  lord  except  as  a  land-lord  !) 
The  English  host,  therefore,  is  never  an  acquaintance 
of  his  guest,  and  the  guest  knows  his  hostess  only  in 
the  quality  of  an  upper  servant.  The  reader  will 
have  recognised  the  difference  we  wish  to  point  to. 
The  American  hotel-keeper  has  charge,  not  of  twenty 
or  thirty  people  living  wholly  in  their  own  private 
rooms,  but  of  two  or  three  hundred,  whose  habits  are 
all  gregarious,  and  to  almost  every  one  of  them  he  (the 
landlord)  is  a  personal  and  familiar  friend.  The  ex 
tent  of  this  friendly  intercourse  with  persons  mostly 
of  the  better  class,  gives  to  the  hotel-proprietor  a 
mass  of  influence,  direct  and  indirect,  which  makes 
him  a  very  important  person  in  the  community.  He 
is  continually  appealed  to  for  knowledge  on  popular 
subjects,  such  as  is  got  only  by  great  facilities  of  hear 
say.  He  is  often  made  a  reference  in  disputes,  from 
his  necessary  habit  of  impartiality.  He  is  intrusted 
with  deposites  of  great  value  by  his  guests,  and  is  the 
confidant-general  of  the  secrets  and  difficulties  of 
strangers,  and  of  travelling  lovers  and  mourners. 
Ladies  and  families  are  committed  to  his  charge. 
Public  entertainments  are  given  by  his  advice  and  di 
rection  ;  and,  in  short,  he  has  so  much  harm,  and  so 
much  good  influence,  in  his  power,  that  he  is,  neces 
sarily,  a  person  of  high  moral  character,  superior 
judgment,  discretion,  and  information — wit/tout  all 
ivhich  public  opinion  would  not  tolerate  him  in  his 
place — and,  ivilh  which,  while  in  the  full  exercise  of 
his  vocation,  he  naturally  holds  a  high  station  of  re 
publican  social  rank.  It  is  in  tacit  obedience  to  this 
scale  of  valuation,  that  the  change  of  masters  in  a 
public  hotel  is  made  the  subject  of  newspaper  an 
nouncement  and  comment — a  notice  of  the  fact  which 
would  seem  to  a  London  editor  wholly  beyond  its  con 
sequence  and  value. 

We  are  aware  that  it  is  rather  Utopian  to  give  nom 
inal  rank  to  people  according  to  their  actual  worth 
and  influence;  but  let  us  have  our  little  bit  of  fancy 
now  and  then  !  We  should  be  afraid  to  call  public 
attention  to  the  rank  of  editors — measuring  it  by  their 
power! 


OLE  BULL  AND  HIS  MISSING  "  SPOT." — As  we  pre 
dicted,  this  great  luminary  took  the  light  of  the 
world  to  himself  on  Saturday  night,  and  became  vis 
ible  above  the  horizon  of  the  footlights  precisely  at 
eight, 

"  Bright  as  a  god,  but  punctual  as  a  slave  !" 

Mrs.  Child  (the  moon  who  reflects  the  masculine 
gold  of  his  music  in  the  feminine  silver  of  language) 
sat  in  the  stage-box,  somewhat  obscured  in  the  pe 
numbra  of  a  shocking  cap.  (We  rely  upon  Miss 
Dorsey  to  invent  a  "silver  cloud,"  or,  at  any  rate, 
some  headdress  more  becoming  for  the  waxing  glory 
of  this  charming  reflector.)  The  Memnonian  music 
awoke,  of  course,  with  the  appearance  of  Ole-Apollo, 
and  the  crammed  world  of  fashion  sat  breathless. 
By  the  time  the  first  piece  was  played,  however,  it 
was  felt  that  there  was  something  wrong.  The  audi 
ence  was  irresponsive.  The  ivory  inside  edge  of  the 
moon's  disk  (disclosed  by  the  tranquil  smile  at  first), 
became  less  and  less  visible,  and  disappeared.  The 
applause  was  mechanical.  Madame  Burkhardt  arose 
like  a  morning  vapor,  and  clouded  the  horizon  with 
an  abominable  song.  Ole  Bull  broke  out  again,  and 
though  the  shadows  had  shortened  somewhat  before 


EPHEMERA. 


149 


he  finished  his  second  piece,  there  was  still  a  lack — 
still  but  a  dull  acknowledgment  of  his  glory. 

We  presently  discovered  the  cause.     A  heavy  fore- 
lock  of  hair,  which  used   to  drop  over  the  forehead  j 
of   the  inspired    Norwegian,   descending   "with  the  j 
linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out"  of  a  cadenza,  and  j 
then  tossed  back  like  an  absorbed  comet  with  the  re-  j 
vulsive  sweep  of  a  return  to  the  flon-Jlon  of  the  air — 
this  expressive  forelock,  with  the  steeped  sweetness 
of  the  Niagara  it  had  overheard,  and  the  dreams  of  j 

melody  it  had  stirred  to,  was  gone  to  " and  scis-  j 

sois."     The  "  sun  was  (the  day  before)  shorn  of  his  j 
beams" — by  Cristadoro!     Mingled  with  the  hair  of, 
the  uninspired,  that  magic  lock  had  been  swept  into 
Broadway  from  the  floor  of  the  undiscriminating  bar 
ber,  and,  fallen  from  the  heaven  of  harmony,  is  now  ! 
sticking  to  the  wheels  of  omnibuses  in  a  purgatory 
of  Sysiphus.     Those  in  other  cities  who  remember 
the  toss  back  of  that  wild  lock  of  hair  in  the  convul 
sive  transitions  of  Ole  Bull's  music,  will  understand 
that  there  must  have  been,  emphatically,  a  spot  mis 
sing  on  his  luminous  face. 

Spite  of  politics  and  attractions  elsewhere,  the 
house  was  crammed;  and  in  spite  of  the  missing 
lock,  Ole  Bull  recovered  his  power  over  the  audi 
ence.  The  last  piece  he  played  was  electric,  and  the 
curtain  fell  amid  unlimited  plaudits. 


THE  PAY  FOR  PKRIODICAL-WRITING. — What  a 
butcher  would  think  of  veal,  as  a  marketable  article, 
if  everybody  had  an  ambition  to  raise  calves  to  give 
away,  is  very  near  the  conclusion  that  a  merely  busi 
ness-man  would  arrive  at,  on  inquiring  into  the  sale- 
ableness  of  fugitive  literature.  It  is  as  pleasant  for 
people  not  hackneyed  in  authorship  to  see  their 
thoughts  transferred  to  print,  as  it  is  for  beauties  to 
see  their  faces  transferred  to  canvass;  and,  if  custom 
ary,  most  contributors  to  periodicals  would  pay  the 
publisher  as  willingly  as  women  pay  the  portrait- 
painter.  Another  thing.  Females  are  naturally  fa 
cile  writers,  and  the  attention  paid  to  the  mental  cul 
ture  of  women  in  our  day,  has  set  their  thoughts 
a-flow  upon  paper,  as  the  letting  in  of  sunshine  upon 
the  dark  floor  of  the  forest  draws  to  the  surface  new 
springs  of  water.  These  facts  to  begin  with,  the 
reader  will  easily  understand  the  pourquoi  of  the^un- 
promising  literary  market  we  have  to  "  open  up"  to 
him. 

There  are  several  of  the  magazines  that  pay  for 
articles,  but  no  one  of  them,  we  believe,  pays  for  all 
its  contents.  Graham  and  Godey  (two  men  of  noble 
liberality  to  authors)  pay  prices  to  some  of  their  con 
tributors  that  would  far  outbid  the  highest  rates  of 
magazine-payment  in  England.  Their  prose-writers 
receive  from  two  to  twelve  dollars  a  page,  ?>nd  their 
poets  from  five  to  fifty  dollars  an  article.  The  Co 
lumbian  and  the  Ladies'  Magazine  also  pay  well. 
The  North  American  Review  used  to  think  it  liberal 
enough  to  pay  Edward  Everett  a  dollar  a  page.  All 
the  paying  magazines  and  reviews,  however,  reject 
fifty  articles  to  one  that  they  accept,  and  they  pay 
nobody  whose  "  name"  would  not  enrich  their  table 
of  contents.  In  point  of  fact,  but  for  Ike  necessity  of 
a  brag,  and  the  misfortune  that  a  writer,  once  made 
famous,  esteems  pay  a  desirable  manner  of  compli 
ment  (whether  he  wants  the  money  or  not),  the  liter 
ary  periodicals  in  this  country  might  do  well,  relying 
only  on  the  editor's  pen  and  the  epidemic  "cacoethes." 
The  Mirror  did  so — and  was  as  cleverly  contributed 
to,  we  think,  as  any  periodical  in  the  country.  The 
rejected  articles  (offered  to  us,  of  course,  as  a  gratu 
ity)  would  have  filled,  at  least,  a  barrel  a  month! 

Newspapers  pay  for  reporting  and  editing,  but  sel 
dom  or  never  for  "articles."     The  faror,  on  the  con 


trary,  of  giving  room  and  circulation  to  another  man's 
ideas,  is  growing  into  a  saleable  commodity — the  ed 
itor  (on  the  ground  that  he  risks  the  popularity  of 
his  paper  by  relinquishing  the  chance  of  a  better  ar 
ticle)  charging  rent  for  his  columns  instead  of  hiring 
a  tenant.  To  every  scheme  of  public  interest — to 
every  society — to  everything  which  newspapers  can 
hinder  or  further — there  is  attached  some  person  who 
is  both  desirous  and  able  to  present  the  subject 
forcibly  on  paper;  and,  quite  as  readily  and  zealously, 
if  there  be  an  objectionable  side  to  it,  springs  up  a 
pen-and-ink  caviller  in  opposition.  Between  them, 
and  with  the  desire  to  figure  in  print  which  besets 
very  many  able  men,  newspaper-editors  need  pay  for 
little  aid  except  eyewater  and  scissors,  and  they  get 
credit  for  a  world  of  zeal  in  good  causes  by  articles 
they  neither  write  nor  pay  for.  We  have  got  to  the 
footboard  of  our  Procrustes  bed. 


AUTHORS'  PAY  IN  AMERICA. — We  have  hot  coals 
smouldering  in  the  ashes  of  "  things  put  oft',"  which 
we  poke  reluctantly  to  the  surface  just  now — reluc 
tantly  only  because  we  wish  to  light  beacons  for  an 
author's  crusade,  and  we  have  no  leisure  to  be  more 
than  its  Peter  the  Hermit.  We  solemnly  summon 
Edgar  A.  Poe  to  do  the  devoir  of  Cceur  de  Lion — 
no  man's  weapon  half  so  trenchant!  And  now  lot 
us  turn  the  subject  round,  small  end  foremost. 

These  are  days  when  gentlemen  paint  their  own 
boots,  and  we  have  latterly  been  our  own  publisher. 
We  have  thereby  mastered'one  or  two  statistics  which, 
we  know  not  well  why,  never  looked  us  in  the  face 
before,  and  which  we  proceed  to  hold  up  by  the  nape 
of  the  neck  for  the  encouragement  of  the  less  stuffy 
or  less  inquiring.  Authors  who  can  not  find  publish 
ers,  and  authors  who,  having  found  them,  have  been 
as  much  respected  by  them  as  pig-iron  by  the  razor- 
maker,  are  invited  to  "lend  us  their  ears" — on  interest. 
What  proportion  should  an  author  have  of  the  net 
profits  of  a  book  1  This  seems  a  shallow  question 
enough^  but  there  is  a  deep  hole  in  it.  Remember, 
in  the  first  place,  that  the  author  wrote  the  book — 
that  God  gave  him  the  monopoly  of  the  vein  Irom 
which  it  is  worked— that  he  has  been  at  the  expense 
and  toil  of  an  education,  and  to  other  expenses  and 
toils— (as  in  travel)— that  his  mind's  lease  is  far  shorter 
than  his  lease  of  life— and  that  thoughtsmiths  should 
be  better  paid  than  blacksmiths  or  goldsmiths  (that  is 
to  say,  if  the  credit  the  work  does  to  the  country  goes 
for  anything  in  the  valuation).  The  question  of  the 
division  of  profit  is  between  author  and  publisher,  and 
the  publisher  gives  his  uneducated  mental  attention 
to  the  sale,  a  brief  use  of  his  credit  for  the  printing 
and  binding,  and  runs  a  most  partial  risk  as  to  the  re 
sult—for  he  need  not  purchase  the  book  except  in 
obedience  to  his  own  judgment  and  his  readers',  and 
the  cost  is  paid,  of  course,  before  there  are  any  "  net 
receipts."  (There  is  great  capital  made  of  this 
"risk,"  but  ninety-nine  books  in  a  hundred  more  than 
clear  expenses!)  Now,  taking  a  stereotyped  dollar- 
book  for  example,  the  plates,  worth  four  or  five  hun 
dred  dollars,  are  paid  for,  with  a  moderate ,  sale,  m^he 
first  month  Suppose  it  to  be  three  months.  Ine 
use  of  tl"e  Publisher's  credit  for  $500  for  ninety  days 
has  beea  his  only  outlay  of  consequence;  but  the 
author  has  had  his  outlay  of  brain-work,  time,  genius, 
and  years  of  education'  The  printing  and  getting 
up,  after  the  plates  are  paid  for,  cost  about  on, 
fifth  of  the  retail  ^rice-twenty  cents  on  a  dollar.  To 
charge  ten  cents  more  on  each  copy  for  the  absolute 
expense  of  selling  and  circulating,  is  more  than  lib 
eral  •  and  now,  how  shall  the  remaining  seventy  cents— 
the  net  Profit-ie  divided  between  author  and  pub- 
Usher  1 


150 


EPHEMERA. 


We  should  like  to  have  a  watchmaker's  answer  to 
that  question.  How  much  ought  the  jeweller  to  have 
for  buying  it  from  the  maker,  warranting  it  "to  go" 
after  examining  it,  for  advertising  it,  and  for  selling  it 
across  a  counter?  Suppose  the  watch  to  sell  for  a 
hundred  dollars,  and  seventy  dollars  to  be  the  net 
profit  above  cost  of  material.  What  would  you  say, 
if  the  maker  got  but  ten  or  twenty  dollars,  and  the 
retailer  fifty  or  sixty  ?  Yet  that  is  the  proportion  at 
which  author  and  bookseller  are  paid  for  literary  pro 
duction — the  seller  of  the  book  being  paid  from  twice 
to  five  times  as  much  as  the  author  of  it! 


Certainly,  the  readiest-minded  man  we  ever  knew, 
as  well  as  one  of  the  most  brilliant  and  highly  culti 
vated  conversationists,  is  Major  Dave/ac,  the  subject 
of  the  anecdote  below.  Never  was  a  man  more  out 
of  place  as  a  stump-orator  and  agitator,  well  as  he 
acquits  himself  in  these  turbulent  vocations.  It  is 
no'ne  of  our  business  to  discuss  that  point,  however. 
We  were  only  about  to  roll  the  anecdotical  snow-ball 
a  little  larger,  by  recording  a  bon  mot  of  the  major's, 
at  the  birth  of  which  we  chanced  to  be  present. 
Davezac  was  charge  at  Naples  in  eighteen  hundred 
and  some  time  ago,  and  French  being  the  language 
he  was  born  in,  his  wit  of  course  played  freely  in  the 
court  vernacular.  He  was  quite  the  idol  of  the  diplo 
matic  corps,  and  an  "indispensable"  at  all  dances  and 
masquerades.  We  were  dining  one  evening  in  his 
company  during  the  carnival.  The  major  sat  oppo 
site  to  us,  next  to  a  very  pretty  German  countess. 
During  the  procession  and  the  pelting  of  sugar-plums 
which  had  occupied  the  early  part  of  the  day,  the 
countess  had  received  a  slight  bruise  upon  her  cheek. 
Davezac  wore  court-plaster  on  his  lip — a  hit  also  from 
the  sugared  ammunition.  They  were  both  complain 
ing.  "_E/i,  Monsieur  Davezac"  said  the  countess, 
mournfully,  "  il  faut  reunir  nos  doulcurs  .'" — "  Oui, 
madam,  et  nos  blessures!"  replied  the  major  instantly, 
placing  his  lip  upon  the  cheek  of  the  surprised  suf 
ferer. 


COSMOPOLITE  ATTRACTION  IN  BROADWAY. — With 
in  a  few  doors,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Prince  street, 
are  collected  accidentally,  at  present,  four  most  vivid 
representations  of  four  very  distant  and  different 
countries — Spain,  India,  Paris,  and  Constantinople — 
the  " Alhamra,"  the  "Panorama  of  Madras,"  the 
"  Panorama  of  Paris,"  and  the  new  shop  of  "  Turk 
ish  curiosities."  He  who  wishes  to  realize  what  bal 
loons  are  to  do  for  us  in  '55,  can  astonish  and  con 
fuse  his  geographical  impressions  to  his  entire  satis 
faction,  by  a  visit  to  all  these  in  one  morning. 

The  Turkish  shop  has  articles  for  sale  that  could 
seldom  before  be  obtained  except  by  a  voyage  to  the 
Orient.  We  brought  some  curiosities  from  Constan 
tinople,  but  we  have  a  thousand  times  regretted,  since, 
that  we  had  not  quadrupled  our  purchases  in  the  bazars 
and  bezestein — so  much  were  the  articles  admired, 
and  so  impossible  was  it,  even  in  the  curiosity-shops 
of  Europe,  to  find  specimens  of  them.  No  person 
who  is  luxurious  in  personal  habits  would  willingly 
be,  for  example,  without  the  Turkish  shirts — having 
once  seen  them.  They  are  the  poetry  of  neglige 
costume — the  idealized  romance  of  the  drapery  of 
dishabille.  Those  who  have  time  to  make  a  luxury 
of  dressing-room  or  boudoir — the  beautiful  and  idle 
of  either  sex— should  take  a  look  at  the  gossamer 
shirts  from  Constantinople.  But  there  are  all  man 
ner  of  things  in  this  shop  beside.  There  are  beauti 
ful  gold-embroidered  slippers,  small  carpets  and  otto 
man-cloths,  attars  in  gold  bottles,  gold-embroidered 
handkerchiefs  and  gilded  pastilles— everything,  in 


short,  that  one  buys  of  old  Mustapha,  near  the  Hip 
podrome  in  Stamboul,  confectionary  included.  We 
inquired  after  old  Mustapha  yesterday,  and  the  Greek 
who  keeps  the  shop  (who  was  himself  a  confectioner 
in  Constantinople)  delighted  us  with  talking. of  him, 
as  if  he  had  seen  him  yesterday  !  Picturesque  and 
jolly  old  turbaned  Mustapha! — what  fun  it  was  to 
have  the  curtain  lifted  by  his  grinning  Abyssinian  in 
anklets  and  wristlets,  and  step  into  the  back  shop  to 
take  coffee  and  try  his  essences!  It  quite  came  over 
us  like  a  dream  yesterday — the  chat  with  this  Broad 
way  Constantinopolitan.  If  you  have  any  curiosity, 
dear  reader,  call  and  taste  the  confectionary  at  this 
shop,  and  look  at  the  translucent  shirts,  and  see  the 
Persian  inkstands,  and  handle  the  graceful  cimeters, 
and  look  at  the  Brusa  silks  and  seraglio  slippers — in 
short,  see  Constantinople — for  that  is  a  palpable  slice 
of  it! 


JUMPING  THE  PEW. — We  were  once  in  the  gallery 
of  a  country  church  when  an  address  was  to  be  de 
livered  to  a  Sunday  school.  The  body  of  the  house 
was  reserved  for  the  adult  audience,  and  the  boys  were 
confined  to  one  of  the  side  aisles.  There  was  evident 
ly  an  understanding,  however,  that  if  not  otherwise 
wanted,  the  well-cushioned  seat  facing  the  chancel 
was  to  be  given  up  to  as  many  lads  as  could  occupy  it. 
It  would  hold,  perhaps,  twenty,  and  a  hundred  of 
them  were  packed  in  the  aisle  like  figs,  waiting  till  the 
class  leader  at  the  head  should  "  open  up."  Looking 
on  with  some  amusement,  we  found  our  eye  arrested 
by  the  bright  face  of  a  lad,  half  way  down,  who  bore 
the  keeping  back  very  impatiently.  His  struggles  to 
pass  the  other  boys  were  vehement,  but  of  no  use. 
He  was  slight,  and  his  neighbors  were  bold  and  sturdy. 
Presently  he  bit  his  lips,  entered  a  pew,  jumped  the 
partition  into  the  central  aisle,  and  walked  round  to 
the  front.  There  was  a  murmur  of  indignation  among 
the  boys,  and  a  general  smile  among  the  spectators, 
but  he  secured  his  pick  of  seats.  The  clergyman,  in 
the  course  of  his  address,  thought  proper  to  get  up 
an  impromptu  colloquy,  and,  to  the  evident  annoyance 
of  the  other  boys,  selected  the  pew-jumper,  who  sat 
just  before  him,  for  the  honor.  The  lad  arose,  when 
questioned,  and  surprised  the  whole  audience  with 
the  clearness  of  his  replies.  He  sat  down  amid  gene 
ral  applause,  and  (whatever  reproof  he  got  in  private 
for  his  daring)  he  was  the  envied  hero  of  the  day.  We 
have  often  since  had  the  successful  boldness  of  this 
lad  recalled  to  our  memory  by  the  class  of  things  it 
illustrates,  and  our  mental  reply,  after  reading  a  let 
ter  to  which  this  was  the  preface,  was — "Better  jump 
the  pew  !" 

Our  correspondent  can  not  get  a  hearing  from  the 
public !  Few  things  are  more  difficult.  "  We  have 
not  read  his  book,  but  it  may  be  excellent  snuff  to 
keep  a  fame  going,  and  yet  not  the  stuff  to  start  one. 
Genius  is  expected  "  never  to  go  into  the  water  till  it 
knows  how  to  swim" — never  to  expect  to  be  read  but 
for  having  been  read  before  !  With  any  degree  of 
ability,  more  or  less,  it  is  easy  to  be  almost  hopelessly 
overlaid.  We,  ourself,  are  a  very  humble  example. 
We  "jumped  the  pew"  unconsciously,  in  England, 
with  our  furiously  abused  "  Peucillings,"  and  imme 
diately  sold,  for  the  highest  price,  an  edition  of  "  Ink 
lings  of  Adventure" — a  series  of  tales  that  had  fallen 
still-born  into  the  lap  of  Boston,  and  for  the  first  print 
ing  of  which  we  paid  more  than  a  thousand  dollars  on 
our  return  to  their  birth-place.  Instances  of  "jump 
ing  the  pew"  will  occur  to  every  observer  of  men — 
every  reader  of  biography.  It  is  the  shabby  door  to 
many  a  path  of  glory.  Almost  every  profession  begins 
with  a  dilemma — hope  deferred,  or  a  pew  to  jump  I 
The  starving  lawyer  in  the  west,  who  flogged  his 
neighbor  to  have  a  case  to  plead,  jumped  the  pew  ! 


EPHEMERA. 


151 


The  veteran  Buckingham,  one  of  the  most  judicious, 
able  and  respected  editors  in  the  country,  was  starving 
in  Boston,  when  he  "jumped  the  pew"  with  the  abu 
sive  "Galaxy" — making  himself  read  from  terror  till 
he  was  famous  enough  to  be  read  for  merit.  The 
game  is  dangerous,  however,  and  the  principle  lies 
in  most  questionable  neighborhood.  For  one  who 
would  succeed  in  it  there  are  ninety-nine  who  would 
fail,  and  failure  is  hopeless  extinction  !  The  pew  can 
be  jumped  but  once.  The  attention  of  the  public  can 
be  but  once  summoned  by  a  rude  pluck  at  its  beard  ; 
and,  to  keep  attention  long  enough  to  have  the  rude 
ness  forgotten,  there  must  be  merit  that  the  public 
would  regret  overlooking — merit,  indeed,  of  which  the 
neglect  was  injury  enough  to  justify  violent  extrication. 


THE  MIRROR  STEAM-PRESS. — It  would  be  curious 
not  to  lose  sight  of  the  Latin  word,  dropped  for  transla 
tion  into  the  scholar's  ear,  till  it  re-appears  in  English 
on  his  tongue,  but  a  half-hour's  watching  of  the  steam- 
press  on  which  the  Mirror  is  printed  would  be  hardly 
a  less  instructive  spectacle  of  contrivance.  To  com 
plete  the  assimilation  of  the  second  process  to  the 
first,  it  would  have  been  necessary,  till  lately,  to  em 
ploy  a  boy  to  pull  the  word  off  the  scholar's  tongue  ; 
but,  by  the  ingenuity  of  R.  HOE  &  Co.,  the,  great 
organ  of  public  opinion  is  endowed  with  a  happy  de 
livery  of  its  own— laying  off  the  sheet  that  was  printed 
and  ready  for  utterance',  that  is  to  say,  and  drawing  in 
its  iron  tongue,  unaided,  to  be  laden  with  the  mean 
time  coinage  of  another. 

The  improvements  in  printing-presses  within  the 
last  ten  or  fifteen  years  are  probably  far  less  remark 
able  than  some  other  progresses  of  mechanic  inven 
tion,  yet  they  are  wonderful  enough  to  use  up  quite 
as  much  curiosity  as  it  is  comfortable  to  find  epithets 
for,  in  a  day.  The  difference  between  the  old  Ramage 
press,  and  the  steam-miracle  in  our  present  office,  is 
peculiarly  impressive  to  ourself.  There  is  a  small 
bar  of  iron  in  this  press  which  fulfils  precisely  the 
same  destiny  to  which  we  were  at  one  time  devoted. 
We  were  considered  in  an  exemplary  line  of  life  while 
performing  exactly  its  office— that  of  inking  the  type 
—during  a  long  year  of  disgust  with  Latin— (when  a 
sensible  papa  took  us  at  our  word,  and  allowed  us  to 
prefer  a  trade  to  a  satchel !) 

The  ink  was  in  those  days  kept  in  a  wooden  box, 
and,  with  two  stuffed  leather  balls,  a  boy  or  man,  be 
side  the  press,  distributed  it  over  the  face  of  the  type, 
while  the  pressman  was  fixing  the  sheet  for  the  impres 
sion.  We  remember  balling  an  edition  of  "  Watts's 
Psalms  and  Hymns,"  which  it  took  weeks  to  print, 
and,  by  the  same  token,  there  are  lines  in  that  good 
book  of  which  we  caught  glimpses  on  the  "  frisket," 
that,  to  this  day,  go  to  the  tune  we  played  with  the 
ink-balls  while  conning  them  over  !  Reviving  ambi 
tion  sent  us  back  to  school,  however,  and  invention 
soon  after  superseded  the  ink-boy's  elbows  (encum 
bered  with  a  stomach),  by  a  bit  of  machinery  that 
neither  required  to  be  fed,  nor  committed  verses  to 
memory  while  inking  the  type  !  This  getting  rid  of 
the  boy  was  the  peculiarity  of  the  Smith  press,  and 
then  followed  the  Napier  press,  which  dispensed  with 
the  man,  and  needed  only  the  tending  of  two  girls  or 
boys;  and  now  (thanks  to  Mr.  Hoe),  we  have  a  steam- 
press,  which  puts  up  three  iron  fingers  for  a  sheet  of 
white  paper,  pulls  it  down  into  its  bosom,  gives  it  a 
squeeze  that  makes  an  impression,  and  then  lays  it  into 
the  palm  of  an  iron  hand  which  deposites  it  evenly  on  a 

faap at  the  rate  of  two  thousand  an  hour  !    We  often 

stop  with  curiosity  to  look  at  the  little  arrangement 
which  does  the  work  our  elbows  have  ached  with,  and 
we  think  the  Mirror  press  altogether  is  a  sight  worth 
your  coming  to  see,  dear  reader  ! 


THE  FIRST  DAY  OF  THE  WORLD'S  NEW  LEASE 
was  clasped  upon  the  last  yesterday  of  the  completed 
series,  by  as  glorious  a  retiring  moon,  and  as  brilliant 
a  rising  sun,  as  were  ever  coveted  by  the  "  old  gray- 
beard,"  at  whose  funeral  they  are  to  be  the  expiring 
candles.  A  finer  night  than  last  night — a  finer  day 
than  to-day — never  relieved  watch  upon  the  "tented 
heavens."  We  stood  looking  up  a  steeple  from  our 
bed-room  window  at  midnight  (having  first  finished 
an  article  for  to-day's  paper,  upon  the  venture  of  its 
being  wanted),  and  we  stood  shaving  at  the  same 
window  when  the  gold  smile  of  the  unexpected  sun 
rise  called  upon  the  surprised  weather-cock  to  look 
about  him  as  usual !  We,  therefore,  certify  to  the 
world's  coming  honestly  by  its  "situation."  Go  about 
your  business,  oh,  mankind  ! 

Coming  down  the  front  steps  of  the  Astor,  at  half- 
past  six,  we  naturally  enough  took  a  look  up  Broad 
way,  to  see  if,  perchance,  some  blessed  change  in  the 
pavement  might  not  give  the  first  sign  of  anew  Jerusa 
lem.  But  if  the  sapphire  paviors  had  called  upon 
Mayor  Harper,  he  had  struck  at  something  in  the 
contract.  The  old  holes  were  there,  with  stones  of 
the  accustomed  complexion — (chafed  "trap,"  minera- 
logically  speaking) — and  the  mud  evidently  unaware 
of  a  miracle.  But,  hey!  now!  WHAT!  a  rainbow 
across  Broadway?  ?  Could  we  believe  our  eyes? — 
a  many-colored  arch  completely  spanning  the  street, 
hung  with  flowers,  and  men  walking  over  it!  !  Was 
an  advent  forthcoming,  after  all  ? 

While  we  write,  that  Advent  is  in  progress  !  It  is 
the  ADVENT  OF  YOUTH — JUVENOCRACY  IN  THI  AS 
CENDANT!  A  flowery  arch  spans  the  breadth  of 
Broadway,  and  under  it  winds,  at  this  moment,  the 
procession  in  honor  of  first  maturity — manhood  in 
youth  !  It  scarce  needed,  it  is  true,  that  the  world 
should  be  born  again  before  its  new  monarch  should 
make  formal  entry.  It  was,  ten  years  ago,  discovered 
in  France — two  years  ago  in  England — last  year  in 
America — that  the  gray  head  icas  only  the  wisest  while 
there  were  no  books  but  experience  !  That  which  men 
once  waited  to  know  till  the  hair  was  silvered,  is  now 
taught  the  child  at  school — conned  in  the  ambitious 
dream  of  the  youth  in  his  puberty.  The  world  has 
"  hung  fire"  in  other  ages,  from  the  damp  of  burnt- 
out  enthusiasm  spread  like  a  blanket  over  its  brain- 
powder.  Improvement  has  gone  upon  crutches. 
Action  waited  for  enterprise  to  cough.  Courage 
stayed  to  fumble  for  spectacles.  The  forenoou 
shadows  of  the  sun  of  human  intellect  were  of  un 
trustworthy  measure,  and  the  dial  to  begin  to  ivork  by 
was  shadowed  till  post-meridian  ! 

Without  touching  upon  the  political  articulation  in 
"  the  roar  of  the  Young  Lion,"  we  MARK  THE  EPOCH 
—the  epoch  of  "  Young  France,"  "  Young  England," 
"  Young  America  !"  We  could  show,  had  we  time, 
how  strikingly  the  peculiar  habits  of  our  land  have 
more  prepared  us  than  other  countries,  for  the  sover- 
ei<rnty  of  YOUTH!  We  have  no  time  now.  We  must 
go"  forth  with  the  crowd  and  see  the  bright  cheek  and 
curling  beard  of  the  Young  Monarch  in  his  hour  of 
triumph.  The  cannon  are  pealing  !  The  drums 
shake  upon  the  prophetic  sunshine  in  th 

"  HaU  to  the"  YOUTH  "  that  in  triumph  advances  ."' 
12  o'clock.— We  have  been  to  Broadway.  The 
procession  is  soon  to  form.  The  mounted  marshals 
3f  the  day  are  galloping  to  and  fro  with  their  nbanded 
insiznia—the  pictorial  outside  of  the  Museum  is  per 
fectly  embroidered  with  petticoats  (a  charming  relief!) 
thg  windows  on  both  sides  of  Broadway  are  cram 
med  with  gnyly-dressed  spectators-the  500  Boston 
voung  men  (fine,  wholesome-looking  fellows,  who 
certainly  do  credit  to  their  "  parsley  bed"),  are  assem 
bled  with  their  badges  in  front  of  the  Astor— the  town 
is  full  of  what  the  ladies  would  call  "  handsome  young 


152 


EPHEMERA. 


strangers" — the  omnibuses  carry  flags — the  whole 
street,  from  the  triumphal  arch  to  the  pinnacles  of 
Trinity,  looks  impassable  with  the  glittering  crowd. 
"We  never  saw  comparable  preparation  for  a  festal 
march.  It  will  be  a  day  to  be  remembered — mocked 
at,  perhaps,  as  the  first  after  a  millenial  crisis,  but 
glorified  as  the  first  in  the  great  era  of  Youthfulhood  ! 


MASS  MEETING  OF  NEWSBOYS. — We  may  be  per 
mitted,  perhaps,  to  please  our  friends  with  the  an 
nouncement  that  we  at  least  stand  well  upon  the  side 
walk  !  The  exhaustion  of  our  large  edition  at  four 
o'clock,  yesterday  afternoon,  and  a  general  return  of 
the  newsboys  from  their  routes  with  eager  demands 
for  more,  occasioned  a  multitudinous  holding  of 
counsel  among  those  piping  potentates,  and  to  the  as 
tonishment  of  our  corner  and  the  neighborhood,  the 
assembled  varlets  actually  gave  the  Evening  Mirror 
three  cheers  !  We  bow  to  the  tattered  vox  populi,  and 
own  the  soft  impeachment.  Gentlemen  newsboys  ! 
give  us  your  hand  (with  a  newspaper  between !)  and 
permit  us  to  offer  you  a  business  suggestion.  Aston 
ish  one  of  your  insinuating  number  with  a  white  shirt, 
and  try  the  new  trick  of  selling  us  with  a  smile  to  the 
ladies  !  Call  him  the  ladies'  boy,  and  treat  him  deli 
cately  when  he  is  dressed  and  can't  afford  the  results 
of  your  familiarity  !  Your  powerful  body  amounts  at 
present  to  some  three  or  four  hundred,  and  your 
profits  will  soon  tempt  the  competition  of  older  gen 
tlemen,  unless  you  find  more  worlds  to  conquer. 
Hurrah  for  the  ladies,  gentlemen  (waving  whatever 
you  have  to  represent  a  pocket-handkerchief) — and 
now,  if  you  will  graciously  withdraw  your  attention, 
we  would  speak  to  those  over  whom  you  have  the  ad 
vantage  of  youth. 

We  have  to  thank  the  press  all  over  the  country  for 
the  most  flattering  mention  and  the  kindest  encour 
agement.  Our  own  craft  seem  to  love  us.  We  thought 
of  quoting  some  of  their  felicilous  notices,  but  our 
grateful  pride  would  thus  fall  into  a  shape  used  for 
puffing,  and  we  shrink  from  the  medium.  Thanks  to 
our  friends — simply  but  fervently. 


GOLD  INKSTAND  TO  THE  AUTHORESS  OF  THE  SCOT 
TISH  CHIEFS. — The  works  of  JANE  PORTER  have 
probably  brought  more  money  into  the  hands  of 
booksellers  than  those  of  any  writer  except,  per 
haps,  Scott,  and  at  this  moment  steam-presses  are 
employed  in  printing  large  editions  of  her  delight 
ful  novels.  An  enthusiastic  man,  a  great  admirer 
of  Miss  Porter,  has,  for  the  second  time,  started  a 
subscription  among  the  booksellers  of  this  city  to  pre 
sent  her  with  a  gold  inkstand,  and  the  Harpers,  Ap- 
plelons,  Langleys,  and  others,  have  subscribed  with 
enthusiastic  liberality.  Perhaps  a  description  of  Jane 
Porter  with  a  little  of  her  hitherto  unwritten  history  may 
not  be  unacceptable. 

Miss  PORTER  was  the  daughter  of  a  gallant  English 
officer,  who  died,  leaving  a  widow,  and  three  children, 
then  very  young,  but  all  destined  to  remarkable  fame 
Sir  ROBERT  KER  PORTER,  JANE  PORTER,  and  ANNA 
MARIA  PORTER.  Sir  Robert,  as  is  well  known,  was 
the  celebrated  historical  painter,  traveller  in  Persia, 
soldier,  diplomatist,  and  author,  lately  deceased.  He 
went  to  Russia  with  one  of  his  great  pictures  when 
very  young,  married  a  wealthy  Russian  princess,  and 
passed  his  subsequent  years  between  the  camp  and 
diplomacy,  honored  and  admired  in  every  station  and 
relation  of  his  life.  The  two  girls  were  playmates 
and  neighbors  of  Walter  Scott.  Jane  published  her 
"  Scottish  Chiefs"  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  and  became 
immediately  the  great  literary  wonder  of  her  time. 


Her  widowed  mother,  however,  withdrew  her  imme 
diately  from  society  to  the  seclusion  of  a  country 
town,  and  she  was  little  seen  in  the  gay  world  of  Lon 
don  before  several  of  her  works  had  become  classics. 
Anna  Maria,  the  second  sister,  commenced  her  admi 
rable  series  of  novels  soon  after  the  first  celebrity  of 
Jane's  works,  and  they  wrote  and  passed  the  brightest 
years  of  their  life  together  in  a  cottage  retreat.  The 
two  sisters  were  singularly  beautiful.  Sir  Thomas 
Lawrence  was  an  unsuccessful  suitor  to  Anna  Maria, 
and  Jane  (said  by  Sir  Martin  Shee  to  have  been  the 
handsomest  woman  he  ever  saw)  was  engaged  to  a 
young  soldier  who  was  killed  in  the  Peninsula.  She 
is  a  woman  to  have  but  one  love  in  a  lifetime.  Her 
betrothed  was  killed  when  she  was  twenty  years  of 
age,  and  she  has  ever  since  worn  mourning,  and  re 
mained  true  to  his  memory.  Jane  is  now  the  only 
survivor  of  her  family,  her  admirable  mother  and  her 
sister  having  died  some  twelve  or  fourteen  years  ago, 
and  Sir  Robert  having  died  lately,  while  revisiting 
England  after  many  years'  diplomatic  residence  in 
Venezuela. 

Miss  Porter  is  now  near  sixty.  She  has  suffered 
within  the  last  two  or  three  years  from  ill-health,  but 
she  is  still  erect,  graceful,  and  majestic  in  person,  and 
still  possessed  of  admirable  beauty  of  countenance. 
Her  large  dark  eyes  have  a  striking  lambency  of  lus 
tre,  her  smile  inspires  love  in  all  who  see  her,  and  her 
habit  of  mind,  up  to  the  time  we  last  saw  her  (three 
or  four  years  ago),  was  that  of  rejlccting  the  mood  of 
others  in  conversation,  thinking  never  of  herself,  and 
endeavoring  only  to  make  others  shine,  and  all  this 
with  a  tact,  a  playfulness  and  simplicity,  an  occasional 
unconscious  brilliancy  and  penetration,  which  have 
made  her,  up  to  sixty  years  of  age,  a  most  inter 
esting,  engaging,  and  lovely  woman.  We  have  had 
the  good  fortune  to  pass  several  months,  at  different 
times,  under  different  hospitable  roofs,  with  Jane 
Porter,  and,  considering  the  extent  of  her  charm, 
over  old  and  young,  titled  and  humble,  masters  and 
servants,  we  sincerely  think  we  never  have  seen  a 
woman  so  beloved  and  so  fascinating.  She  is  the 
idol  of  many  different  circles  of  very  high  rank,  and 
passes  her  time  in  yielding,  month  after  month,  to 
pressing  invitations  from  the  friends  who  love  her. 
The  dowager  queen  Adelaide  is  one  of  her  warmest 
friends,  the  highest  families  of  nobility  contend  for 
her  as  a  resident  guest,  distinguished  and  noble  for 
eigners  pay  court  to  her  invariably  on  arriving  in 
England,  she  has  been  ennobled  by  a  decree  of  the 
king  of  Prussia,  and  with  all  this  weight  of  honor  on 
her  head,  you  might  pass  weeks  with  her  (ignorant  of 
her  history)  without  suspecting  her  to  be  more  than 
the  loveliest  of  women  past  their  prime,  and  born  but 
to  grace  a  contented  mediocrity  of  station. 

This  is  an  impartial  and  truthful  sketch  of  the  cele 
brated  person  for  whom  the  above-mentioned  compli 
ment  is  intended.  We  trust  it  may  find  her  alive,  and 
with  her  accustomed  bright  smile  upon  her  lips — God 
guard  and  preserve  her  ! 


RocKiNG-CHAiRCTcelNKSTANDrm'§-«<Y/.  We  gave, 
"by  authority,"  an  account  of  a  subscription  paper, 
the  purpose  of  which  was  to  present  to  Jane  Porter 
an  inkstand  of  gold.  Our  publisher-mayor  Mr.  Har 
per,  headed  the  list  with  $40.  We  wrote  a  paragraph 
on  the  subject,  and  the  same  evening  were  called  to 
see  a  rocking-chair  into  which  the  inkstand  had  been 
suddenly  converted  by  a  rub  against  the  Aladdin's  lamp 
of  propriety.  We  went  into  Meeks's  museum  of 
sumptuous  furniture,  and  the  chair  was  disrobed,  for 
us,  of  a  beautiful  chintz  cover  presented  to  Miss  Por 
ter  by  Messrs.  Meeks,  the  makers.  The  chair  is  a 
bijou.  The  model  is  appropriately  Elizabethan — (a 


EPHEMERA. 


153 


chair  for  the  virgin  queen  of  English  romance,  made 
in  the  style  of  the  virgin  queen  of  English  history) — 
the  carving  in  rosewood  relief,  and  the  lining  of  crim 
son  velvet.  The  exact  model  of  the  chair  was  sent 
to  Queen  Victoria  not  long  since,  as  a  specimen  of 
American  furniture,  by  a  club  of  English  gentlemen. 
The  cadcau  goes  out  consigned  by  the  mayor  of  New  j 
York  to  the  lord-mayor  of  London,  for  his  worshipful 
presentation,  Mr.  Griswold,  the  packet  owner,  giving 
it  an  honorary  passage.  The  following  letter,  written 
on  parchment  and  sealed  with  the  city  arms,  accom 
panies  it : — 

"  NEW  YORK,  October  28,  1844. 

"  DEAR  MADAM  :  The  undersigned,  booksellers, 
publishers,  and  authors,  of  the  city  of  New  York, 
have  long  felt  desirous  of  transmitting  to  you  a  me- 
mori-il  of  the  high  and  respectful  admiration  which 
they  entertain  for  one  to  whose  pen  we  are  indebted  j 
for  some  of  the  purest  and  most  imaginative  produc 
tions  in  the  wide  range  of  English  literature.  As  the 
authoress  of  '  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,'  the  '  Scottish 
Chiefs,'  &c.,  your  name  has  spread  over  the  length 
and  breadth  of  our  land,  and  the  volumes  of  your  de 
lightful  works  may  be  found  gracing  alike  the  abodes 
of  the  wealthy,  and  the  humble  dwellings  of  the 
poor.  And  deservedly  so — for  if  purity  of  sentiment, 
felicity  of  expression,  and  the  constant  inculcation  of 
the  noblest  lessons  of  religion  and  morality,  be  any 
passport  to  literary  fame,  then  will  the  name  of  Miss 
Porter  rank  high  on  the  list  of  those  whom  the  present 
age  delights  to  honor,  and  for  whom  coming  ages 
will  entertain  a  deep  feeling  of  reverential  esteem. 

"Regarding  you,  therefore,  as  that  one  among  the 
writers  of  our  time  who  first  opened  up  the  path  that 
has  been  since  further  embellished  by  the  kindred 
genius  of  a  Scott,  we  take  the  liberty,  as  well  on  our 
own  behalf  as  in  the  name  of  thousands  of  American 
readers  to  whom  your  charming  productions  have 
taught,  in  so  graceful  and  captivating  a  manner,  the 
lessons  of  true  virtue,  of  presenting  you  with  the  ac 
companying  testimonial  of  our  sincere  and  grateful 
esteem. 

"We  have  the  honor  to  remain,  dear  madam, 

"  Your  obedient  servants, 
"  JAMES  HARPER,  Mayor  of  New  York, 
W.  H.  APPLETON,         DANIEL  APPLETON, 
CHAS.  S.  FRANCIS,         S.  B.  COLLINS, 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS." 

We  have  still  another  light  to  throw  upon  this  fa 
mous  chair.  The  WOOD,  without  which  it  might  not 
have  been  built,  did  not  come  from  the  West  Indies 
in  planks  of  amyris  balsamifcra  (rosewood),  but  from 
Canandaigua,  in  the  shape  of  a  gentleman  whose 
heart  distils  a  better  balsam — of  courtesy!  We  first 
heard  of  Mr.  Wood  and  the  proposed  presentation  of 
an  inkstand,  from  Miss  Porter  herself.  She  inquired 
whether  we  knew  Mr.  Wood,  and  gave  us  the  history 
of  his  project  to  compliment  her,  apropos  of  promis 
ing  us  a  sight  of  barrels  of  jirescnts  which  had  show 
ered  upon  her  from  all  parts  of  the  world.  She  ex 
pressed  a  most  simple-hearted  delight  in  the  extent 
of  her  American  reputation,  and  wished  to  see  a  copy 
of  one  of  the  American  editions. 

On  our  return  to  this  country  we  found  a  small 
copy  of  the  "  Scottish  Chiefs,"  almost  illegible  with 
grease  and  thumbing,  in  the  kitchen  of  a  remote  tav 
ern  in  Pennsylvania.  We  sent  it  to  her  with  a  little 
water  added  unintentionally  to  its  romance — having 
fallen  overboard  with  it  in  our  pocket  while  ferrying  a 
skiff  across  the  Susquehannah.  By  the  way,  let  us 
here  record  an  act  of  liberality  in  an  English  pub 
lisher,  which  is  apropos  of  this  present  from  the 
American  bibliopoles.  We  were  one  day  requested 
by  Mr.  George  Virtue,  the  enterprising  publisher  of 
the  American  Scenery,  to  be  the  bearer  of  a  message 
to  Miss  Porter.  He  wished  to  publish  her  Scottish 


Chiefs  in  a  beautifully-embellished  edition.  The  copy 
right,  by  English  law  limiting  duration,  had  long  since 
expired — but  Mr.  Virtue  wished  to  give  Miss  Porter 
ei/JOO — one  thousand  dollars — FOR  HER  FORMAL  CON 
SENT.  The  check  was  sent  the  next  day,  and  the 
edition,  one  of  tho  must  superb  specimens  of  embel 
lished  edition  in  the  language,  is  since  completed. 
The  old  proverb  says  of  a  burn, 

"  Rub  it  to  Wood, 
It  will  come  to  good," 

and  we  had  a  burn  at  our  fingers'  end  as  to  the  real 
mover's  getting  his  share  of  the  credit  of  this  compli 
ment  to  Miss  Porter.  There  is  little  enough  enthu 
siasm  for  others'  glory  in  the  world — little  enough  to 
prevent  all  fear  of  surfeit  by  mention.  We  have  re 
corded,  therefore,  against  his  express  orders,  the  dis 
interested  zeal  of  WILLIAM  WOOD  in  this  matter. 


THE  OVERCOAT  DILEMMA. — We  have  received  a 
note  from  a  dismayed  tailor  in  a  thriving  inland  town 
of  Massachusetts,  begging  us,  "  for  charity's  sake," 
to  inform  him  "what  is  the  fashion  for  overcoats." 
He  protests  that  the  models  sent  him  from  the  city 
are  inelegant  and  unbecoming — and  he  begs  us  to  in 
quire  of  some  dandy,  regnant  or  ci-detant,  as  to  the 
existence,  among  knowing  men,  of  some  outer  habili 
ment  more  becoming  than  the  prevailing  type.  This 
is  our  summing  up  of  his  wishes  as  expressed  in  a  let 
ter  of  three  pages. 

Before  venturing  to  tamper  with  so  ticklish  a  sub 
ject,  let  us  fortify  the  ground  by  an  extract  from  a 
very  grave  and  well-considered  lecture  on  the  "  Changes 
of  the  Fashions,"  lately  delivered  before  a  lyceum  in 
Portsmouth  : — 

Although  the  inventors  of  new  fashions  and  the 
leaders  in  them  are  highly  culpable  for  the  injury 
they  do  society — yet  nine  tenths  of  those  whom  we 
see  in  fashionable  attire  are  persons  on  whom  no  im 
putation  can  be  cast :  neither  is  there  one  in  a  hun 
dred  of  their  dressmakers  or  tailors,  hatters  or  cord- 
wainers,  who  are  deserving  a  breath  of  censure  for  do 
ing  their  work  in  a  fashionable  style.  So  powerful 
an  impetus  has  been  moving  the  fashionable  world, 
that  no  individual  can  with  safety  hold  up  a  resisting 
hand.  Nothing  but  a  combined  strength  can  over 
come  it. 

Common  sense  asks — why  is  it  that  a  coat  of  a  few 
years'  standing,  with  a  broad  back  and  long  waist, 
which  the  prudent  man  has  kept  for  his  holyday 
wear,  is  not  as  really  valuable  as  one  in  which  the 
seams  are  more  nearly  allied,  or  the  buttons  placed  in 
a  different  position  ? 

Public  opinion  replies — the  man  is  not  in  fashion. 
The  observers  point  him  out  among  the  multitude — 
"There  is  a  sample  of  old  times'*— "  There  goes  a 
miser  who  can't  afford  a  new  coat :"  and  a  soft  voice 
whispers  as  he  passes — "  I  wonder  who  would  have 
that  old-fashioned  man !"  How  frequently  is  the 
public  sympathy  excited  for  an  adroit  rogue  in  fash 
ionable  attire,  who  has  received  the  just  sentence  of 
the  law — while  the  poorly-clad  culprit  by  his  side, 
not  more  guilty,  passes  almost  unpitied  to  the  gal 
lows. 

Thus  to  be  out  of  fashion  a  man  is  generally  re 
garded  as  wanting  in  spirit  or  purse  ;  and  it  becomes 
a  matter  of  necessity  for  a  modest  man,  who  wishes 
to  elude  the  notice  of  the  world,  to  follow  along  in 
the  wake  of  fashion.  However  much  a  person  in 
common  life  may  be  disgusted  with  its  fluctuations, 
he  must  bear  the  imputation  of  vanity,  and  in  some 
degree  lose  his  influence  in  society,  if  he  either  has  a 
new  dress  made  in  an  old  style,  or  for  convenience 
appears  in  any  new  clothing  which  is  made  more 


154 


EPHEMERA. 


with  a  view  to  general  utility  than  in  subservience  to 
fashion. 

With  this  warrant  for  giving  a  grave  opinion  on  the 
subject,  we  proceed  to  huddle  together  our  kersey 
mere  ideas  as  follows  : — 

The  sack-coat  belongs  to  the  climate  of  England, 
and  is  wholly  desoriente.  in  ibis  country.  It  was  in 
vented  as  a  kind  of  body-umbrella  in  which  elegant 
men  could  pass  unwet  from  club  to  cab,  in  that  cli 
mate  of  eternal  moisture,  and  was  never  meant  to  be 
used  but  as  a  garment  of  transit.  A  dandy  bien  poinlu 
in  his  kid  and  varnish  extremities,  may  certainly  walk 
the  street  safely  in  a  sack-coat,  as  his  quality  would  be 
known  by  his  gloves  and  boots  only,  were  he  other 
wise  parenthesized  in  a  barrel.  But,  unless  redeema 
ble  by  the  point  of  his  boot  or  a  finger  of  his  glove,  no 
man  is  "  dressed"  in  a  sack.  By  universally  making 
sack-coats  of  coarse  cloth  in  England,  they  class  them 
very  definitely  with  hackney-coaches  and  umbrellas — 
temporary  conveniences  of  which  the  material  is  by 
no  means  a  point  of  honor. 

In  England,  however,  dandies  dress  to  drive,  and  in 
this  country  they  dress  to  walk,  and,  of  course,  it  is 
more  important  here  that  the  street  coat  should  be  'be 
coming  to  the  shape  than  is  thought  necessary  in  Eng 
land.  The  paletot  (for  a  description  of  which  see 
"  Scott's"  authentic  "  Mirror  of  Fashion")  is  becom 
ing  to  men  of  fine  carriage,  and  the  "  Taglioni,"  when 
cut  into  the  back  adroitly,  is  becoming  to  slender  fig 
ures.  In  the  present  anarchy  of  overcoat,  however, 
every  man  can  choose  for  himself,  and  our  pastoral 
querist  of  the  shears,  we  venture  to  assure  him,  is 
perfectly  safe  in  first  suiting  his  customers,  and  then 
swearing  it  to  be  the  fashion.  We  would  just  hint, 
in  conclusion,  that  there  is  a  mixture  of  cloak  and 
overcoat  that  we  have  seen  on  a  "  slap-up"  man  lately 
from  Paris,  and  this  chanced  to  hit  our  weakness. 
Any  man  who  has  genius  in  his  shears  will  require  no 
broader  hint  of  what  the  combination  looks  like  ! 


YOUNG  MEN'S  PROCESSION. — The  procession  of 
yesterday,  was  less  remarkable  for  its  numbers  (esti 
mated  at  3,000)  than  for  the  unusual  interest  taken  in 
it  by  the  spectators — the  enthusiasm  of  the  ladies  and 
more  quiet  lookers-on,  and  the  boundless  heartiness 
of  the  cheers  by  the  people  in  the  streets.  The  quali 
ty  of  the  general  feeling,  to  our  thinking,  was  more 
nearly  up  to  the  warmth  of  the  Lafayette  Ovation, 
than  any  procession  that  has  taken  place  since.  We 
remarked,  also,  that  in  the  escorts  and  cavalcade,  there 
was  a  large  mixture  of  fashionable  young  men,  which 
is  a  new  feature  in  the  public  processions  of  this  city. 
There  were  also  more  clergymen,  who  had  errands  in 
town  and  about  the  streets,  than  usual — the  white 
cravat  in  rather  uncommon  proportion.  Altogether, 
we  think  the  bed  of  this  new  party  has  a  longer  and 
broader  blanket — covering  higher  toward  the  fastidious 
public  head,  and  falling  more  kindly  upon  the  service 
able  public  feet — than  any  new-party  blanket  spread 
within  our  recollection.  Youth  is  beloved.  Its  hopes 
are  contagious.  Its  opinions  are  supposed  free  from 
selfishness.  Its  ardor  is  credited  with  inspiration. 
The  party  of  youth,  whenever  it  is  combined  for  one 
object,  must  triumph,  it  seems  to  us — for  it  carries 
with  it  an  outside  atmosphere  of  electric  sympathies 
exclusively  its  own,  while,  within,  it  has  the  energy 
of  enthusiastic  first  manhood,  and  confidence  unsub 
dued  by  experience. 


OPENING  OF  THE  RAILROAD  TO  WHITE  PLAINS. — 
The  first  rush  of  blood  through  the  heart  of  Pygma 
lion's  statue,  and  the  first  rush  of  a  rail-car,  on  Satur 
day,  through  the  bosom  of  the  Bronx  valley,  would 


seem  to  us  a  well-matched  fable  and  fact,  were  not  the 
fact,  both  as  a  surprise  and  a  change,  more  electric 
than  the  fable.  To  realize  it,  one  must  get  at  the  way 
it  is  looked  at  by  the  rustic  dwellers  in  the  plains  be 
yond.  They  were  called  upon  to  believe  that  a  city 
which  has,  all  their  lives,  been  four  hours  distant, 
"  good  driving,"  would,  after  the  forthcoming  celebra 
tion,  be  slid  up  to  within  one  hour,  "easy  going." 
Their  potatoes  are  to  glide  to  market,  and  coal  and 
groceries  to  glide  back,  with  magical  facility — their 
women-folks  are  to  go  to  town,  stop  and  get  home  be 
tween  dinner  and  supper — the  morning  newspapers 
are  to  arrive  from  New  York  a  little  after  breakfast — 
the  citizens  are  to  come  out  by  hundreds  for  an  after 
noon  walk — New  York,  in  short,  is  four  times  as  near 
as  it  used  to  be,  only  the  land  is  not  knocked  away  be 
tween  !  A  gentleman  told  us,  just  before  the  cars 
started  on  their  return,  from  White  Plains,  that  the 
country-people,  around,  were  not  only  incredulous  as 
to  the  completion  of  the  road,  up  to  the  time  of  the 
arrival  of  the  cars,  but  that  they  still  (6  o'clock 
P.  M.)  looked  upon  the  whole  affair — celebration, 
train,  music  and  guns — as  a  humbug  lhat  could  never 
hold  out — got  up  for  some  Millerite  or  political  hocus- 
pocus,  and  to  end  only  in  the  ruin  of  their  credulous 
neighbors  ! 

To  start  fair,  however.  We  were  invited  to  join 
the  worshipful  society  of  aldermen,  bank-directors, 
stockholders,  and  judiciary,  who,  on  Saturday  after 
noon,  were  to  invade,  for  the  first  time,  by  public  rail 
road,  the  virgin  seclusion  of  the  White  Plains.  The 
access,  through  the  valley  of  the  Bronx,  promised  some 
thing  attractive  in  the  way  of  landscape,  and  there 
was  a  pull  out  of  town  in  the  soft  air  of  the  morning. 
We  were  at  the  cars  punctually  at  one,  found  a  friend 
inside,  and  a  band  of  music  a-top,  and  rolled  away 
from  the  City  Hall  with  a  double  momentum — steam 
to  draw  the  cars,  and  the  gentlemen  in  the  cars  who 
are  drawn  on  for  the  steam  !  We  went  on  our  musi 
cal  way  through  Centre  street,  embellishing  it  (by  the 
beauty  attracted  to  the  chamber-windows)  as  the  moon 
brightens  the  clouds  in  passing  through,  and  with  a 
momentary  chill  from  the  deserted  propriety  of  streets 
up-tovvn,  were  soon  in  the  fields — fields  by  the  way, 
which  are  secured  to  Nature  and  shorn  of  their  chief 
value  (nearness  to  town)  by  the  railroad  which  makes 
fields  beyond  quite  as  come-at-able. 

We  gave  Harlem  an  outbreak  of  music  in  passing 
through,  stopped  a  moment  at  Williams'  bridge,  where 
the  road  has  hitherto  terminated,  and  then  proceeded 
upon  the  new  track  through  the  Bronx  valley.*  The 
scenery  for  the  next  twelve  miles  was  as  primitive  and 
fresh  as  if  a  three-days'  journey  lay  between  it  and  a 
great  city — the  most  unconscious  looking  old  water- 
mills  on  the  stream,  the  woods  and  hill-sides  with  a 
look  most  innocent  of  snob  and  suburb,  and  a  univer 
sal  gape  of  amazement  on  the  faces  of  cottagers  and 
their  cows.  The  seclusion  and  thorough  country  of 
the  whole  twelve  miles  were  enchanting,  and  we  prom 
ised  ourselves  a  ramble  to  twenty  successive  nooks 
that  we  saw  (and  twenty  successive  times  of  course 
had  occasion  to  remember  that  we  had  become  a 
utensil  of  daily  use,  labelled  "never  to  be  taken  out 
of  the  kitchen  !"  We  are  sorry  to  say  the  grass  will 
probably  do  pretty  well  without  us,  now,  till  we  disturb 
it  to  ask  leave  to  pass  under.) 

The  hill-sides  suddenly  fell  back  and  we  glided  into 
an  open  plain,  where  two  or  three  hundred  rustic- 
looking  people  were  assembled — six  or  seven  of  them 

*  The  road,  from  a  few  miles  above  the  Harlem  river,  fol 
lows  the  valley  of  the  Bronx,  a  small  stream,  taking  its  rise 
near  Rye,  and  sometimes  dignified  by  the  name  of  a  river. 
We  believe  that  it  was  contemplated  by  the  British  govern 
ment,  at  one  time,  to  form  a  court  of  inquiry,  to  try  the 
British  admiral  for  not  ascending  the  Bronx  river  with  his 
fleet,  and  destroying  the  army  of  General  Washington,  then 
lying  near  White  Plains. 


EPHEMERA. 


155 


busy  on  a  knoll  near  by,  ramming  a  welcome  up  a  gun. 

The  report  rang  as  the  engine  slopped,  and White 

Plains  was  cosmopolized  !  Out  jumped  Wall  street 
and  City  Hall.  An  old  negro  and  his  very  old  wife 
commenced  furiously  opening  oysters  at  a  bench  near 
bv.  The  cars  stood  in  the  middle  of  a  corn-field. 
The  country  people  gathered  around  and  looked  hard 
at  the  boots  of  the  company.  Two  or  three  barrels 
of  crackers  were  rolled  over  the  corn-hills  to  a  new 
stable  building  in  the  field.  Everybody  from  the  city 
seemed  exclusively  occupied  with  smelling  the  plough 
ed  ground.  Horses  were  tied  to  the  fences  all  about. 
The  landscape  (breasted  with  fine,  fertile  hills,  and 
having  the  White  Plains  for  its  lap),  was  slumbering 
in  a  soft  haze,  with  just  sunshine  enough  to  content 
a  man  who  would  be  contented  without  it,  and  al 
together  the  scene  was  simple  and  fresh  near  by,  and 
the  distance  more  picturesque  than  the  name  of 
"  White  Plains"  had  suggested. 

On  the  floor  of  the  new  barn,  half  boarded  and 
nearly  shingled,  were  spread  four  long  tables,  laden 
with  a  very  profuse  and  substantial  repast,  and,  in 
fifteen  minutes  after  arrival,  the  president  was  in  his 
place,  and  the  stockholders  and  their  guests  seated 
and  "  in  a  fair  way"  to  be  enthusiastic.  After  a  round 
or  two  of  champagne,  the  president's  health  was  drank 
and  his  report  called  for — but  we  will  give  the  statistics 
in  another  paragraph. 

Pretty  sure  of  hearing  the  report  and  reading  the 
speeches  "  in  the  way  of  business,"  we  accepted  the 
invitation  of  Mr.  Lyon,  and  drove  to  his  beautiful 
residence,  near  by — a  Gothic  cottage  of  most  absolute 
taste,  a  sketch  of  which  we  had  seen  in  the  new  edi 
tion  of  "  Downing's  Rural  Architecture."  It  is 
enough  to  make  one  doubt  all  the  ills  of  life  to  see 
such  a  place  to  pass  it  in.  The  table-land  of  the 
White  Plains  lies  behind  the  house,  and  a  valley — 
folded  slope  over  slope,  and  sunk,  knoll  below  knoll — 
drops  away  from  the  lawn  in  front,  showing  miles  of 
wild-wood  and  fertile  fields,  with  a  shady  glen  leading 
away  to  the  left — the  whole  combination,  for  an  inland 
view,  unsurpassed  in  variety  and  beauty.  The  cottage 
is  in  the  Tudor  style,  faultless  within  and  without. 
We  wish  we  had  time  and  space  to  say  more  of  it  and 
its  surroundings.  We  should  add  that  Mr.  Lyon  has 
been  the  zealous  apostle  of  the  road,  and  that  a  pro 
cession  was  formed  after  the  collation  to  make  him  a 
complimentary  visit.  They  went  to  his  house,  pre 
ceded  by  the  band,  but  were  unfortunately  missed  by- 
Mr.  Lyon,  who  was  conducting  his  friends  back  by  a 
shorter  path  across  the  fields. 

The  White  Plains  moon  rose  to  see  us  off,  and,  as 
we  got  under  way  with  music  and  cheers,  she  added 
another  full  face  to  the  gazing  rustics,  and,  when  last  , 
seen,  was  apparently  climbing~up  on  a  barrel  to  look  I 
over  the  spectators'  shoulders.     As  she  was  in  town 
when  we  arrived  at  half  past  nine,  and  as  there  were  [ 
no  ladies  invited  by  the  directors,  she  must  have  got 
a   ride  somehow  behind,  and  whatever  the  conductor 
may  say  (for  we  know  her  well  !)  the  paying  her  pas 
sage  was  probably  "  all  moonshine." 


LABOR  AND  BRAINS. — We  hear  much  about  "  pro 
tection  for  labor,"  and  very  little  about  protection  for 
Irains — (except  in  the  way  of  a  hat).  The  working 
men,  those  who  use  their  hands  skilfully  and  industri 
ously,  have  many  advocates  of  their  claims.  The 
politicians  and  the  law-makers  and  the  newspaper 
press,  take  up  their  cause  loudly  and  sincerely,  but 
those  who  "  can  not  dig,"  who  are  "  ashamed  to  beg" 
and  have  nothing  but  their  brains— their  intellect,  to 
depend  upon — are  whistled  down  the  wind,  "the  prey 
to  fortune." 

One  class  of  these  luckless  personages,  is  that  of 


editors  and  assistant  editors,  and  their  remuneration  is 
not  only  inadequate,  generally  speaking,  to  their  sup 
port,  but  far  below  their  real  merit.  What  would  the 
newspaper  press  of  this  city  be  but  for  these  men  ? 
Nothing  !  They  are  the  indirect  means  of  giving  a 
livelihood  to  thousands,  and  are  never  thanked  for  it. 
For  example.  We  know  of  a  newspaper  in  this  city 
which  owes  its  success  to  a  small  corps  of  editors, 
whose  whole  pay  is  about  two  thousand  dollars  per 
annum.  If  they  should  withdraw  their  aid,  the  paper 
icould  stop  beyond  a  question. 

Let  us  see  what  their  brains  do  for  others.  The 
paper-makers  receive  from  the  establishment.  818,000 
a  year.  The  compositors  receive  about  §10, 000  more 
— the  reporters  and  clerks  about  83,000  more.  The 
type-makers  and  ink-manufacturers  about  $2,000  more. 
And  this  expenditure  goes  on  from  year  to  year.  It 
would  be  utterly  impossible  for  this  $32,000  to  be  re 
ceived  and  expended  in  this  way,  but  for  the  talent  and 
tact  of  two  or  three  persons  connected  with  the  paper. 
A  large  number  of  persons  is  actually  supported  by 
their  brains,  and  yet  there  is  not  one  among  the  num 
ber  thus  supported,  who  does  not  think  his  own  person 
al  labor  and  toil,  far  more  important  and  praiseworthy 
than  that  of  the  men  who  actually  furnish  them  with 
employment!  This  is  the  justice  of  the  world  !  This 
is  the  result  of  the  ridiculous  notions  prevailing,  that 
the  lifting  of  the  sledge-hammer  is  more  deserving  of 
reward  than  the  skill  which  guides  its  blows.  Me 
chanical  labor  of  all  kinds  is  better  paid  than  literary 
labor,  and  it  is  time  that  just  impressions  prevailed  on 
this  subject.  Let  us  honor  the  working  men,  but 
when  they  are  aided  by  talent  and  literary  industry, 
they  should  honor  them  in  return. 

The  editorial  corps  are  making  the  fortunesof  many 
newspaperand  magazine  establishments  in  this  country, 
and  yet  many  men  of  talent  are  starving  under  the 
effort. 


PORTRAIT  OF  WORDSWORTH  Bt  HENRY  LNMAN — 
Without  wishing  to  compare  our  great  painter  to  a 
worm — except  as  having  used  up  one  system  (of  artis 
tic  ideas)  and  being  fairly  on  wing  in  a  new  one — we 
think  the  worm  in  chrysalis  and  its  emergent  new 
creature  very  fair  types  of  the  Inman  that  was,  in 
America,  and  the  Inman  that  is,  in  England.  Before 
this  time  we  think  he  would  have  gone  abroad  prema 
turely.  Genius  requires  to  complete  its  first  identity 
— to  ripen  fully — to  acquire  the  perfection  of  com 
mand  over,  and  familiarity  with,  its  in-born  peculiari 
ties—before  trusting  itself  in  a  sphere  which  is  both 
removed  from  habit  and  aids  to  concentration,  and 
bewildering  with  the  glitter  and  supremacy  of  other 
models.  No  matter  what  the  pursuit,  there  is  a 
natural  mental  chrysalis— a  time  after  completed  man 
hood,  when  a  change  of  scene,  change  of  habits, 
change  of  influences,  external  and  internal,  renew  the 
life  of  both  mind  and  body,  open  chambers  in  the  soul 
hitherto  unseen,  and  incredibly  beautify  and  enrich 
the  whole  existence.  How  many  painters  have  we 
seen  confirmed  into  tame  copyists— crushed  by  the 
weight  of  the  masters  above  them— by  going  abroad 
ha  new-born  style  just  struggling  into  shape  and 
seeming  of  its  own!  In  a  minor  way,  how  many 
characters  are  smothered  by  being  forced  into  a  too 
trying  element  of  society  before  completing  their 
natural  idiosyncrasy! 

Power  went  abroad  at  the  right  stage  of  his  exis 
tence  as  a  sculptor— Grenough,  perhaps,  too  early. 
Inman  might,  possibly,  have  gone  earlier,  with  equal 
advantage.  He  has  been,  for  some  time,  gaining  little 
in  his  art.  The  easily-given  and  ill-weighed  praise 
of  our  country  had  long  ago  satiated  him.  He  had 
little  stimulus  beyond  the  profit  of  his  pencil.  But 
the  mind  that  lies  fallow  under  such  torpor,  ripens  and 


156 


EPHEMERA. 


collects  richness  under  the  surface,  and  ploughed 
again,  before  it  is  mastered  by  weeds  and  tangle,  it 
shows  wondrous  fertility  and  vigor. 

We  have  put  down,  now,  what  passed  through  our 
mind  while  looking  yesterday  at  a  head  of  Words 
worth,  which  is  just  received  from  Inman.  It  is  a 
masterly  piece  of  work,  though  but  a  sketch.  The 
truth  to  nature  convinces  you  that  it  is  an  infallible 
portrait,  without  your  ever  having  seen  the  original. 
It  is  Wordsworth.  It  is  the  shell  of  the  meat  in  his 
books.  His  feeblenesses  and  his  philosophic  sim 
plicities  are  there.  You  see  how  he  came  to  write 
what  we  have  read.  He  has  done  his  own  portrait — 
a  faithful  copy,  in  poetry,  of  the  same  as  this  on  can- 
ass.  Majestic  and  weak,  wise  and  silly,  far-sighted 
and  credulous  old  man  !  He  looks  like  his  poetry, 
and  to  a  man  who  could  read  characters  as  some  do, 
there  would  be  nothing  new  in  his  books  after  seeing 
Inman's  picture,  nor  any  surprise  in  Inman's  picture, 
after  seeing  his  books. 


What  will  Broadway  be  like,  with  omnibuses  exclu 
ded,  and  two  lines  of  railcars  plying  its  entire  length  ? 
Where  will  the  tracks  be? — both  in  the  middle, 
or  one  on  each  side?  If  the  latter,  how  will  car 
riages  stand  by  the  sidewalk  with  safety?  If  the 
former,  will  there  be  room  left  for  two  carriages  to 
pass  each  other  on  either  side?  Will  not  the  fre 
quent  taking-up  and  setting-down  of  passengers,  and 
the  consequent  hinderance  of  cars  behind,  make  the 
passage  up  and  down  tediously  slow?  These  are 
questions  that,  with  sundry  others  on  the  same  sub 
ject,  will  furnish  table-talk  to  the  city  for  the  ensuing 
week — the  announcement  of  the  corporation's  inten 
tion  to  have  a  railroad  there  being  yesterday  made 
public.  Let  us  mumble  about  it  a  little.  The  slow 
ness  of  the  motion  would  justify  a  very  narrow  track. 
By  placing  the  seats  lengthwise,  and  back  to  back, 
the  cars  themselves  might  be  made  very  narrow,  and 
with  a  roof  overhead,  and  no  sides  (or  sides  remova 
ble  in  fair  weather),  passengers  might  easily  jump  on 
and  off,  and  be  sufficiently  protected.  They  will 
probably  stop  for  passengers  at  the  crossings  only. 
The  fare  will  be  taken  by  a  boy  inside,  as  soon  as  the 
passenger  is  seated,  to  prevent  delay.  We  shall  have 
the  comfort  (sitting  back  to  back)  of  not  becoming  so 
compulsively  acquainted  with  anybody's  face,  breath, 
knees,  and  umbrella.  Our  chances  of  being  the  sub 
ject  of  a  coroner's  inquest  will  be  diminished  100  per 
cent. — the  present  rate  and  manner  of  omnibus-driving 
having  (we  presume)  nearly  doubled  the  cost  of  life-in: 
surance  to  those  who  live  in  the  upper  part  of  the  city. 
There  will  probably  be  fast  lines  established  in  the 
streets  nearly  parallel  to  Broadway,  and  the  great  tide 
of  human  life,  now  concentrated  in  one  thoroughfare, 
will  be  divided  into  three.  McNair  &  Scarpa,  and 
other  sellers  of  "  acoustic  oil,"  will  languish  under 
the  suspended  deafening  of  Broadway,  and  that  charm 
ing  lounge  will  be  once  more  susceptible  of  enjoy 
ment  by  walk  and  talk.  The  danger  of  prying  off  a 
wheel  upon  the  railtrack,  or  coming  in  contact  with 
the  cars,  will  deter  the  timid  from  taking  their  car 
riages  into  Broadway,  and  we  shall  meet  all  the  pretty 
shopperesses  on  foot  (the  greatest  Amelia-ration)! 
The  "Kipp&  Brown"  'buses  will  be  obliged  to  come 
down  Church  street,  and  have  their  terminus  at  the 
corner  of  Fulton  street  and  Broadway — or  (query?) 
will  the  lower  part  of  Broadway,  between  the  Park 
and  Bowling-green,  be  necessarily  left  open  to  the 
converging  lines  from  east  and  west? 


"Taglioni  is  coming  to  this  country."     So  say  the 
papers ;  and  if  it  prove  true,  we  shall  see  the  differ- 


ence  between  the  apparent  efforts  of  a  football  and  a 
balloon — between  common  and  rarefied  air  (in  manner 
as  well  as  in  motion) — between  a  smile  which,  beauti 
fully  dissected  from  the  muscles  that  might  else  move 
it,  is  left  stereotyped  upon  the  face,  and  a  smile  timid, 
natural,  and  impulsive — in  short,  the  difference  be 
tween  the  "divine  Fanny"  and  the  womanly  Taglioni. 
(We  prefer  a  woman  to  "  a  divinity"  any  day  !)  Like 
all  women  permitted  to  be  desirably  famous,  Taglioni 
paid  the  inexorable  penalty  of  being  undesirably 
mated.  She  has  amassed  a  fortune  or  two  from  the 
"gold  dust"  at  the  toe  of  her  white  slipper — dissipa 
ted,  they  say,  without  pity,  by  her  husband,  and  she 
has  at  last  cut  him  (in  toto),  and  goes  entirely  upon 
her  own  legs.  We  hope  they  and  the  Cunard  pad 
dles  will,  indeed,  bring  her  to  this  country.  In  see 
ing  any  other  stage-exhibition,  one  is  conscious  of 
the  seat  he  sits  on  and  the  trouble  of  holding  his  hat. 
To  see  Taglioni  is  to  be  in  a  trance,  during  which 
one  might  almost  be  content  with  the  seat  of  St. 
Lawrence — on  a  gridiron.  We  shall  remember  (talk 
ing  of  seats),  "while  memory  holds  her  seat"  (and 
has  any  pleasure  in  sitting  on  it),  the  first  performance 
of  La  Sylphide  at  Paris — by  far  the  most  entrancing 
I  and  intoxicating  spectacle  we  ever  witnessed.  We 
venture  to  refer  the  reader  to  our  description  of  it  in 
"  Pencillings."  We  wonder  whether  Taglioni  will 
come  !  Echo — "  come  !" 


MAJOR  NOAH  AND  HIS  APOLOGY  FOR  THE  Cuuci- 
FIXION. — Our  friend,  the  lecturer  on  the  Restoration, 
has  written  us  a  letter,  phrased  with  great  forbearance 
and  kindness,  but  finding  grievous  fault  with  our  yes 
terday's  notice  of  his  discourse  at  the  Tabernacle. 
His  letter  is  too  long  to  publish,  as  he  requests,  but 
we  will  give  its  substance,  and  leave  out  only  his  ex 
pressions  of  good  will.  He  says  he  "understood 
from  a  friend  that  we  were  fast  asleep  before  the  lec 
ture  commenced,  and  slept  throughout  the  whole  of 
it."  With  his  letter,  the  major  sent  us  a  copy  of 
the  Mirror  with  the  objectionable  passages  of  our  re 
port  underlined.  Here  they  are: — 

"  Major  Noah  arose  and  commenced  with  an  apolo 
gy  for  the  Jews  as  to  the  crucifixion  of  our  Savior." 

"With  the  exception  of  his  very  adroit  disparage 
ment  of  the  Savior,"  &c.,  &c. 

Some  extracts  from  the  lecture,  copied  from  his 
MS.  into  the  Express,  were  also  sent  us  by  the  ma 
jor,  and  we  extract  the  page  which,  in  the  deliveiy, 
impressed  us  as  represented  in  our  objectionable  sen 
tences. 

"The  Jews  were  amazed,  perplexed,  and  bewil 
dered  at  all  they  saw  and  heard.  They  knew  Jesus 
from  his  birth:  he  was  their  neighbor;  they  knew  his 
father  Joseph,  and  Mary  his  mother,  his  brothers, 
James  and  Judas;  he  was  in  constant  intercourse 
with  his  brethren  in  their  domestic  relations,  and  sur 
rounded  by  their  household  gods;  they  remembered 
him  a  boy,  disputing,  as  was  the  custom,  most  learn 
edly  with  the  doctors  in  the  temple ;  as  a  man  pursu 
ing  to  the  age  of  thirty,  the  modest  and  laborious 
calling  of  his  profession;  and  yet  he  proclaimed  him 
self  the  Son  of  God,  and  performed  most  wonderful 
miracles,  was  surrounded  by  a  number  of  disciples, 
poor,  but  extraordinary  gifted  men,  who  sustained  his 
doctrines,  and  had  an  abiding  faith  in  his  mission ; 
he  gathered  strength  and  followers  as  he  pro 
gressed  ;  he  denounced  the  whole  nation,  and  proph- 
ecied  its  destruction,  with  their  altars  and  temples; 
he  preached  against  whole  cities,  and  proscribed 
their  leaders  with  a  force  which,  even  at  this  day, 
would  shake  our  social  systems.  The  Jews  became 
alarmed  at  his  increasing  power  and  influence,  and 
the  Sanhedrim  resolved  to  become  his  accuser,  and 


EPHEMERA. 


157 


bring  him  to  trial  under  the  law  as  laid  down  in  the 
13th  of  Deuteronomy. 

"  In  reflecting  deeply  on  all  the  circumstances  of 
this,  the  most  remarkable  trial  and  judgment  in  his 
tory,  I  am  convinced,  from  the  whole  tenor  of  the 
proceedings,  that  the  arrest,  trial,  and  condemnation 
of  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  was  conceived  and  executed  un- 
•ler  a  decided  panic" 

Now  it  seemed  to  us,  and  it  seems  to  us  (for  we^are 
wide  awake  now),  that  to  represent  the  Son  of  God, 
while  on  a  mission  from  Jehovah  for  the  salvation  of 
a  world,  made  the  victim  of  a  "  decided  panic"— the 
"earth  quaking,  the  rocks  rent,  the  sun  darkened,  the 
graves  opened,  and  the  veil  of  the  temple  rent  in 
twain,"  as  the  consequence  of  a  "decided  panic,"  un 
der  the  influence  of  which  the  Jews  had  crucified  one 
whom  they  "knew  as  a  boy,"  and  as  an  industrious 
laborer — this  does  seem  to  us  a  "disparagement  of  the 
Savior,"  and  of  the  dignity  of  his  mission,  and  it 
docs  seem  to  us  as  intended  to  "apologise  for  the 
Jews."  What  other  aim  or  relevancy  has  this  very 
new  and  original  reason  for  the  crucifixion,  but  to 
apologise  for  the  act? 

As  this  is  the  "first  time  for  centuries"  that  the 
Jews  have  had  »n  apologist,  our  readers  will  be  inter 
ested  to  know  more  particularly  how  the  crucifixion 
is  defended.  We  therefore  yield  to  our  own  wish, 
and  give  the  following  more  extended  extract  from 
Major  Noah's  lecture,  underlining  those  passages 
which  we  oflendingly  described  as  "adroit  disparage 
ment,"  and  "  apology  for  the  Jews:"— 

•«  The  title  of  God  was  a  title  of  power  and  domin 
ion,  and  frequently  was  conferred  by  the  Almighty 
himself  on  earthly  rulers.  '  See,  I  have  made  thee  a 
God  to  Pharaoh,'  as  God  supreme  said  to  Moses. 
Son  of  God  ivas  a  title  frequently  conferred  on  those  of 
distinguished  piety  and  learning,  and  on  those  posses 
sing  the  emanations  of  the  divinity,  and  this  title  the 
apostles  themselves  carry  out  in  their  writings. 

"'The  Son,'  'My  Son,'  not  the  Father;  the  hu 
manity,  not  the  divinity,  the  image  of  the  invisible 
God,  not  ihe  invisible  God  himself;  and  as  Paul  said, 
there  is  one  God  and  one  mediator  between  God  and 
man.  Could  the  Almighty  delegate  a  mediatorial 
character  to  any  one  on  earth?  Who  can  doubt  it  ? 
God  said  to  Moses,  '  Behold,  1  send  an  angel  before 
thee  to  keep  thee  in  the  way ;  provoke  him  not,  for  he 
will  not  pardon  your  transgressions,  for  my  name  is 
in  him;  my  spirit  is  in  him.'  It  was  not  therefore  al 
together  on  the  charge  of  Jesus  having  catted  himself 
Son  of  God,  that  the  Sanhedrim  accused  and  con 
demned  him  ;  political  considerations  mingled  them 
selves,  and  in  a  measure  controlled  the  decision  of  the 
council,  and  this  is  demonstrable  from  the  declaration 
of  Caiaphas  himself,  as  stated  in  the  Gospel:  '  Better 
that  one  man  should  die  than  that  the  nation  should 
be  destroyed.' 

"  It  was  the  sedition,  and  not  altogether  the  blasphe 
my,  the  terror  and  apprehension  of  political  overthrow, 
which  led  to  conviction,  and  this  political  and  national 
characteristic  ivas  maintained  throughout ;  it  was  that 
consideration  which  induced  the  Jews  to  urge  upon  Pi 
late  a  confirmation  of  the  sentence.  It  was  the  charge 
of  assuming  the  prerogatives  of  Cesar,  not  the  name 
of  the  Divinity,  which  overcame  the  well-founded  ob 
jections  of  the  Roman  governor,  and  crucifixion  itself 
was  a  Roman  and  not  a  Jewish  punishment.  The 
opprobrious  insults  heaped  upon  the  master  came 
from  the  Roman  soldiers,  and  that  mixed  rabble, 
which,  even  in  our  day,  desecrate  all  that  is  held  sa 
cred. 

"  I  place  these  most  absorbing  events  before  you 
my  countrymen,  not  to   contrast  things  sacred  wit! 


timidity,  their  hesitation,  without  even  a  ray  of  hope; 
a  people  so  venerable  for  their  antiquity,  so  beloved 
and  protected  for  their  fidelity,  on  the  very  threshold 
of  political  destruction. 

"  It.  is  not  my  duly  to  condemn  the  course  of  our  an 
cestors,  nor  yet  to  justify  the  measures  they  adopted 
ity ;  but  if 


in  that  dire  extremity 


if  there  are  mitigating  cir- 


umstanccs,  I  am  bound  by  the  highest  considerations 
which  a  love  of  truth  and  justice  dictates,  to  spread 
them  before  you,  at  the  same  time  to  protest  against 
any  entailing  upon  us,  the  responsibility  of  acts  com 
mitted  eighteen  hundred  years  ago  by  our  fathers,  and 
thus  transmit  to  untold  generations  the  anger  and  ha 
tred  of  a  faith,  erroneously  taught  to  believe  us  the 
aggressors. 

"  The  Jews,  my  friends,  were  but  the  instruments 
of  a  higher  power,  arid  in  rejecting  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  we 
have  a  great  and  overwhelming  evidence  of  the  infinite 
ivisdom  of  (he  Almighty.  Had  they  acknowledged  him 
as  their  'Messiah  at  that  fearful  crisis,  the  whole  na 
tion  would  have  gradually  sunk  under  the  Roman 
yoke,  and  we  should  have  had  at  this  day  paganism 
and  idolatry,  with  all  their  train  of  terrible  evils,  and 
darkness  and  desolation  would  have  spread  over  the 
earth.  But  the  death  of  Jesus  was  the  birth  of 
Christianity  ;  the  Gentile  church  sprang  from  the  ru 
ins  which  surrounded  its  primitive  existence;  its 
march  was  onward,  beset  with  darkness  and  difficul 
ties,  with  oppression  and  persecution,  until  the  Sun 
of  Reformation  rose  upon  it,  dissipating  the  clouds 
of  darkness  which  had  obscured  its  beauties,  and  it 
shone  forth  with  a  liberal  and  tolerant  brightness, 
such  as  the  Great  Master  had  originally  designed  it. 
Had  not  that  event  occurred,  how  would  you  have  been 
saved  from  your  sins?  The  Jews  in  this  did  nothing 
but  what  God  himself  ordained,  for  you  will  find  it 
written  in  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles,  'And  now,  breth 
ren,  I  know  that  through  ignorance  ye  did  it,  as  did 
also  your  rulers  !'" 

We  leave  it  to  any  Gentile  (saved  by  the  "decided 
political  panic"  of  the  Jews  under  Caiaphas),  whether 
it  was   not   reasonable   enough — at   least  for  a  man 
i  »fast  asleep" — to  fancy  he  could  detect  in  the  above 
argument,  an  "apology  for  the  Jews,"  and  a  "dispar 
agement  of  the   Savior."     We  were  quite  too   fast 
'  asleep  to  detect  anything  else! 

No,  dear  major,  we  were  not  "  asleep"  when  this 
was  delivered!     Our  head  was  down — for  you  had 
1  two  unshaded  lamps,  looking  like  blazing  earrings,  on 
either  side  of  your  benevolent  head,  and  our  eyes 
as  weak  as 


your  heartstrings — but  we  went  to  the 
Tabernacle,  not  only  with  the  interest  of  friendship 
for  yourself,  but  with  high  excitement  in  the  unpar 
alleled  background  of  your  theme  !  We  could  not  tell 
you,  without  a  seem'ing  rhapsody — we  could  not  trust 
ourself  to  record,  out  of  blank  verse — the  scope  your 
subject  seemed  to  possess,  the  tragic  sublimity  of 
your  position,  the  climax  of  events  you  wished  to  be 
instrumental  in  bringing  to  a  close,  and  the  interest 
that  might  be  awakened  in  the  Christian  world  by  an 
eloquent,  life-devoted,  fervent  apostle  of  the  restora 
tion  !  There  is  no  theme  for  eloquence  with  a  thou 
sandth  part  of  the  pathos,  depth,  splendor,  -and  pres 
ent  convergent/  of  this  !  Heavens  !  what  a  theme  ! 
The  key  of  tlie  whole  Christian  era !  The  winding 
up  of  a  cycle  of  two  thousand  years  numbered  from 
the  crucifixion!  The  close  of  the  one  expiation 
which  is  the  theme  of  scripture-prophecy,  and  with 
the  closing  of  which  comes  in  the  millenial  glory, 
and  the  renewal  of  Paradise  on  earth!  This  theme, 
on  the  lips  of  genius,  one  would  think — genius  ac 
cursed  eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  and  to  be  one  of 
the  forgiven  at  the  second  coming  of  the  Messiah — 

'those~whYch  are  profane,  but  that  you'should  under-  might  burn  like  the  fire  upon  the  lips  of  Paul,  and 
tand  The  exact  position  of  the  Jews  at  that  time;  ||  turn  all  eyes  toward  waiting  Jerusalem.  This  was 

their  painful  situation,  their  prostrate  condition,  their  ll  the  view  of  the  subject  with  which  we  went  to  the 


158 


EPHEMERA. 


Tabernacle,  dear  major! — almost  envying  you  your 
qualification  by  birth  for  the  using  of  it.  We  mean 
no  disrespect  in  our  notice.  W^e  were  only  a  little 
disappointed  and  annoyed  that  you  did  not  kindle  into 
a  crusader,  or  try  on  Peter  the  Hermit,  till  we  gazec 
at  you,  spite  of  your  earrings  ! 

And  now — ("  to  step  out  of  the  carriage  and  see 
ourselves  go  by") — you  are  wrong  if  you  are  right 
major,  and  right  if  you  are  wrong  !  If  your  Jewisl 
creed  be  right,  you  are  wrong  to  deny  its  manifest  de 
duction.  If  your  Jewish  creed  be  wrong,  you  are 
right  in  wishing  to  explain  it  away.  But  you  can 
not  have  your  cake  and  eat  it,  too.  You  can  not  rec 
oncile  the  church  with  the  synagogue,  nor  can  you 
lecture  palatably  and  frankly  from  the  synagogue  to 
Christians.  The  time,  at  least,  is  not  come.  "  At 
the  end  of  the  world"  (says  a  commentator  on  the  Bi 
ble),  "  Christ  will  unite  the  church  with  the  syna 
gogue,  the  Jew  with  the  Christian,  the  Christian  with 
the  Gentile  ;  then  all  things  will  be  restored  to  a  per 
fect  union,  and  there  will  be  but  one  shepherd  and 
one  flock." 


PRICES  OF  WOMEN — COLD  AND  WARM. — A  lovely 
female  slave,  warm  from  the  mountains  of  Circas; 
and  warranted  not  to  be  second-hand,  may  be  bought 
at  Constantinople  for  three  hundred  dollars.  A  lovely 
female  statue,  cold  from  the  marble  mountains  of  Car 
rara  (and  spotless  as  the  snow,  without  a  doubt),  was 
lately  sold  by  Mr.  Power  to  the  Hon.  William  Pres 
ton,  for  three  thousand  dollars.  Something  would 
seem  to  be  wrong  here — the  "  clay-tariff " — or  the  Ot 
toman  "  protection" — or  something  !  Various  ques 
tions  arise.  Is  an  original  woman  a  favorite  article  ? 
Is  the  imitation  by  Power  of  the  fabrics  of  Nature  &  Co. 
an  improvement  upon  the  model  ?  Is  the  presence  of 
the  faculty  of  speech  in  the  cheaper  article  any  special 
indication  of  a  preference  that  can  be  relied  upon  in 
the  buyer  ?  Perhaps  some  extensive  dealer  in  both 
articles  will  oblige  us  with  a  solution  of  this  mercan 
tile  problem. 


We  had  a  bonne  louche  of  opera  last  night  atNiblo's 
which  made  us  long  for  the  whole  feast — a  hint  of  a 
ballet  which  provoked  great  desire  for  more — and  just 
such  a  sprinkling  of  judicious  white  gloves  as  satisfied 
the  cognoscents  that  there  was  something  in  the  bill 
that  had  a  pull  upon  the  town's  fashion.  Then,  as 
if  it  were  to  be  nothing  but  an  appetizer,  Madame 
Pico  appeared  in  a  private  box,  and  the  audience  saw, 
that,  whatever  the  warble  might  be,  the  throat  it  would 
come  from  was  of  the  most  capable  fulness  of  beauty. 
We  have  had  our  suspicions,  from  the  quietness  with 
which  she  "bides  her  time,"  that  Madame  Pico  is  a 
star  conscious  of  the  swing  for  a  large  orbit,  and  very 
sure  of  "putting  a  circle  round  the"  town,  whenever 
she  rises.  It  is  a  considerable  spoke  in  the  wheel  of 
this  same  orbit  that  she  is  a  very  superb  woman.  She 
has  the  adorable  low  Greek  forehead,  like  Mrs.  Nor 
ton's  (the  poetess),  and  a  certain  maintien  of  bust  and 
neck  which  shows  the  kind  of  passionate  uppishness 
the  old  gods  used  to  be  fond  of.  ( Vide  the  gods' 
old  pictures.)  We  were  not  surprised  last  night  to 
overhear  a  foreigner  telling  one  of  his  countrymen 
that  Madame  Pico  would  make  more  impression  in 
New  York  than  any  prima  donna  since  Malibran. 
What  say,  Corbyni !  Light  up  your  dress-circle  with 
a  little  more  gas,  and  give  us  b'allet  and  opera  with 
Borghese  and  Pico  on  alternate  nights  ! 

In  every  civilized  country  but  this,  the  government 
backs  up  the  opera,  as  an  important  public  refinement. 
The  royal  treasurer  is  always  half  a  stage  manager. 
With  us,  the  people  are  the  sovereign,  but  Chancellor 
Bibb,  not  having,  as  far  as  we  know,  offered  terms  to 


|  Madame  Pico,  we,  as  one  of  the  royal  pores,  do  our 
part  of  the  insensible  perspiration,  and  express  the 
warm  desire  of  the  public,  that  Madame  Pico  should 
appear.  It  is  manifest  dulness  of  enterprise,  to  have 
no  opera  now.  There  are  no  parties,  the  autumn 
weather  is  moderate,  the  strangers  hang  about  town, 
till  after  the  Indian  summer,  and  there  is  no  room  for 
doubt  that  the  thing  would  be  supported. 

There  was  a  demonstration  of  enthusiasm,  last  night, 
which  appeared  to  be  quite  a  I'improvista,  at  the  per 
formance   of  the   Polka,   by  "  Master  WOOD  and  la 
Petite   CARLINE."     These   two  little  miniatures — of 
j  the  size  of  children  six  years   old — danced,   to   our 
thinking,  quite  wonderfully.     We  are  likely  to  have 
j  no  grown-up  dancers,  this  year  at  least,  who,  reduced 
t  to  the  same  size  by  an  inverted  opera-glass,  would  do 
I  the  Polka  any  better.     The  necessary  air  of  galliar- 
\  disc,  the  precision,  combined  with  abandon,  the  look 
and  gesture,  were  all  capitally  well  done.     They  are 
I  charming  little  people,  and  a  good  deal  of  a  "  good 
I  card"  for  any  theatre.      Query,   for   Corbyn — Would 
not  a  ballet,  by  these  Lilliputians,  got  up  for  children, 
to  commence  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  last 
I  about  one  hour,  be  a  paying  enterprise? 

One  hint  more  :  Is  there  not  the  making  of  a  fine 
actress  and  singer  in  Miss  Rosina  Shaw  ?  She  has 
beauty,  remarkable  voice,  grace  and  confidence— four 
"  pretty  wells."  Keep  an  eye  on  her,  Mr.  Manager! 


THE  DAT  AFTER  THE  BALLOT. — The  contention 
for  the  favors  of  Mrs.  Vox  Populi  is  over.  The  diffi 
cult  darne  has  made  her  election.  The  future  presi 
dent  is  in  the  ballot-box,  and  that  womb  of  authority 
is  now  silently  waited  upon  by  the  paternal  majority. 
God  bless  whatever  is  to  be  brought  forth  ! 

Thank  Heaven  the  town  is  stiller  !  There  is  more 
noise  upon  the  blacksmith's  anvil  and  the  shoemaker's 
lap-stone — more  clatter  upon  the  tinman's  vice  and 
the  coppersmith's  rivet — but  the  town's  heart  beats 
less  audibly,  to-day,  and  the  town's  pulse  less  feverish 
ly  and  wildly.  The  political  bully  is  looking  around 
unwillingly  but  peacefully  for  work.  The  club 
wrangler's  vocation  is  gone.  The  working-man  will 
give  less  of  his  evening  to  the  bar-room  and  caucus. 
Wives  rejoice.  Children  are  glad. 

Considering  only  individuals,  the  immediate  tumult 
and  recoil  of  politics  seem  only  evil  and  violence. 
The  pore  and  the  pediculus  will  complain  of  blood 
letting  and  blister.  We  believe  the  country  at  large 
is  benefited  by  the  bringing  of  these  bad  humors  to 
the  surface,  however.  We  are  sure  at  least  that  we 
see  all  there  is,  in  our  body  popular,  that  is  dangerous. 
There  is  evil  disposition,  antagonism,  discontent,  cra 
ving  for  excitement,  love  of  combination,  dormant 
energy,  and  ambition — qualities  everywhere  distribu 
ted,  and  hungering,  every  one,  for  a  field  of  action. 
Where  better  would  they  break  out,  than  in  politics  ? 
How,  easier,  should  we  know  our  neighbor's  length 
of  conscience-string  and  proneness  to  trick  and  unfair 
ness,  than  by  watching  him  when  his  passions  are 
roused  and  his  cautiousness  forgotten  ?  What  man 
in  a  political  committee  knows  too  little  of  his  fellows 
for  future  living  with  them  ? 

But,  thank  God,  the  tumult  once  over,  the  city  re 
turns  to  peace,  industry,  and  prosperity.  Injury  and 
calumny  stand  no  more  behind  the  editor's  chair — 
literature  and  commerce,  instead,  look  promptingly 
over  his  shoulder.  The  merchant  is  relieved  from 
anxiety,  and  knows  how  to  shape  his  venture.  The 
mechanic  "hangs"  politics  for  a  plague  and  a  bother. 
The  republic  has  set  up  its  master,  and  is  content  to 
be  governed  while  it  toils  and  prospers. 

There  is  one  feature  of  the  late  contest,  however, 
for  which  we  can  find  no  philosophical  offset.  We 


EPHEMERA. 


159 


refer  to  the  unparallelled  and  insane  extent  to  which 
betting  has  been  carried.  Of  any  good  this  practice 
does  we  do  not  see  even  a  shadowing.  Of  its  intoler 
able  evils  we  hear  mournful  accounts  at  every  turn. 
It  seems  to  have  infected,  with  a  gambling  mania, 
those  who  never  before  hazarded  money  on  a  question 
of  chance  or  uncertainty.  We  have  heard  several 
really  most  lamentable  instances  of  fatuity  and  disaster 
in  this  new  demon-shape  of  party-spirit.  Families 
are  ruined,  creditors  robbed,  children  deprived  of  edu 
cation  and  bread — by  men  who  would  as  soon  cut  off 
their  hands  as  throw  a  stake  at  a  gaming-table  !  Is 
there  no  power  in  the  law  to  put  a  stop  to  this  new 
evil  of  politics  ?  We  ask  this  question  to  provoke,  if 
possible,  an  answer. 

And  now — as  politics  walkout  from  the  public  mind, 
and  there  is  room  for  something  else  to  walk  in — let 
us  mention  a  great  evil  in  this  country  of  ours,  and 
tell  some  news  that  has  an  example  by  which  to 
mend  it. 

WE  TOIL  TOO  MUCH! 


LADIES'  DICTIONARY — the  word  Alpaca.  The  Al 
paca  is  a  South  American  animal,  much  used  as  a 
beast  of  burden  by  the  Indians,  with  long  hair,  princi 
pally  black,  but  slightly  grizzled.  It  is  an  excessive- 
ly  irritable  animal,  and  indomitable  till  soothed.  The 
importance  of  this  animal  has  already  been  considered 
by  the  English,  in  their  hat,  woollen,  and  stuff  trade, 
and  an  essay  on  the  subject  has  been  published  by 
Dr.  Hamilton  of  London.  The  wool  is  so  remarkable, 
being  a  jet  black,  glossy,  silk-like  hair,  that  it  is  fitted 
for  the  production  of  texile  fabrics  differing  from  all 
others,  occupying  a  medium  position  between  the 
wool  and  the  silk.  It  is  now  mingled  with  other  ma 
terials  in  such  a  singular  manner,  that  while  a  par 
ticular  dye  will  affect  those,  it  will  leave  the  Alpaca 
wool  with  its  original  black  color,  thus  giving  rise  to 
great  diversity. 

WHO  WANTS  A  DRESS-OPERA  ? — There  is  a  large 
class  in  every  metropolis  who  are  fond  of  gayely, 
dress,  and  "  a  place  to  go  to,"  but  who  do  not  like 
private  parties  for  three  or  more  reasons:  1st,  the 
lateness  of  the  hours;  2d,  the  trouble  of  making  the 
agreeable ;  3d,  the  card-and-visit  nuisance,  the  man 
agement  and  ceremony,  necessary  to  keep  up  fashion 
able  vogue.  The  part  of  the  evening  between  eight 
and  eleven  is,  to  this  class,  the  time  of  the  twenty-four 
hours  in  which  they  wish  to  be  abroad,  to  be  admired, 
to  be  amused.  The  less  trouble  with  it  the  better; 
and  they  would  rather  give  a  dollar  and  think  no  more 
about  it,  than  leave  a  card  at  an  expense  of  memory, 
time,  equipage,  and  politic  calculation.  They  want  a 
place  where  everybody  dresses  ;  where  it  il  light ; 
where  they  will  see  beauty,  and  be  seen  themselves 
by  appreciative  eyes  ;  where  there  is  music  to  hear 
and  a  show  to  look  at  if  they  like  to  be  silent,  or 
friends  in  a  box  near  by  if  they  wish  to  converse — a 
place  where  they  can  hear  the  gossip,  have  singers 
to  criticise,  and  "see  the  world" — in  short,  AN  OPERA. 
To  the  great  majority  of  ball-goers — particularly  to 
the  men— the  time  from  eight  to  eleven  hangs  heavily. 
They  would  gladly  dress  early  and  go  first  to  the 
opera,  if  it  were  habitually  a  dress-resort. 

There  are  many  well-off  people  to  whom  a  dress- 
opera  is  the  only  tolerable  amusement — lame  people  ; 
ladies  who  only  look  well  sitting,  or  look  best  in  shawls 
and  opera-dress ;  foreigners  who  do  not  speak  the 
language  ;  timid  persons,  who  wish  to  see  the  gay 
world  without  encountering  it ;  and  the  many  fami 
lies  who  have  a  competency  to  live  and  can  afford 
amusement,  but  want  a  handle  to  the  door  of  society. 
The  first  object  of  strangers  in  town  (of  whom  there 


are  always  several  thousands),  is  to  go  where  they  can 
see  the  well-dressed  and  fashionable  people.  Most 
strangers,  in  a  large  city,  would  rather  see  the  exclu- 
sives  in  an  opera-box,  than  the  Croton  reservoirs,  or 
the  monsters  in  a  menagerie. 

People  in  ceremonious  mourning  find  a  great  relief 
in  seeing  the  gay  world  from  an  opera-box. 

Last  (not  least,  unless  you  please!)  some  people 
would  frequent  the  opera,  the  season  through,  for  the 
music.  It  "soothes"  our  "savage  breast" — for  one, 
and  we  think  the  "  hang"  of  opera-music  in  the  town 
hum  and  whistle  is  a  desirable  and  refining  variety. 

Now,  with  all  this  desirableness  and  frequentability, 
is  it  not  wonderful  that  no  larger  capitalist  than  Signor 
Palmo  (pocket  edition),  should  have  ventured  to  em 
bark  in  a  scheme  for  an  opera-house !  It  is  not  a 
schemeto  prosper — donely  halves.  Itmust  be  a  splen 
did  affair,  or  a  failure.  There  must  be  comfort  in  the 
seats,  breadth  in  the  alleys,  boundless  prodigality  in 
the  lights,  luxury  in  the  saloons  and  entrances,  and 
Alhambrian  excellence  in  the  refreshments.  The 
manager  should  be  a  mixture  of  Crcsar,  Talleyrand, 
and  Bluebeard — awful,  politic,  punctual  in  pay.  and 
relentless  to  the  caprices  of  pri madonnas.  Two  slash 
ing  critics  should  be  employed  to  annihilate  each  other 
daily,  in  opposing  preferences  for  the  performers. 
The  exaction  of  full  dress  for  all  comers  should  be 
rigidly  enforced.  The  names  of  the  belles  at  every 
last  night's  opera  should  be  disembowelled  and  para 
graphed  every  morning.  Prestige,  celebrity,  show, 
humbug,  and  ceremony,  should  be  added  to  the  most 
indefatigable  real  merit  in  the  management,  and  then 
the  shareholders  would  make  money. 

Then,  too,  we  should  have  a  DRESS-RESORT — what 
no  theatre  now  is  or  ever  has  been  in  New  York,  but 
hat,  of  all  refinements  and  resources,  is  the  most 
delightful  and  indispensable.  We  could  write,  a 
column  about  the  blessing  of  beauty  seen  in  public, 
the  chastening  and  refining  influences  of  music,  the 
restraining  proprieties  of  dress  and  observance,  etc., 
etc.,  etc. — but  we  confine  ourself  to  tangibilities.  One 
more  fact — the  existence  of  such  an  opera-house,  so 
conducted,  would  link  New  York  in  the  operatic  chain 
of  star-travel;  and  Grisi,  Lablache,  and  the  rest,  would 
as  certainly  come  here  from  London  and  Paris,  as  go 
to  Vienna  and  St.  Petersburg!!,  Berlin  and  Naples. 
Our  readers  in  Wall  street  will  please  consider  this 
as  a  "  money  article:' 


PROMISCUOUS    REPLIES    TO    LETTERS. 

DEAR  JACK:  Since  my  compulsory  budding,  flower 
ing,  and  bearing  fruit,  have  been  accelerated  to  one 
season  per  diem,  to  feed  a  daily  paper,  you  will  easily 
understand  that  I  found  it  necessary  at  first  to  work 
all  my  sap  into  something  useful — omitting  as  it  were, 
the  gum  deposite  of  superfluous  correspondence.  J 
accordingly  left  you  off.  Your  last  letter  was  slipped 
into  the  no- more-bother  hole,  without  the  usual  en 
dorsement  of  "  answered,"  and  I  considered  you  like 
;i 


trinket  laid  aside   before  a  race-not  to  encumber 

e.     I  miss  the  writing  of  trumpery,  however.     1  miss 

the  sweeping  out  of  the  corners  of  my  mind-full  of 

things  fit  only  for  the  dust-pan,  but  still  very  possibly 

hiding  a  silver-spoon. 

Do  you  want  any  more  explanation  of  why  you  get 
etter  from  me  for  one  cent,  printed,  instead ^of  a 


written  one  at  eighteen  and  three  quarters  ?  It  is 
wonderful  how  much  cheaper  printing  is  than  writing ! 
I  left  off  my  envy  of  your  country  life  as  usual  with 
my  summer  "trowsers,  not  caring  to  see  the  death  of 
anything— even  the  resigned  summer.  As  soon  as  I 
have  occasion  to  button  my  coat  to  keep  out  the  air, 
I  am  content  with  that  part  of  the  earth's  breast  that 
is  paved  over.  The  town  is  honored  now  by  the  pres- 


160 


EPHEMERA 


ence  of  those  who  could  go  away  if  they  wished,  and, 
as,  human-like,  the  town  values  those  who  can  do 
without  it,  "New  York  is  gay."  Shopping  is  this 
month's  pastime,  however.  The  ladies  have  no  need 
of  parties  while  they  can  yield  reluctant  dollars  to  in 
sidious  temptation.  It  was  in  competition  with  the 
"  fall  goods"  that  the  opera  failed  a  month  ago— open 
ed  on  the  supposition  that  people  had  nothing  to  amuse 
them!  A  manager,  and  not  know  the  sex  !  Kech! 
Pal  mo  ! 

The  town  is  to  be  illuminated  on  Monday  next  by 
the  apparition  of  a  new  base  and  a  brace  of  prima- 
donnas.  Madame  Pico  has  been  biding  her  time  like 
game  in  the  larder,  and  the  town  is  quite  ready  to 
sweeten  her  with  the  current  condiment  and  devour 
her.  She  is  a  beautiful  woman,  and  though  1  never 
could  get  my  sentiment  over  the  foot-lights,  I  love  to 
see  the  town  fascinated.  Pray  Heaven  she  sings  well 
— after  all  the  heralding  I  have  done  for  her  !  If  that 
well-chiselled  throat  should  have  an  awkward  corner 
in  it,  we  should  have  to  restore  to  Borghese  her  divi 
ded  throne  and  go  back  to  our  worship  of  her  toilet 
and  other  utmost-possibles,  with  an  indifferent  grace. 
Happy  queen  of  Sheba,  who  ordained  that  no  woman 
should  reign  after  her  ! 

Well,  sir,  what  do  you  want  to  know  ?  There  are 
few  things  above  ground  that  I  do  not  hear  of,  some 
hundreds  of  newspapers  doing  their  best  to  make  news 
and  send  it  to  me — to  cook  to  your  liking  !  He  who 
subscribes  to  the  Mirror  appoints  me  his  fashioner  of 
things  palatable  to  know,  and  though,  like  other  cooks, 
I  pass  under  my  nose  a  vast  deal  I  should  not  choose 
for  my  own  relishing,  I  do  my  best  to  give  it  with  due 
spice  and  proportion.  Indeed,  what  with  serving  so 
many  people  with  so  many  different  kinds  of  knowl 
edge,  I  feel  like  the  omnificent  man  called  for  in  Ben 
Jonson's  "  Staple  of  news  :" — 

"  Where  is  my  fashioner,  my  feather-man, 
My  linener,  perfumer,  barber,  all !" 

When  Saturday  comes  round  with  the  life,  business, 
fun,  and  literature  of  the  whole  week  in  one — a  mir- 
ror'd  E  Pluribus  Unum — it  seems  wonderful  to  me 
how  so  much,  and  of  such  endless  variety,  could  have 
been  gathered  into  one  week's  history  !  That  weekly 
Mirror  is  worth  binding  and  keeping,  if  it  were  only 
as  a  choice  record  of  the  events  of  the  buyer's  times 
— set  down,  point  by  point,  with  the  life  he  lived 
amidst  their  occurrings.  There  is  nothing  good, 
brilliant,  or  important,  that  is  not  recorded  in  it,  and, 
if  a  man  wants  to  forget  as  he  goes  along,  that  pack- 
horse  will  take  the  load  off  his  memory,  and  for  three 
dollars  a  year  bring  it  safe  after  him  ! 

And  now,  dear  Jack,  assuring  you  that  this  letter 
is  wholly  confidential,  and  that  you  are  not  at  liberty 
to  give  it  away  as  an  autograph,  I  record  myself, 

As  usual,  Yours, . 

To  JOHN ESQ., 

(a  friend  in  the  country). 


ETIQUETTE    OF    WEDDING-CARDS. 

MESSRS.  EDITORS:  My  friend  John  Smith  is  to  be 
married  to  Lucy  Jones.  She  issues  a  card  of  invita 
tion  like  this  : — 


No.  59 


AT   HOME, 

-street,  Tuesday  Evening, 
November  14th. 


JOHW  SMITH, 
JLucy  JONES. 

Now  he  intends  to  use  this  for  inviting  to  the  cere 
mony  ;  but  I  tell  him  it  is  wrong,  and  can  only  be  used 


to  invite  to  the  party  after  the  ceremony.  He  con 
tends  that  this  is  the  usual  form — so  the  engraver 
tells  him,  etc. 

Please  give  us  the  law  in  these  matters  (we  can  ap 
peal  to.  no  higher  authority  in  matters  of  etiquette 
and  fashion)  ;  let  us  have  the  two  customary  forms, 
for  wedding  and  party,  for  the  enlightenment  of  in 
experienced  candidates  who  wish  to  follow  the  fash 
ions,  and  much  oblige,  CUSTOM. 

P.  S. — We  wait  for  your  infallible  decision. 

Wednesday  morning. 


DEAR  CUSTOM  :  Your  friend  is  wrong,  from  the 
egg  to  the  apple.  Miss  Lucy  Jones  has  a  mother,  or 
father,  guardian,  or  friend,  at  whose  house  she  is  to  be 
married.  The  invitation  should  come  from  the  per 
son  under  whose  protection  she  is  given  away — (sent, 
if  you  please,  to  Mr.  Smitl^s  friends,  with  Mr.  Smith's 
card,  but  understood  by  Miss  Lucy  Jones's  friends, 
without  card  or  explanation).  It  is  tampering  with 
serious  things,  very  dangerously,  to  circulate  the  three 
words,  "AND  MRS.  JOHN  SMITH,"  one  minute  before 
the  putting  on  of  the  irrevocable  ring.  The  law 
which  permits  ladies  (though  not  gentlemen)  to 
change  their  minds  up  to  the  last  minute  before  wed- 
lock,  exacts  also  that  the  privileged  angels  should  not 
be  coerced  by  the  fear  of  seeing  the  escaped  name 
afterward  on  a  wedding  card  !  Besides,  such  a  card, 
so  issued,  would  be  received  from  Mrs.  Smith  before 
there  was  any  such  person. 

The  first  proper  use  of  the  wedded  name  is  to  send 
it  with  parcels  of  wedding-cake,  the  morning  after  the 
ceremony,  to  friends  and  persons  desired  as  visiting 
acquaintances.  This  is  considered  an  excusable  ad 
vance  on  the  part  of  persons  entering  newly  upon  life, 
and  the  promptness  uith  which  a  return-card  is  left 
upon  the  bride  is  an  indication  of  the  degree  of  pleas 
ure  with  which  the  proposition  of  acquaintance  is  re 
ceived.  Another  advantage  of  cake  and  card  : — the 
etiquette  of  (exacting  that  a  new  nail  should  be  thus 
driven  in  all  acquaintances  that  are  to  be  kept  up)  en 
ables  bride  and  bridegroom  to  drop,  without  offence, 
such  acquaintances  of  each  as  are  respectively  unde 
sirable — persons  inseparable  from  the  set  in  which  the 
lady  has  lived,  who  are  not  agreeable  to  the  bride 
groom,  and  bachelor  acquaintances  of  the  bridegroom, 
who  may  be  thought  too  free  for  the  fireside.  Wed 
ded  life  is  thus  begun  with  a  "culled  posy  of  friend 
ship,"  the  door  of  society  open  before,  and  mischief- 
makers  shut  out  behind. 

Our  compliments  to  Miss  Jones,  and  we  remain, 
Very  truly 

Open  to  card  and  cake, 

MIRROR  TRIPLET. 


UNMARRIED  PEOPLE  four  times  as  liaUe  to  insani/i/ 
as  MARRIED  PEOPLE.— The  "  Concord  Freeman,"  in 
a  statistical  article  made  up  from  hospital  reports, 
shows,  that  if  a  man  is,  perhaps,  oftener  out  of  jwcket 
when  married,  he  is  not  so  often  out  of  his  head.  The 
editor  says :  Few  people  are  aware  how  much  more 
insanity  prevails  among  bachelors  and  unmarried  la 
dies  than  among  the  married  of  both  sexes.  We 
learn  from  the  examination  of  very  many  reports,  that 
of  every  five  of  all  lunatics  sent  to  American  hospitals, 
three  are  unmarried,  and  only  two  are  married,  and 
that  almost  all  of  them  are  over  twenty-one  years  old. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  pretty  certain  that  in  all  the 
community  over  twenty-one  years  of  age,  there  are 
more  than  three  times  as  many  in  as  out  of  wedlock. 
If  this  be  the  case,  then  the  unmarried  are  more  than 
four  times  as  liable  to  become  insane  as  married 
people. 


EPHEMERA. 


161 


The  Herald  seems  to  think  we  have  bought  the 
"  Republic."  We  are  sorry  that  a  republic  is  a  mar 
ketable  commodity,  but  at  any  rate  we  have  bought 
nothing  of  that  name  or  description.  Our  ambition, 
somehow,  does  not  seem  to  stumble  upon  things  re 
publican.  In  this  world  we  desire  a  farm,  on  which 
we  can  be  "  monarch  of  all  we  survey,"  and  in  the 
next,  we  pray  for  a  citizenship  in  the  kingdom  of 
heaven. 


"  Up-TowN"  AND  "  DOWN-TOWN." — We  see  that 
these  names  of  the  different  halves  of  the  city  are  be 
coming  the  common  language  of  advertisements,  etc. 
A  person  advertises  in  one  of  the  papers  a  "  Down 
town  singing  school,"  and  another  a  "Down-town 
dancing  academy."  We  think  our  friend  Billings 
would  better  stick  to  "  Up-town  Hold"  as  the  better 
designation  of  the  new  brick  khan. 


THE  NEW  SEQUEL  TO  THEATRICAL  INTELLIGENCE. 
— Since  the  bishops  and  deacons  have  taken  to  in 
dicting  each  other  for  fallings-away  of  which  the  pub 
lic  like  to  read  the  Scan.  Mag.,  we  observe  that  the 
particular  column  of  newspapers  which  is  devoted  to 
spicy  news,  theatricals,  police  incidents,  etc.,  has 
silently  become  the  locality  for  brief  paragraphs  an 
nouncing  where  distinguished  preachers  are  to  hold 


:  be  seen  there,  in  cab  or  mounted  ;  the  women  of  "  po 
sition"  must  refresh  there  the  memories  of  forgetful 
i  tributaries;  the  new  candidate  for  fashion  must  there 
display  that  taste  in  "  belongings"  which  can  only  be 
I  guessed  at  in  a  ball-room;  there  are  seen  all  whose 
|  means  make  them  eligible  to  expensive  circles  of  so- 
I  ciety,  and  who  (by  something  that  will  and  does  tell, 
in  the  equipage,  or  the  mode  of  dressing  for,  and  ap 
pearing  in,  it)  there  make  claim  to  fitness  for,  at  least, 
a  ceremonious  conversance  with  the  haute  voice. 

Of  course,  there  is  a  postern  of  society  in  all  cities, 

through  which  are  admitted  certain  classes,  who  keep 

no  equipages  —  those  who  are  to  amuse,  instruct,  or 

1  embellish  the   gay  world  —  poets,  parsons,  and  pretty 

women  ;  but  the  promenade  on  wheels  is,  to  all  oth- 

!  ers,  the  inexorable  vestibule,  and,  as  far  at  least  as  this 

I  gate,  the  ordinary  seekers  of  the  heaven  beyond  must 

come  with  horses.     Cowper  only  mentioned  the  barest 

essentials  when  he  said, 

"  Well-drest,  well-bred, 
Well-equtpaged,  is  ticket  good  enough 
To  pass  us  readily  through  every  door." 

In  New  York,  however  undesirable  to  the  mass,  this 
formidable  gulf  is  about  to  be  sunk,  between  wealth 
and  competency.  At  present  there  is  no  distinction 
among  the  upper  ten  thousand  of  the  city.  There  is 
no  place  where  equipages  are  exclusively  looked  for. 
There  are  five  or  ten  thousand  young  men  who  dress 
as  well  as  the  millionare's  son;  five  or  ten  thousand 


forth.     In  the  salad  column  of  one  of  the  papers  there     ladies  for  whom  milliners  and  mantua-makers  do  their 
is  one  announcement  of  a  play  followed  by  six  an-     best!  te"  or  twenty  thousand  who  can  show  as  well 
nouncements   of  sermons  !      And   in 
there  a 

a  specific  "  repo 


another   paper 


mons, 


ire  very  nearly  two  columns  of  sketches  of  ser- 
from  a  specific  "  reporter!  !" 


We  saw  yesterday,  for  the  first  time  in  this  coun 
try,  an  equipage  of  full  ceremonial  splendor,  faultless 
in  taste,  and  evidently  not  at  all  modified  by  any 
dread  of  democratic  prejudices.  We  admired  the 
"  bravery"  of  the  turn-out,  and  the  courage  of  using 
it.  The  ice  broken,  there  will  soon  be  conjured  oth 
ers  from  the  vaults  in  Wall  street — but  meantime,  let 
us  look  a  little  at  the  necessity  for  a  promenade  drive 
in  New  York,  and  its  probable  locality. 

In  or  near  every  capital  of  Europe  there  is  a  spot 
which  serves,  for  those  who  have  carriages,  the  same 
purpose  which  Broadway  serves  for  promenaders  on 
foot.  In  London  it  is  the  Mayfair  side  of  Hyde  park ; 
in  Paris  it  is  the  Champs  Elysees  and  Bois  de  Bou 
logne;  in  Florence  it  is  the  Cascine  ;  in  Rome  the 
Pincian  hill  ;  in  Naples  the  Strada  Nuova.  In  all  of 
these  capitals  the  titled  and  wealthy  avoid  driving  in 
the  crowded  streets  except  upon  errands  of  necessity, 
and  in  London  it  is  the  custom  to  keep  a  plainer  ve 
hicle  with  cob-horses  expressly  for  use  at  night  and 
errands  in  the  city.  Ladies  who  have  occasion  to  go 
out  in  the  morning,  do  so  on  foot  and  in  the  plainest 
dress,  followed  invariably  by  a  servant.  They  return 
to  lunch  at  one  or  two,  and  immediately  after  dress  for 
the  show  part  of  the  day's  out-door  occupation.  The 
carriage  comes  round  in  full  livery  at  the  specified 
hour,  and,  the  shopping  and  business-errands  having 
been  despatched  in  the  forenoon,  the  equipage  starts 
upon  the  afternoon  destination  of  ceremony  or  pleas 
ure. 

An  hour  before  sunset  or  the  dinner  hour,  the 
principal  drive  is  over,  and  the  scattered  equipages 
meet,  as  upon  a  fashionable  exchange,  for  a  prome 
nade  of  display.  This  conventional  assembling  is  re 
lied  upon  for  recognition  of  acquaintance,  for  arrange 
ments  as  to  the  evening,  for  keeping  advised  of  the 
fashions,  for  seeing  strangers,  and  for  contests  of  style 
in  equipage  and  personal  atlire.  The  dandies  must 
1 1 


on  foot,  and  walk  as  well  without  heart-burnings,  in 
Broadway  —  one  as  another.  New  York  is  (at  this 
critical  moment,  before  the  shoot  of  the  centripetal 
particles  to  a  new  nucleus)  the  largest  republic  of 
"first  quality"  people  that  the  world  ever  saw. 

There  is  one  spot  which  has  been  talked  of  as  a 
promenade  drive,  and  we  believe  some  endeavor  has 
been  made  to  purchase  it  for  the  purpose  —  the  beau- 
|  tiful  wood  on  the  right  of  the  Third  avenue.  That 
charming  spot  would  stand  to  New  York  very  much 
as  the  CASCINE  to  Florence.  We  doubt,  however, 
whether,  yet  awhile  at  least,  the  object  would  warrant 
the  purchase. 

The  first  probable  promenade  drive,  we  should  say, 
would  be  the  FIFTH  AVENUE,  from  Washington 
square  to  the  Croton  reservoir.  The  splendor  of  the 
houses  on  this  broad  highway  is  far  beyond  that  of 
any  other  portion  of  the  city;  it  is  no  thoroughfare 
for  omnibuses  ;  it  leads  from  the  wealthiest  neighbor 
hood  to  a  prominent  public  work  ;  it  is  on  the  return 
route  from  the  loveliest  drives  on  the  island  ;  and, 
should  the  summit  of  the  rising  ground  on  which  the 
reservoir  stands  be  fixed  upon,  as  proposed,  for  the 
Washington  monument,  and  planted  and  decorated, 
that  limit  would  be  a  convenient  turning-place,  and  a 
charming  and  airy  spot  for  a  sunset  soiree  en  voiture. 


A  STORY  FOR  TOUR  SON,  SIR. — The  present  king 
of  France,  one  very  cold  evening,  was  riding  from 
Boston  to  Salem  on  the  outside  of  the  stage.  He 
was  entirely  without  money  to  pay  for  a  lodging  that 
night,  and  he  began  to  make  friends  with  the  driver  to 
get  part  of  his  bed.  After  a  while  the  driver's  com 
passion  was  aroused.  »•  You  are  not  a  very  clean 
looking  chap,"  said  he  to  the  poor  Frenchman,  "but 
my  bed  is  in  the  harness-room,  where  there's  a  stove, 
and  if  you'll  keep  your  trowsers  on,  and  sleep  outside, 
I  don't  mind  /" 


THE  REPUBLIC  OF  BROADWAY. — Eyes  were  con 
trived  at  some  trouble ;  the  great  sun  shows  only  the 


162 


EPHEMERA. 


outside  of  things;  the  present  and  visible  (Carlyle- 
ically  speaking)"  is  the  world  God  adapted  our  senses 
to;  and  though  some  people  like  to  live  the  life  of  a 
sundial  under  ground,  we  prefer  to  throw  to-day's 
shadow  from  whatever  we  do — writing  about  what  we 
see,  and  thinking  most  about  what  jostles  our  elbow. 
This  explained, 

We  have  a  loose  slip-slop  or  two  for  the  young  men 
about  town — not  as  to  their  invisible  minds  and  morals, 
but  as  to  their  visible  walking  and  dressing.  Having 
"bought  our  doublet  in  Italy,  our  round  hose  in 
France,  our  bonnet  in  Germany,  and  our  behavior 
everywhere,"  we  may  perhaps  excusably  scale  a  ped 
estal  to  give  our  opinion;  though  the  credit  we  take 
to  ourselves  may  be  granted  in  the  spirit  of  Falstaff's 
to  Doll  Tearsheet,  "We  catch  of  you,  Doll,  we  catch 
of  you !" 

There  is  nothing  so  republican  as  a  dressy  popula 
tion.  We  are  no  "  leveller,"  but  we  like  to  see  things 
level  themselves;  and  the  declaration  of  independence 
is  impotent  in  comparison  with  the  tailor's  goose.  A 
young  man  about  town  slips  his  miniature  into  five 
thousand  eyes  per  diem.  Fifty  of  the  five  thousand 
who  see  him  know  whether  his  father  is  a  mechanic 
or  a  rich  man;  and  it  depends  wholly  upon  his  dress 
and  mien  whether  the  remaining  four  thousand  nine 
hundred  and  fifty  take  him  to  be  a  rich  man's  son  or 
a  mechanic's  son.  It  is  reasonable,  of  course,  to  let 
the  fifty  who  know  think  what  pleases  them,  and  to 
dress  for  the  very  large  majority  who  don't  know. 
This  is  apparently  the  tacit  philosophy  of  the  young 
men  of  New  York.  There  is  no  telling,  by  any  dif 
ference  in  dress,  whether  the  youth  going  by  has, 
probably,  a  sister  who  is  an  heiress,  or  a  sister  who  is 
a  sempstress.  There  is  no  telling  the  merchant  from 
his  bookkeeper — no  guessing  which  is  the  diner  on 
eighteen  pence,  and  which  the  gourmet  of  Delmon- 
ico's — no  judging  whether  the  man  in  the  omnibus, 
whom  you  vaguely  remember  to  have  seen  some 
where,  was  the  tailor  who  tried  on  your  coaf,  or  your 
vis-d-vis  last  night  at  a  ball. 

As  we  said  above,  this  is  a  true  republic.  A  young 
man  whose  appearance  is  four-story-housy,  can  very 
well  afford  to  let  a  few  people  know  that  he  sleeps 
over  the  shop.  If  he  is  more  elegant  than  a  rich 
man's  son,  he  gets  as  nearly  the  full  value  of  the  dif 
ference  as  ordinary  vanity  would  require.  Every 
young  man  finds  means  to  dress  to  his  liking,  and  of 
course  every  young  man  starts  fair,  each  morning, 
with  all  of  his  age,  for  the  day's  competition  in  bright 
eyes. 

We  shall  be  understood,  now,  in  our  republican  ef 
fort  to  add  still  another  levelling  to  this  of  the  tailor's 
goose — to  bring  the  attractions  of  plain  men  up  to 
those  of  the  "aristocracy  of  nature."  The  hints  we 
have  to  throw  out  will  be  slighted  by  the  good-look 
ing;  taken  advantage  of  by  the  plain — thus  levelling, 
in  another  respect,  upward. 

The  rarest  thing  seen  in  Broadway  is  a  young  man 
who  walks  well.  A  stoop  in  the  back  is  almost  na 
tional;  and  an  upright,  graceful,  gentlemanlike  gait 
is  as  rare  as  it  is  singularly  striking.  If  you  can  af 
ford  the  time  to  walk  slowly,  high-heeled  boots  are  a 
great  improvement.  With  time  enough,  you  drop 
the  foot  insensibly  from  a  high  heel,  like  an  actor 
walking  down  the  slope  of  the  stage.  Beside,  it 
makes  the  instep  look  high,  which  implies  that  your 
father  did  not  carry  a  hod. 

Avoid  a  broadcloth  shirt,  in  the  shape  of  a  shape 
less  garment  with  sleeves  (one  of  the  new  fashions). 
It  looks  colic-y,  with  the  wind  bellying  it  out  in  all 
directions  as  you  walk  along. 

Leave  long  cloaks  to  the  clergy.  The  broad  velvet 
collar,  turning  over,  diminishes  your  apparent  breadth 
of  shoulders,  and  it  should  be  worn  with  careful  dra 
matic  propriety,  not  to  be  very  awkward  and  inelegant. 


If  you  are  about  to  have  an  overcoat  made,  get  a 
fat  friend  to  go  and  be  measured  for  it.  At  any  rate, 
let  not  your  diaphragm  be  so  imprisoned,  that  the 
first  heroic  sentiment  will  tear  off  a  button.  One  of 
Jenning's  cutters  is  the  apostle  of  a  reform  in  this 
matter — measuring  you  (if  you  request  it)  by  a  mag 
nify  ing-glass,  from  the  waist  upward. 

These  are  not  King  Canute's  days,  when  "  none 
under  the  rank  of  gentlemen  dare  presume  to  have  a 
greyhound  to  follow  him."  The  outward  symbols, 
once  peculiar  to  elegance,  are  pretty  well  levelled  up 
to,  as  we  said  before — but,  by  careful  observation, 
you  will  now  and  then  see  a  something  that  nice  men 
do,  or  do  not  do,  which  has  not  yet  got  through  the 
hair  of  the  promiscuous.  As  an  example,  and  in  the 
hope  that  it  will  not  be  generally  understood,  we  will 
mention,  that  very  particular  men,  for  the  last  year, 
have  walked  the  street  invariably  with  a  kind  of 
grieved  look — very  expressive  and  distinguishing. 

We  will  resume  this  republican  theme. 


THK  DESIGNATION  OF  THE  LADY  PRESIDENTESS. — 
If  it  had  not  been  for  a  certain  ante-expiatory  "white 
horse,"  we  should  have  prayed  for  the  miraculous  re 
turn  to  this  world  of  "John  Tetzel,  Vender  of  Indul 
gences."  The  editor  of  the  Morning  News  did  jus 
tice  to  his  Irish  blood  a  day  or  two  ago,  by  giving 
back,  to  the  loser's  wife,  a  saddle-horse  he  had  won 
in  a  bet;  but  how,  in  the  name  of  all  the  gallant  pro 
prieties,  can  he  justify  himself  to  the  ladies  of  the  de 
mocracy  for  making  no  distinction  between  their  queen 
and  the  (of  course)  less  glorious  queen  of  any  coun 
try  on  earth?  The  promiscuousness  of  two  "Mrs. 
P's!" 

"  WHITE-HOUSE- — Among  other  consequences  of 
the  election  of  Mr.  Polk,  it  is  said,  will  be  to  locate 
in  the  White-house  at  Washington  the  handsomest 
and  perhaps  the  most  accomplished  lady  that  ever 
presided  in  its  stately  halls.  Mrs.  P.  has,  for  some 
years,  been  remarkable  not  only  for  personal  beauty, 
but  for  that  greater  charm,  graceful  manners,  and  a 
highly-cultivated  mind." 

If,  in  this  democratic  country,  one  may  venture  to 
say  a  word  for  the  other  "  Mrs.  P.,"  we  think  that 
Louis  Philippe's  having  slept  with  a  stagedriver  in 
this  country  (vide  a  late  anecdote)  might  have  pro 
cured  for  his  wife  the  easy  privilege  of  at  least  one 
distinguishing  initial.  It  surely  would  not  seriously 
invade  the  simplicity  of  our  court  circular  to  add  a 
"  J."  to  the  single-letter  title  of  the  lady  presidentess 
of  fifteen  millions  and  Texas!  Be  generous,  gentle 
men  people!  Let  us  have  some  distinction  in  the 
Queen  "  P.'s"  of  the  two  countries.  The  editor  of 
the  Morning  News  will  be  some  day  minister  to 
France.  Fancy  his  being  called  on  to  present  "Mrs. 
American  P."  to  "  Mrs.  French  P." 


OVERHAUL  OF  SAILING  ORDERS. — The  sails  draw 
— the  freight  sits  trim  in  the  hold — the  ship  minds 
her  helm,  and  the  wind  strengthens  on  the  quarter 
with  a  freshness  that  strains  rope  and  spar.  It  is  per 
haps  the  best  moment  that  will  occur,  in  the  long 
voyage  before  us,  to  overhaul  our  signals  and  sailing- 
papers,  and  understand  how  we  are  to  communicate 
with  the  fleet,  and  go  straightest  and  most  prosperous 
ly  to  our  destined  haven. 

(Whoa,  Pegasus!  We  have  been  as  poetical  as 
will  have  been  expected  of  us  at  one  day's  notice. 
Drop  to  the  ground  and  let  us  go  off  on  a  plain  trot!) 

We  have  always  looked  upon  the  gentlemen  of  the 
daily  press  as  among  the  enviably  unlabelled  poten 
tates  of  this  country  of  King  Everybody-nobody — 


EPHEMERA. 


163 


enviably  as  having  enormous  power  and  little  responsi 
bility  as  to  the  using  of  it.  The  power  will  doubtless 
remain  as  large  and  the  responsibility  as  small.  "A 
free  press"  is  the  lesser  of  two  evils.  In  the  perpet 
uation  of  this  state  of  things,  however,  lies  our  future 
vocation,  and — while  we  have  it  yet  in  our  power  to 
"  make  a  clean  breast,"  and  avow  what  we  have  ob 
jected  to  in  the  exercise,  by  others,  of  the  spells  by 
which  we  are  to  conjure — let  us  name  at  least  the  one 
blot  which  most  smirches  the  forward  face  of  the  pro 
fession. 

It  were  of  little  use  for  one.  editor  to  declare  that  he 
would  make  war  freely  upon  opinions — never  upon 
persons.  And  the  disadvantage  is  not  merely  that  of 
throwing  away  the  dagger  in  battle,  because  the  sword 
is  more  gentlemanly — not  merely  a  lessening  of  one's 
formidabieness  to  an  opponent.  The  evil  is  in  the 
greater  curiosity  to  watch  the  slabber,  felt  by  the  look 
ers-on.  The  temptation  to  be  personally  abusive  lies 
in  the  diseased  appetite  of  the  crowd  that  will  follow 
the  abuser — leaving  the  scrupulous  man  alone  with 
his  decency.  Living  as  editors  do,  by  the  favor  of 
the  crowd,  if  many  are  willing  to  minister  to  this  dis 
eased  appetite,  decency  in  the  few  is  a  kind  of  slow, 
business-suicide. 

It  would  almost  require  a  Utopian  fancy  to  picture 
the  beauty  of  a  press  from  which  personalities  and 
illwilled  abuse  were  wholly  excluded.  No  personal 
ities  in  literature,  and  none  in  politics — the  author, 
editor,  and  statesman,  alike  intrenched  in 

"  that  credent  bulk 

That  no  particular  scandal  once  can  touch, 
But  it  confounds  the  breather," 

— how  completely  the  envy  of  malignant  mediocrity 
would  be  deprived  of  its  now  easy  sting,  and  how 
completely  ruffianism  and  brutality  would  be  confined 
to  the  bully-club  and  dram-shop !  Scholars  would 
wait  on  public  opinion,  at  the  editor's  table,  busied 
only  with  embellishing,  and  not  engrossed  with  de 
fending  their  fair  fame  ;  and  gentlemen  of  sensitive 
honor,  who  are  now  appalled  at  the  calumnious  gaunt 
let  of  politics,  would  come  forward  to  serve  their 
country  at  the  small  posts  occupied  now  only  by  men 
senseless  to  defamation. 

To  the  coming  about  of  this  paradise  of  letters, 
editorial  consent  is  alone  wanting.  No  one  man  could 
live  long,  the  only  calumniator  of  the  press.  No  one 
man  would  dare  to  hold  the  only  pen  deficient  in 
courtesy  and  gentlemanlike  regard  to  private  charac 
ter.  Complete  silence  from  the  rest  of  the  press 
toward  the  one  offender,  after  a  unanimous  publica 
tion  of  his  disgrace — refusal,  without  exception,  to 
exchange  papers  with  him  from  that  time  forward — 
any  combination,  in  short,  which  should  make  the  os 
tracism  of  such  an  individual,  by  his  brethren  of  the 
press,  universally  known — would  suffice  to  r*urge  the 
press  of  him.  One  year  of  such  united  self-censor 
ship  would  so  purify  the  public  habit  of  news-read 
ing,  that  an  offence  against  propriety  would  at  least 
startle  and  alarm  the  public  sense;  and,  arrived  at  that 
point,  a  very  moderate  apostleship  might  complete  the 
reform. 

We  do  not  anticipate  this.     Oh,  no  !     We  are 

"  — in  this  earthly  world,  where  to  do  harm 
Is  often  laudable  ;  to  good  sometimes 
Accounted  dangerous  folly ;" 

but,  at  the  risk  of  being  the  "grave  of  our  deserv 
ing,"  we  shall  do  the  leaning  of  one  to  the  better  side. 
We  shall  have  harder  work  for  it.  Nothing  is  easier 
than  to  be  popular  by  habitual  illwill.  Trashy  minds 
write  most  readable  satire,  and,  with  the  mood  on  or 
off — the  industry  willing  or  reluctant — fault-finding  is 
fecund  production.  But  if  good  nature  can  be  spiced 
— if  courteous  treatment  of  our  brother  editors, 


brother  authors,  and  all  nameable  men,  can  be  made 
palatable  to  the  public — if  a  paper  wholly  incapable 
of  rui  unkindness,  but  capable  of  all  things  pleasurable 
else,  can  be  fairly  tested — we  trust  to  do  without  the 
price  of  giving  pain,  and  we  trust  that  the  money  so 
turned  out  of  our  hand  will  not  be  like  the  lost  oil  of 
the  tomb  of  Belus — irreplaceable. 


THK  COST  OF  FASHION. — From  a  pamphlet  sent  us, 

;  learn  that  five  hundred  millions  of  dollars  are  spent 
annually  in  the  United  States  for  such  articles  of 
dress  as  are  subject  to  the  fluctuations  of  fashion. 
Of  this  sum,  it  is  computed  that  sixteen  millions  are 
spent  for  hats,  probably  about  twenty  millions  for  caps 
and  bonnets,  and  for  other  articles  of  dress  not  less 
than  four  hundred  millions  ! 

So  that  not  far  from  a  million  and  a  half  dollars  are 
spent  daily  for  clothing;  of  which,  if  the  calls  of 
fashion  claim  but  ten  per  cent,  (but  probably  she  re 
ceives  double  that  sum),  one  hundred  and  fifty  thou 
sand  dollars  are  sacrificed  daily  at  the  footstool  of  the 
fickle  goddess,  by  the  enlightened  citizens  of  the 
United  States  ! 

Is  it  not  time  that  some  standard  of  national  dress 
was  established  ?  We  certainly  have  had  sufficient 
experience  to  know  what  kinds  of  clothing  are  the 
most  convenient,  and  one  good  reason  can  not  be  pro 
duced  for  the  unmeaning  changes  which  are  every 
day  taking  place. 

It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  in  a  free  country,  where 
it  is  proverbial  that  "  every  man  is  at  liberty  to  wear 
shoes  or  go  without,"  an  association  to  fix  upon 
a  general  standard  of  dress  would  lead  all  to  adopt  it. 
No — there  would  be  those  still  found  who,  lacking 
other  points  to  recommend  them  to  public  notice, 
would  act  the  cameleon  still.  But  no  small  portion 
of  the  community  would  recommend  that  course 
which  would  most  evidently  be  for  the  public  good. 

The  number,  if  large  and  respectable,  would  exert 
a  sufficient  influence  by  their  example  to  prevent  the 
standard  fashion  from  ever  appearing  out  of  date. 
The  ladies'  bonnets  would  then  be  new  at  the  end  of 
three  years,  instead  of  being  old-fashioned  at  the  end 
of  one.  The  gentlemen's  hats  would  be  fashionable 
until  worn  out;  and  the  wedding  coat,  which  is  saved 
for  holyday  occasions,  might  descend  from  father  to 
son,  a  fashionable  garment. 


A    HUMBUG    FAME. 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. — We  have  nowhere  seen  a  just- 
er  view  of  this  much-talked-of  writer  than  is  given  in 
the  October  number  of  the  Biblical  Repository,  a 
journal  conducted  with  great  ability  by  an  association 
of  divines.  The  writer  (Prof.  J.  T.  Smith,  of  New 
ton  Theological  Institute,  Mass.)  allows  Carlyle  to  be 
a  "  most  vigorous,  unique,  and  original  thinker  and 
writer,"  and  that  his  "Past  and  Present"  is  "certainly 
worth  reading."  He  allows  further,  that  that  work 
contains  many  noble  and  truthful  sentiments,  uttered 
with  commanding  energy.  This,  however,  is  the  ex 
tent  of  his  commendation.  "  We  must,  on  the  whole," 
says  the  writer,  "  characterize  it  as  a  book,  in  style, 
barbarous;  in  politics,  incendiary  ;  in  philosophy,  du 
bious  ;  and  in  theology,  execrable."  This  opinion 
the  reviewer  supports  by  an  analysis  of  the  work,  and 
by  a  specification  of  particulars. 

The  barbarity  of  the  style  no  one  doubts,  and  no 
one,  except  a  few  very  warm  admirers,  defends.  This 
very  barbarity  seems  to  us  only  another  manifestation 
of  that  arrogance  which  characterizes  all  Carlyle's 


164 


EPHEMERA. 


attempts.  A  man  who  condemns  everybody  must 
needs  be  an  inventor. 

The  work  is  said  to  "breathe  an  overweening,  mor 
bid  admiration  of  the  past."  Nothing  of  the  present 
satisfies  Mr.  Carlyle ;  nothing  of  the  past  but  elicits 
his  commendation,  and  among  other  things,  Scandi 
navian  savagery,  Mohammedanism,  twelfth  century 
Catholicism,  the  fighting  barons  of  feudal  times,  Popes 
Gregory  and  Hildebrand,  and  other  personages  of  like 
stamp,  each  and  all  present  to  him  some  phase  worthy 
of  special  notice  and  admiration.  The  religion  and 
the  systems  of  government  of  the  present  day,  have 
very  hard  fare  at  his  hands,  since  the  former  is  all 
cant,  hypocrisy,  and  quackery,  and  the  latter  nothing 
better,  to  say  the  least.  We  are,  in  truth,  recom 
mended  to  go  back  to  the  twelfth  century  for  models 
of  religion  and  government.  The  HERO  must  be  found 
by  some  means — or  he  must  find  himself.  A  fighting 
aristocracy  like  that  of  the  twelfth  century  is  no  longer 
possible  ;  but  a  working  aristocracy  must  take  its 
place,  and  the  system  of  villanage  be  restored.  In 
deed,  American  slavery  seems  essentially  the  system 
recommended  by  this  practical  preacher. 

The  sum  and  substance  of  our  own  view  of  the 
whole  matter  is,  that  while  we  sympathize  to  some  ex 
tent  with  Mr.  Carlyle  in  his  dissatisfaction  with  the 
present  state  of  things,  the  remedies  he  proposes  in 
his  deep-mouthed  and  most  oracular  tone,  are  abso 
lutely  naught — the  mere  dreams  of  a  mind  well-inten 
tioned  enough,  but  half-crazed  with  overweening  self- 
estimation. 

He  insists  much  on  the  necessity  of  a  "French 
revolution"  in  England.  "There  will  be  two,  if 
needed  ;  there  will  be  twenty,  if  needed.  .  .  — The 
laws  of  nature  will  have  themselves  fulfilled,"  and 
much  more  to  the  same  purpose.  Yet  this  inevitable 
fulfilment  of  the  laws  of  nature  which  is  to  work  all 
good,  seems,  according  to  the  seer's  estimate,  as  yet 
to  have  wrought  nothing  but  ill.  His  final  hope  is  a 
hero-king:  "Yes,  friends:  hero-kings  and  a  whole 
world  not  unheroic — there  lies  the  port  and  happy 
haven,"  &c.  In  fine,  if  Carlyle's  words  mean  any 
thing  (which,  the  more  we  read  the  more  we  doubt), 
the  whole  people  are  to  be  roused  to  violent  revolt, 
and  plunged  into  all  sorts  of  horrors,  as  a  preparation 
for  a  better  state  of  things! 

Carlyle  speaks  of  the  last  two  centuries  as  godless 
centuries — and  that  in  contrast  with  the  long  ages 
that  went  before  them.  What  is  this  but  to  shock 
the  common  sense  of  history  ?  And  his  remedy  is 
HERO-HOOD.  What  is  this  but  inane  twaddle  ?  Mon 
strous,  unblushing  egotism,  is  one  of  Carlyle's  stri 
king  characteristics.  Great  and  learned  men,  astrono 
mers,  philosophers,  and  others,  are  "  poor  scientific 
babblers  ;"  he  alone,  it  would  seem,  discerns  the  re 
ality  of  things,  and  has  the  key  to  the  mysteries  of 
nature.  "Insight"  has  been  granted  to  no  other. 

One  of  the  wonders  of  the  age  to  us  is,  that  such  a 
monstrosity  as  Carlyle  should  have  attained  so  high  a 
place  in  its  estimation.  His  merits  are  so  overloaded 
by  the  most  shocking  and  unbounded  affectation  and 
egotism,  that  we  rise  from  the  perusal  of  much  that 
he  has  written  with  no  other  sensations  than  those  of 
weariness  and  disgust. 


The  poems  of  the  Kentucky  Sappho,  AMELIA,  have 
been  published  in  a  very  elegant  gift-book  volume,  by 
Tompldns,  of  Boston.  We  have  expressed  our  almost 
unqualified  admiration  of  this  lady's  poems,  as  they 
separately  appeared.  She  has  a  mind  fed  equally 
from  a  full  heart  and  a  prodigal  imagination. 

It  was  once  remarked  to  us,  by  a  critic  as  candid  as 
he  is  discerning,  that  there  is  a  great  development  of 
the  poetic  sentiment  in  this  country  ;  that  many  of  our 


collections,  which,  in  their  brief  existence,  resemble 
the  flowers  that  seem  to  be  born  only  to  die,  like  those 
delicate,  odorous,  and  lovely  objects  in  nature,  have 
often  a  character  of  sweetness,  purity,  and  freshness, 
grateful  to  refined  taste  and  a  feeling  heart.  The 
pieces  contained  in  this  volume  are  worthy  of  such 
praise.  A  loving  heart,  and  a  soul  in  harmony  with 
the  beauty  of  the  world  and  the  divine  spirit  which 
informs  it,  dictated  these  poems. 

We  might  make  many  beautiful  selections  from  this 
handsome  volume;  but  we  must  content  ourselves, 
for  the  present,  with  naming  one,  "  The  Little  Step 
son,"  which,  in  its  earnest  simplicity,  and  its  ringing 
music,  reminds  us  of  that  favorite  translation,  "My 
ear-rings!  my  ear-rings!  they've  dropped  into  the 
well !"  Not  merely  that  the  measure  is  the  same,  but 
that  the  whole  tone  seems  the  echo  of  far  off  and 
primitive  manners — the  voice  of  untutored  affection. 


MIFF  BETWEEN  JOHN  BULL  AND  BROTHER  JONA 
THAN. — The  offensive  club  exclusion  by  which  Eng 
lish  aristocrats  have  undertaken  to  make  Ameri 
cans  pay  their  debts,  does,  unquestionably,  put  the 
screw  upon  a  national  weakness.  We  are  not  sorry 
for  it — but  there  could  have  been  nothing  in  worse 
taste  or  showing  a  more  ignorant  lack  of  discrimina 
tion — setting  aside  the  fact  of  its  being  done  by  a  class 
of  men,  who  are  themselves,  notoriously  bad  paymas 
ters.  We  do  not  believe,  however,  all  that  is  in  the 
papers  on  the  subject.  The  "  Reform-Club,"  in 
which  it  originated,  is  a  new  combination  of  ill-ballast 
ed  politicians,  and  the  movement  will  be  disclaimed 
in  some  authoritative  shape,  before  a  month  is  over. 
Trifling  as  the  matter  abstractly  is,  it  would  act  very 
pungently  on  any  questionof  war-making  which  should 
arise  among  us  within  a  year. 

Perhaps  some  of  our  readers  would  like  to  know 
how  far  an  exclusion  from  the  clubs  affects  Americans 
in  England.  The  fact  of  not  having  the  honorary 
privilege  of  admission  to  the  two  principal  clubs,  was 
(before  this  national  exclusion)  sufficient  evidence 
that  a  gentleman  had  not  come  well  introduced.  One 
of  the  first  and  most  natural  questions  addressed  to  a 
stranger  in  London  is,  "  What  club  are  you  in  ?" — 
the  intention  being  to  ask  you  to  a  tete-d-tete  club 
dinner,  if  you  turn  out  agreeable.  This  is  almost  the 
only  courtesy  that  a  literary  man  in  England  has  it  in 
his  power  to  show  you.  He  can  give  you  a  dinner 
for  a  few  shillings  at  his  club  (if  you  are  a  member  of 
it  and  not  otherwise),  which  in  point  of  style  and  com 
fort  is  equal  to  a  nobleman's  entertainment.  Or 
(which  is  more  common)  he  can  say,  "I  dine  at  the 
Athenaeum  to-day  at  six.  If  you  have  no  better  en 
gagement,  we'll  put  our  chairs  together" — each  man 
in  this  case  paying  his  own  bill.  An  invitation  to 
club  privilege  is  only  got  up  by  high  interest,  however. 
It  requires  some  person  of  consequence  to  play  the 
applicant,  and  the  number  of  strangers  in  each  club, 
at  one  time,  is  seldom  more  than  twenty  or  thirty. 
The  following  are  the  formulas  of  invitation  to  the 
two  principal  clubs  : — 

"PALL  MALL,  28th  January,  1835. 

"DEAR  SIR  :  I  am  directed  by  the  committee  of  the '  TRAVEL 
LERS'  to  inform  you  that  they  have  great  pleasure  in  admit 
ting  you  as  a  visiter  to  the  club  for  the   ensuing   month,  and 
that  they  hope  to  be  favored  with  your  frequent  attendance. 
"  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  sir, 

"  Your  most  obed't  and  humble  serv't, 
"  J.  W.  SINGER.  Secretary." 


"  ATHENJEUM,  LONDON,  19th  February,  1835. 

"  SIR:  I  am  directed  to  inform  you  that  the  committee  of 

the  '  ATHENJEUM'  have  ordered  your  name  to  be  placed  on 

the  list  of  distinguished  foreigners  residing  in  London,  who 

are  invited  to  the  house  of  the  club  for  three  months,  sub- 


EPHEMERA. 


165 


ject  to  the  same  regulations  as  the  members  are  required  to 
observe. 

"  In  case  your  stay  should  be  prolonged  beyond  that  period, 
and  it  should  be  your  wish  to  have  this  invitation  renewed,  it 
will  be  necessary  that  an  application  be  made  to  the  commit 
tee  to  that  effect. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  sir, 

"  Your  very  obedient,  humble  servant, 
"  EDWARD  MAGRATH,  Sec'y." 


It  is  rather  important  to  a  man  making  his  way  in 
London  society,  that  he  should  be  seen  at  the  clubs. 
The  formidable  "  Who  is  he  ?"  is  always  satisfactorily 
answered  by,  "  Don't  know,  but  I  saw  him  at  the  club." 
It   influences  all  manner  of  introductions,   breaking 
down  scores  of  invisible  walls  between  the  new-comer 
and  desirable  things  and  people.     A  call  at  the  clubs 
is   an  invariable   part  of  the  routine  of  a  fashionable 
man's  morning.     He  goes  there  to  meet  friends,  to  j 
hear  the  news,  to  bet,  to  smoke,  to  make  engagements 
— to  prepare  for  the  out-door  part  of  the  day,  in  short.  ': 
All   notes,  requiring  a  very  private  delivery,  are  ad-  I 
dressed  to  a  man  at  his  club.     Men  who  have  no  li-  ! 
braries  of  their  own,  do  the   most  of  their  reading  ! 
there.     It  is  the  place  to  see  great  men,  fashionable  I 
men,   famous  men ;  and   to  see  them  without   their 
masks — for  the  security,  as  to  the  proper  introduction 
of  all  present,  throws  an  atmosphere  of  marked  laisser- 
allf.r  around  sensitive  greatness. 

We  sat  down,  however,  to  comment  upon  the  igno 
rance  as  to  our  country,  shown  by  the  late  narrow- 
viewed  movement  of  club-exclusion — the  evident  igno 
rance  of  any  distinction  between  state  responsibility 
and  national  responsibility.  To  mention  it  is  enough, 
however;  and  we  turn  to  that  which  will  show  the 
out-lying  proof  of  English  ignorance  of  us. 

One  of  the  dullest,  most  arrogant,  and  unscrupulous 
of  travellers  is  commended  in  the  last  foreign  quarter 
ly,  by  one  of  the  most  unfair  and  ignorant  of  critics. 
If  all  travellers  and  critics  were  like  this  well-matched 
pair,  the  subject  of  British  tourists  and  reviewers,  and 
their  opinions  and  statements  concerning  us  would  not 
be  worth  a  thought.  Of  the  capacity  and  information 
of  the  reviewer,  take  one  or  two  specimens.  "  The 
unanimity  of  whigs,  lories,  and  radicals,  upon  the  one 
topic  of  American  society  (i.  e.,  in  condemnation)  is  a 
thing  to  wonder  at  and  reflect  upon."  Two  of  the 
most  readable  works  of  this  class  within  the  last  ten 
years  are  decidedly  favorable — those  of  Miss  Martineau, 
and  the  Hon.  Charles  Augustus  Murray.  A  more 
striking  instance  still  of  the  reviewer's  utter  ignorance 
or  most  shameful  falsification  is  his  representing  the 
internal  traffic  in  slaves  as  j)ublicly  repudiated,  and 
founding  on  that  a  charge  of  duplicity,  since  "men — 
are  ready  to  swear  there  is  no  such  thin";  from  one  end 
of  America  to  the  other  as  a  trade  in  slaves."  A  very 
suitable  person  this  to  write  comments  on  American 
travels  !  With  such  endorsements  Mr.  Featherston- 
haugh's  statements  can  not  but  pass  current !  We 
did  not  suppose  there  was,  in  the  obscurest  corner  of 
Europe,  one  dabbler  in  ink  so  profoundly  and  inex 
cusably  ignorant  as  not  to  know  that  slaves  were 
openly  bought  and  sold  in  the  slave  states  of  this 
country.  That  such  Cimmerian  darkness  (to  make 
the  most  charitable  supposition)  should  envelope  the 
brain  of  a  British  reviewer  is  a  marvel  indeed! 

It  was  not,  however,  to  expose  such  ignorance  that 
we  took  up  the  pen,  nor  to  draw  the  very  natural  con 
clusion  of  the  amount  of  information,  which  Mr.  F.'s 
book  conveyed  to  his  countrymen  at  large,  since,  not 
withstanding  the  title  "slave  states,"  his  reviewer  con 
cluded  there  was  no  acknowledged  slavery — for  with 
out  purchase  and  sale  the  system  is  of  course  knocked 
on  the  head. 

But  such  are  not  all  British  tourists,  nor  such  all 
British  reviewers;  and  it  is  worth  while  to  inquire  why 
it  is,  that,  placing  out  of  the  account  writers  of  this 


class,  there  is  still  so  large  a  proportion  of  our  well- 
informed  and  sensible  visitants,  who  get  an  unfavor 
able  impression  of  our  institutions  and  of  our  state  of 
society. 

We  ought  to  give  up  the  idea  of  a  prevalent  ill- 
feeling  toward  us  in  the  fatherland  of  our  ancestors, 
or  a  wish  to  put  us  down,  because  we  are  on  the  wrong 
side  of  the  water.  Few  Englishmen  like  us  the  less 
because  we  are  Americans,  and  not  French  or  German 
or  Russians.  Thousands  of  us  when  abroad  have  ex 
perienced  the  contrary. 

Nor  ought  we  to  suppose  that  envy,  jealousy,  or 
ancient  grudges,  are  at  the  bottom  of  the  hard  measure 
meted  out  to  us  by  tourists.  True,  we  have  met  in 
war  as  enemies,  and  in  peace  as  commercial  rivals, 
and  have  in  both  held  our  own;  but  meanness  and  spite 
form  no  part  of  the  character  of  John  Bull.  He  has 
tremendous  faults,  but  he  keeps  tolerably  clear  of 
pettinesses. 

One  fault  shows  itself  with  the  English  abroad, 
wherever  they  are.  Though  the  greatest  travellers, 
they  are  the  least  cosmopolitan.  The  island  mania 
attends  them  everywhere,  except  at  home.  Like 
some  mistresses  to  some  lovers,  old  England  seems 
the  dearer  the  farther  they  get  away  from  her.  Gold 
smith's  Traveller's  lengthening  chain  is  no  ficiion. 
Across  the  ocean  it  is  often  insupportable.  Some 
times,  also,  this  distance  has,  at  the  outset  of  the 
voyage,  "  lent  enchantment  to  the  view,"  which,  when 
dispelled,  leads  to  a  bitter,  though  unreasonable  dis 
appointment. 

The  very  resemblance  which  we  bear  to  the  Eng 
lish — and  must  bear,  from  our  origin,  our  language, 
our  literature,  and  our  continued  intercourse  ever 
since  the  ocean  rolled  between  us — is  unfavorable  to  a 
just,  and  still  more  to  a  partial  judgment  of  us,  on 
the  part  of  those  honestly  disposed  to  do  us  justice. 
To  other  people  the  British  traveller  can  apply,  in 
some  measure,  the  true  standard — i.  e.,  to  each  its 
own  ;  but  for  us,  he  can  have  only  the  home  standard. 
Weighed  by  this,  we  are,  of  course,  found  wanting. 
He  find  us  nine  tenths  English,  and  scolds  that  the 
other  tenth  is  not  English  too. 

It  is  needless  to  discuss  the  point,  whether  that 
tenth  is  better  or  worse — the  English  blood  renforces 

(as  some  Frenchman  has  pronounced,  justly  we 

hope)  or  not — it  is  enough  that  it  is  not  English  for 
the  genuine  John  Bull  to  pronounce  it  ridiculous  or 
insufferable  ;  to  laugh  or  rail  at  it  according  to  bis 
humor.  The  general  resemblance  he  can  not  deny, 
but  he  unreasonably  demands  an  exact  likeness.  Jn 
the  points  where  this  is  not  perceptible,  he  of  course 
considers  us  shockingly  degenerate,  altered  altogether 
for  the  worse.  Now  there  are  various  points  which 
we  should  not  expect  him  to  appreciate  justly,  for  we 
know  he  is  a  creature  full  of  prejudices  and  contra 
dictions,  and  he  must  see  with  his  own  eyes  or  not  see 
at  all. 

Another  real  difficulty  is,  that  no  mere  passing 
traveller  can  realize  the  crowning  glory  of  our  country 
and  of  our  institutions — the  general  diffusion  of  com 
fort  and  intelligence.  A  traveller  is  looking  out  for 
the  salient  points— something  striking  or  marvellous 
— something  that  will  tell  in  his  book  and  his  memory. 
A  thousand  comfortable  or  even  elegant  private  dwel 
lings  that  he  might  pass,  would  not  make  upon  him 
so  vivid  an  impression  as  one  splendid  palace — while 
the  former  would  indicate  a  thousand  families  living 
in  comfort  and  abundance,  and  the  latter  that  there 
was  one  family  of  over-grown  wealth  with  a  presump- 
|  tion  against  its  possessing  the  average  worth  of  the 
former,  or  even  enjoying  their  average  happiness. 

We  contribute  to   the  severity   of  the  judgments 

against  us  by  our  own  fault.     Our  sensitiveness  lays 

'  us  peculiarly  open  to  attack,  and  none  reply  to  such 

attacks    with    more   violence.      The   foreigner   who 


166 


EPHEMERA. 


knows  this  and  who  can  not  perhaps  conscientiously 
grant  us  all  we  ask,  sharpens  his  weapons  beforehand 
for  the  encounter,  and  deals  harder  blows  in  anticipa 
tion  of  those  which  he  knows  he  is  about  to  bring 
down  upon  himself. 

To  this  must  be  added  our  national  vanity — a 
characteristic  which  the  candid  among  us  own.  From 
demanding  too  indiscriminate  praise,  we  do  not  get 
that  which  we  really  deserve,  as  the  trader,  who  praises 
his  wares  extravagantly,  is  sure  to  have  them  under 
valued.  If  our  claims  were  more  moderate,  they 
would  be  oftener  acknowledged.  If  we  exacted  less, 
more  would  be  voluntarily  given.  If  we  did  not  rise 
up  against  deserved  reproof,  we  should  be  oftener 
spared  that  which  we  did  not  deserve. 

When  we  claim  the  eloquence  of  a  Chatham  for 
every  stump  orator,  and  then  apply  the  same  phrases 
to  our  really  great  and  eloquent  men,  the  latter  are 
sufferers.  If  we  claim  for  our  every-day  life  or  even 
for  our  soirees  recherchees  the  grace  and  polish  of  a 
court,  where  they  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  kill  time 
agreeably,  the  assertion  is  simply  ridiculous.  Some 
traveller  (Dickens  we  believe)  says  of  the  factory-girls 
of  Lowell,  that  they  have  the  port  and  bearing  (or 
something  to  that  effect)  of  well-bred  ladies.  Pretty 
complimentary  we  should  think  !  But  an  annotator 
somewhere  (but  where  we  know  not),  is  not  satisfied. 
He  adds,  that  if  Mr.  Dickens  should  meet  these  per 
sons  in  private  circles,  he  would  find  they  had  the 
correspond  ing  elegance  and  manners.  As  if  any  good 
factory-girl  at  Lowell  would  pass  muster  at  Queen 
Victoria's  drawing-room  ! 


THE  NEW  PRIMA  DONNA. — The  haste  with  which 
it  is  the  fashion  to  write  about  prima-donnas,  giving 
them  a  cornucopial  criticism,  on  their  debut,  and  drop 
ping  directly  after  into  very  brief  notices,  reminds  us 
of  a  lady's  reproach  to  her  lover,  in  the  old  play  of  the 
Spanish  friar  :  "  You  men  are  like  watches,  wound 
up  for  striking  twelve  immediately  ;  but  after  you  are 
satisfied,  the  very  next  that  follows  is  the  solitary- 
sound  of  single  one."  We  should  like  very  much  to 
defer  expressing  an  opinion  of  Madame  Pico,  till  she 
had  a  little  recovered  from  the  embarrassment  of  a 
first  performance,  and  (more  important  still  in  critici 
sing)  till  we  had  steeped  our  tympanum  a  little  longer 
in  the  honey  the  bees  of  Italy  have  shed  upon  her 
lips ;  but 

The  audience  at  Palmo's,  last  night,  was,  probably, 
the  best  ever  assembled  since  Malibran's  time,  as  to 
the  capability  of  judging  of  a  cantatrice  by  taste  and 
comparison.  Madame  Pico,  even  in  Italy,  would 
scarce  have  dropped  her  golden  cadences  into  more 
judicious  ears.  Fortunately,  too,  the  unripeness  of 
an  entirely  new  opera  was  corrected  by  the  predomi 
nance  of  natural  melody  in  the  composer's  style — ma 
king  it  all  come  to  the  ear  with  the  impromptu  wel 
come  sometimes  refused  to  the  best  music.  By  the 
way — without  knowing  whether  this  opera  will  grow 
upon  us,  and  allowing,  at  once,  that  it  has  none  of 
Beethoven's  under-song,  nor  any  of  the  supernatural 
combinations  of  Mozart — we  must  express  our  almost 
passionate  delight  in  its  main  burthen  and  character. 
We  write,  it  is  true,  by  a  past-time-to-go-to-bed  candle, 
and  with  the  graciles-que  sensus  still  reeling  under  the 
intoxication  of  the  cup  of  bewitched  sound  ;  but  if 
this  gets  to  press  (and  we  shall  look  it  over  before 
breakfast,  to-morrow  morning),  we  congratulate  the 
every-day-ear  of  the  city  we  live  in,  upon  a  opera  that 
is  natural  as  a  bird's  song,  and  that  can  be  enjoyed 
with  as  simple  a  taste  for  music— at  the  same  "time, 
no  more  to  be  disparaged,  for  its  simplicity,  than  the 
bird's  throat  for  not  having  the  harp-stop  of  a  piano. 
But  let  us  go  on,  story -fashion. 


The  curtain  drew  up,  and  after  the  appearance  of 
the  usual  precedent  foil  of  chorus-singers,  Sanquirico, 
the  ben  amatoofthe  company,  came  on  as  a  postillion. 
After  making  a  bow,  with  the  good-will  of  a  waterfall, 
in  acknowledgment  of  the  applause  with  which  he 
was  met,  he  went  on  playing  his  part,  and  (to  dismiss 
him  with  this  brief  notice)  most  admirably  to  the 
last.  The  make-way  motions  of  the  guard  and  the 
aspettando  impatience  of  the  music,  now  prepared  us 
for  the  prima-donna.  She  was  to  represent  a  young 
girl,  under  the  protection  of  the  prince  and  princess, 
whose  escape  from  ruin  by  a  villain  is  the  story  of  the 
opera.  "Chiara!"  trilled  the  "cue"  and  in  glided 
Chiara! 

Madame  Pico  has  a  look  in  her  face  as  if  "  Sorrow 
had  passed  that  way."  She  has  had  a  narrow  escape 
of  being  superbly  handsome,  and,  as  it  is,  she  could 
personate,  with  small  call  upon  the  imagination,  the 
part  of  "Mrs.  Helpless  Ingulfus,"  on  the  stage  or  off 
it.  Tho'  not  near  so  beautiful,  she  is  a  strong  likeness 
of  Mrs.  Norton — the  same  low,  concentrative  forehead, 
the  same  something-or-other  in  the  sweep  of  the  dark 
hair,  the  same  caressing  inwardness  in  the  white  round 
of  the  shoulder.  There  is  rather  too  much  of  a  caden 
za  in  her  bust,  and  her  under  lip  does  not  always  come 
up  with  the  alacrity  we  like  in  a  woman,  but  we  may 
change  our  opinion.  She  was  very  much  frightened, 
and  these  matters  are 

"  now  high,  now  low  again, 
Like  a  ring  of  bells  that  the  wind's  wooing  alters." 

The  welcome  of  applause  ceased,  and  the  expected 
voice  trembled  on  the  silence.  It  was  listened  to  with 
pricked  ears,  nodded  to  by  the  cognoscenti  at  the  first 
pause — approved,  applauded.  It  was  a  rich,  clouded 
contralto,  its  depths  hidden  by  a  soprano  part,  like  a 
dark  well  impoverished  by  a  slant  beam  of  sunshine. 
As  she  went  on,  gathering  a  little  more  control,  her  voice 
sank  to  the  inner  sound-chamber  where  the  heart  sits 
to  listen,  and  the  audience,  instead  of  louder  applaud 
ing,  began  to  murmur  their  admiration.  Evident  as 
it  was  that  the  delicious  home  of  her  voice  was  never 
reached,  or  borrowed  from,  by  the  notes  of  that  soprano 
part,  there  was  a  kind  of  full  forth-shadowing  of  reser 
ved  power  which  made,  even  what  she  did  sing,  satisfy 
the  ear.  And  then,  occasionally,  where  the  lower 
notes  approached  her  treasury  of  un-used  power,  she 
flung  out  a  contralto  cadence  upon  the  air  with  an  ef 
fect  the  audience  waited  impatiently  to  hear  repeated. 
We  feel  bespoken  to  be  enchanted  with  a  fair  develop 
ment  of  that  full  throat's  capabilities.  Artistic  com 
parison  apart,  we  have  a  passion  for  a  contralto — noth 
ing  that  can  pass  the  portal  of  an  ear  touching  with 
half  the  delicacy  our  levia  ajfectuum  vestigia.  Those 
who  take  our  criticisms  will,  if  they  like,  make  allow 
ance  for  this  weakness. 

Borghese  was  in  one  of  the  avant-scene  boxes,  lend 
ing  her  captive  town  to  her  rival  with  the  best  grace 
imaginable.  She  well  may — for  a  smiling  rivalry  be 
tween  her  and  Pico  will  give  each  new  attraction, 
particularly  since  their  voices  are  of  totally  opposite 
quality.  The  little  soprano  comme-il-faut  has  her 
advantages,  and  Madame  Pico  has  hers.  Neither  of 
them  is  quite  the  "  horn  of  Astolpho,  at  the  sound 
of  which  the  hearer  went  mad,"  but  while  hearing 
either,  as  Esdras  says,  "a  man  remembereth  neither 
sorrow  nor  debt."  May  they  pull  together  "  like 
Juno's  swans,  coupled  and  inseparable  !" 


The  FOOTRACE  we  have  seen  this  afternoon  "  car 
ried  the  town"  more  completely  than  any  excitement 
we  have  yet  been  abroad  in — politics  not  excepted. 
We  were'  late,  but  a  thousand  people  were  on  the 
road  with  us,  and  when  we  arrived,  the  first  race  was 


EPHEMERA. 


167 


just  over,  Jackson  the  winner.  The  weather  was 
Indian  summer,  in  its  most  bracing  smile — good 
omen,  a  punster  would  say,  for  the  red-skinned  com-  I 
petitor!  The  roads  had  been  dried  pretty  well 
hy  the  sharp  wind  of  yesterday,  the  grass  looked 
glossy,  and  King  Pluribus  was  in  unusual  good  hu 
mor — as  he  generally  is  on  the  first  bright  day  after 
bad  weather. 

The  stands  looked  like  stacks  of  noses  and  hats, 
and  after  a  vain  attempt  to  find  room  in  the  principal 
ones,  we  descended  to  the  course  to  take  our  chance 
with  the  great  company  of  the  jostled.     As  it  was  an 
object  to  get  a  near  view  of  the  runners  at  the  end  of  j 
the  first  quarter  of  a  mile,  we  crossed  the  area  of  the  | 
field   to   the   less   thronged  side  of   the  course,  and  I 
awaited  their  coming.     Several  loads  of  undisguised 
sinners  were  near  us,  one  of  whom,  a  professed  ma-  I 
tron,  apparently,  coolly  sat  with  a  pair  of  pistols,  wait-  | 
ing  some  expected  attack  from  a  crowd  of  ruffians 
who  had  surrounded  them.     She  looked  quite  capa-  j 
ble  of  a  tragedy;   but  the  striking  of  the  bell  at  the  ! 
stand  drew  off  the  rowdies  to  the  ring-fence,  and  the  | 
pistols  in  the  gloved  hands  gave  place  to  a  bouquet,  j 
We  had  been  thinking  that  there  should  be  a  compel-  j 
itrix  in  the  race  to  inherit  the  honors  of  Atalanta, 
and  a  female,  by  a  pull  of  the  forefinger,  might  easily 
have  taken  the  day's  notoriety  from  the  competitors 
in  the  race. 

A  stroke  of  the  bell — a  shout  from  twenty  thou 
sand  throats — a  sudden  radiation,  to  one  point,  of  all  \ 
the  loose  vagrants  in  the  field — and  around  came  the  i 
horse-fence,  that  in  single  file  kept  pace  with  the  run-  I 
ners,  hemming  them  in  from  the  crowd.     The  gro 
tesque-looking  pedestrians  hugged  the  wooden  railing 
very  closely  as  they  came  along,  Barlow  ahead,  the 
Indian  close  on  his  heels,  and  Gildersleeve,  the  victor  J 
of  the   last   race,   quietly   consenting   to   be  number 
three.     The  foremost  man  was  simply  "diapered,"  as 
the  nurses  say,  exhibiting  his  white   Saxon  skin  in 
strong  contrast  to  the  smoked  hams  of  the  Indian  be 
hind   him,  and  if  the  race  had  depended  on  muscle 
merely,  a  good  anatomist  might  have  picked  out  the 
winner,  hy  points  fairly  displayed,  as  easily  as  a  horse's 
capabilities  are  seen  by  the  jockey. 

They  ran  very  differently.  A  plurnbline,  dropped 
from  the  forehead  of  each,  would  have  fallen  a  foot  in 
advance  of  Barlow's  body,  and  eighteen  inches  in  ad 
vance  of  the  Indian's,  while  it  would  have  lain  close 
to  the  breast  of  the  erect  little  Gildersleeve.  Barlow 
never  took  his  eyes  from  the  ground,  and  kept  his 
lower  jaw  relaxed  in  a  kind  of  shame-faced  smile. 
We  observed  that  his  make  was  in  exceeding  good 
distribution,  and  though  he  was  slightly  knock-kneed, 
he  made  play  as  straight  ahead  as  a  pendulum,  losing 
nothing  by  sideling.  Gildersleeve's  natural  ballast, 
on  the  contrary,  rounded  him  to,  slightly,  at  every 
step,  and  his  shoulders  were  partly  employedin  coun 
teracting  the  swing.  McCabe,  who  was  compact  all 
over,  trotted  along  like  a  stiff  little  pig,  giving  no 
where,  and  the  Indian,  a  long,  stringy  six-footer, 
seemed  to  follow  his  head  like  a  kite's  bobs — the  near 
est  way  for  a  wave.  Gildersleeve,  it  struck  us,  was 
lividly  pale,  the  Indian  ready  to  cry  with  anxiety, 
McCabe  spunky,  and  Barlow  slyly  confident  of  suc 
cess. 

We  crossed  over  to  the  stands,  where,  we  presume, 
upon  four  acres  of  ground,  there  were  twenty-five 
thousand  men.  It  was  a  peculiar-looking  crowd — 
sprinklings  excepted,  very  gamc-y.  We  presume  no 
pick  of  New  York  city  could  have  brought  out  of  it, 
so  completely,  the  stuff  it  holds  for  an  army.  The 
betting  was  going  on  vigorously — Barlow  and  Steep- 
rock  the  favorites,  but  every  man  talking  up  his  coun 
tryman.  The  Irish  swore  up  McCabe  as  he  came 
along,  the  English  applauded  Barlow,  the  New-York 
ers  encouraged  Gildersleeve  and  the  Indian.  Mean- 


ime,  the  horse-fence-men  rode  open  the  crowd  with 
triking  and  shouting;  betting-books  were  whipped 
ut  at  every  completed  mile;  boys  cried  cigars;  row- 
ies  broke  down  barriers  and  climbed  into  the  stands  ; 
he  men  on  the  roofs  pointed  after  the  runners,  and 
allooed  the  gainings  and  losings;  and  every  third 
minute  the  naked  white  shoulders  came  round  ahead, 
nd  it  was  manifest  that  Barlow  gained  constantly, 
nd,  unless  the  little  Yankee  or  the  Indian  could  over- 
»aul  him  by  a  miraculous  push,  he  was  sure  to  win. 

They  came  along  for  the  tenth  mile,  and  the  crowd 
were  almost  still  with  anxiety.  The  overtaking  rush, 
iy  which  Gildersleeve  won  in  the  last  race,  was  now 
xpected  of  him  by  his  backers.  Barlow  passed,  a 
mndred  feet  ahead ;  Steeprock  strained  after,  with  a 
ponge  at  his  lips,  and  his  knees  tottering;  Gilder- 
leeve  came  third,  a  spectacle  of  pallor  and  exhaus- 
ion ;  Greenhalgh,  another  Englishman,  was  evidently 
naking  more  speed — and  that  was  the  last  we  saw  of 
hem  in  motion. 

With  the  thousands  rushing  in  from  all  sides  we 
vere  swept  toward  the  judges'  stand.  The  horsemen 
ame  on,  in  the  midst  of  a  sea  of  heads  keeping  pace 
thh  them,  whips  going,  shouts  pealing,  boys  and  bul- 
ies  screaming,  swearing,  and  crowding.  "  Barlow  !" 
'Barlow!"  "Barlow!"  arose  from  hundreds  of  wild 
oices,  and  the  tumult  of  inquiry  as  to  the  others 
grew  deafening.  We  backed  out  a  little  to  hear  the 
ictor  called  off  by  the  judges.  A  moment's  stillness 
vas  procured,  and  the  competitors  were  named  from 
he  stand»in  the  order  in  which  they  had  come  in: 
Barlow,  Steeprock,  Greenhalgh,  Gildersleeve.  The 
ime  made  by  the  winner  was  ten  miles  in  fifty-four 
minutes  twenty-one  seconds. 

As  we  turned  away,  Gildersleeve  was  brought  along 
)y  two  men,  with  his  eyes  half  closed  and  his  tongue 
oose  in  his  lips;  and  he  seemed  just  able  to  place  his 
eet,  one  after  the  other,  mechanically,  as  he  was 
ifted  over  the  ground.  A  sicker-looking  man  we 
never  saw.  A  minute  after,  Barlow  appeared  above 
he  crowd,  on  a  man's  shoulders,  waving  his  hand  and 
smiling  quite  composedly,  and  the  shouts,  apparently 
"rom  every  voice,  hailed  him  victor. 

P.  S.  We  had  nearly  forgotten  a  good  conundrum 
he  race  gave  birth  to  : — 

Question. — Why  did  Barlow  run  so  like  a  locomo 
tive  yesterday  ? 

Answer. — Because  he  had  behind  him  an  Indian- 
near. 


NEW  TRIAL  OF  CULPRIT  POETS.  —  Mrs.  Oilman 
has  invented  a  new  kind  of  book  ("Oracles  from  the 
Poets,"  of  which  we  gave  a  notice  a  few  days  ago), 
and  the  opening  preface,  very  charmingly  written, 
tries  the  poets  by  new  standards  altogether.  She  had 
occasion  to  ransack  all  the  popular  authors  for  an 
swers  to  the  fate-questions  of  her  Fortune-Teller,  and 
of  course  she  discovered  where  lay  the  most  thought 
and  feeling  of  a  peculiar  character.  She  begins  by 
finding  out  that  poets  are  benevolent.  She  had  great 
difficulty  in  finding  sixty  answers  to  the  question, 
"  To  what  hare  you  a  distaste  or  aversion  ?"  while 
"  What  gratifies  your  taste  or  affections  7"  was  stuff  as 
common  as  ctover.  She  says  that  in  Shakspere  there 
is  a  singular  lack  of  mention  of  places  of  residence,  and 
there  seems  not  to  be  even  a  fair  proportion  of  pas 
sages  descriptive  of  musical  sounds,  hours,  seasons, 
and  (except  in  the  Winter's  Tale)  of  flowers.  In 
Wordsworth,  scarcely  a  flower  or  musical  sound  is  de 
scribed.  They  are  alluded  to,  but  not  painted  out. 
The  poetry  of  Crabbe,  though  abounding  in  numer 
ous  characters,  could  furnish  almost  nothing  for  her 


purpose,  on  account  of  their  being  woven  into  the 
general  strain  of  his  narrations.  Shelley,  Landon, 
and  Howitt,  are  eminently  the  poets  of  flowers,  while 


168 


EPHEMERA. 


Darwin,  with  a  whole  "Botanic  Garden"  before  h 
and  Mason,  in  his  "English  Garden,"  gave  none 
fairly  entitled  to  selection.  Few  passages  of  any  sort, 
except  those  hackneyed  into  adages,  could  be  gained 
from  Milton,  on  account  of  the  abstract,  lofty,  and 
continuous  flow  of  his  diction.  Coleridge  has  cor 
responding  peculiarities.  Keats  and  Shelley  are  the 
poets  of  the  heavens.  Byron,  with  faint  exceptions, 
does  not  describe  a  flower,  or  musical  sound,  or  place 
of  residence.  The  AMERICAN  POETS,  in  contradis 
tinction  to  their  elder  and  superior  brethren  of  the 
fatherland,  display  a  more  marked  devotion  to  nature, 
with  which  a  continued  glow  of  religious  sentiment 
aptly  harmonizes. 

Apropos — as  the  living  American  poets  are  in  pro 
cess  of  'broidery,  would  it  not  be  well  to  know  where 
their  worsteds  are  deficient,  that  they  may  shop  up 
their  lacking  threads  in  the  Broadway  of  contempla 
tion?  Will  not  some  of  our  several  sleeping  female 
geniuses  (intellectual  dolce-far-nientes,  of  whom  we 
know  at  least  a  capable  dozen)  take  up  the  American 
poets  and  go  through  them  with  a  discriminating  bod 
kin,  showing  what  colors  lack  replenishing  ?  It  would 
serve  the  poetry  of  Bryant-dom — the  present  passing 
age  in  which  this  faultless  poet  is  the  flower  in  most 
palpable  relief.  Come,  ladies!  tell  us  what  Lowell 
(whose  fame  is  being  worked  just  now)  had  better 
thread  his  inspired  needle  with !  Tell  us  what  Long 
fellow  is  out  of.  Tell  us  whether  Halleck  has  done 
enough  to  cover  the  pattern,  and  whether  some  oth 
ers  hadn't  better  unravel  and  work  it  all  o\jer  again ! 
At  any  rate,  turn  up  their  frames  of  immortality  and 
show  us  the  wrong  side!  Let  them  mend,  if  they 
like, 

"  Ere  the  worm  pierce  their  tapestry,  and  the  spider 
Weave  his  thin  curtain  o'er  unfinished  dreams." 


THE  UPPER  TEN  THOUSAND  OF  NEW  YORK  CITY. — 
The  first  three  of  the  following  paragraphs  are  from 
the  True  Sun  of  November  22,  and  the  last  is  from 
the  same  paper  of  a  day  or  two  previous: — 

"Politically,  we  are  all  republicans — socially,  we 
are  divided  into  classes  on  the  'European  plan.' 
There  is  a  certain  class,  for  instance,  that  lakes  exer 
cise  only  on  one  side  of  Broadway — the  west  side. 
The  'canaille,'  to-be-sure,  may  walk  there  too,  be 
cause,  fortunately,  our  aristocracy,  with  all  its  pride 
and  vanity,  has  no  power;  but  what  perfumed  and 
ringleted  exquisite  would  ever  think  of  sporting  his 
white  kids,  mustaches,  and  goatee,  on  the  east  side 
of  our  great  thoroughfare?  That  would  be  literally 
wasting  his  sweetness  on  the  desert  air.  We  under 
stand,  by-the-by,  that  Stewart  is  severely  censured 
for  choosing  the  site  of  Washington  Hall  as  the  lo 
cation  of  his  new  temple  of  taste"  and  fashion,  merely 
because  it  is  situated  on  the  east  side  of  Broadway. 
However,  if  the  pavement  in  front  is  sprinkled  thrice 
a  day  with  eau  de  Cologne,  and  Mr.  Stewart  doubles 
the  price  of  his  goods,  in  order  to  give  ton  to  the  lo 
cation,  it  may  do  away  with  the  fashionable  prejudice 
against  the  promenade  of  the  nobodies,  and  thereby 
equalize  the  value  of  the  property  on  the  two  sides 
of  the  street.  At  present  there  is  a  very  material 
difference  in  the  price  of  the  brick  and  mortar  which 
borders  the  two  pavements." 

"THE  OPERA. — That  this  is  a  refined  and  elegant 
amusement,  no  one  can  doubt;  but  to  exaggerate  its 
consequence,  to  make  it  a  grand  controlling  feature 
in  our  society,  is,  in  our  judgment,  giving  it  undue 
importance.  With  regard  to  its  being  a  very  'aristo 
cratic'  affair  in  New  York,  we  can  only  say,  that  a 
complete  refutation  of  such  an  idea  may  be  easily  had 
at  any  time  by  a  glance  at  the  dress-circle  habitues.'' 

"TnE  ARISTOCRACY. — We  must  confess  we  do  not 


think  that  wealth  is  the  only  essential  necessary  to 
place  one  in  'good  society.'  We  can  imagine  many 
refined,  intellectual,  and  charming  people,  who  do 
not  drive  equipages  lined  with  silk,  and  who  have  nei 
ther  coachman  nor  footman  bedizened  with  lace. 
What  would  be  thought  of  the  elegance  of  a  leader 
of  the  ton,  who  could  take  a  peculiarly-dressed  par 
tridge  from  a  dinner-table,  and  place  it  in  his  hat,  in 
order  to  carry  it  home  with  him  ?  We  do  not  imagine 
that  such  an  attempt  (for  it  was  unsuccessful)  marks 
any  very  superior  degree  of  refinement!" 

"There  are  some,  again,  who  study  a  profound  re 
serve,  or  rather  adopt  an  appearance  of  hauteur. 
They  are  stiff,  quiet,  and  unapproachable.  These 
are  the  dandies  of  the  cities,  who  adopt  the  Horatian 
sentiment  of 

"  '  Odi  profanum  vulgus,'  &c. 

You  must  not  come  '  between  the  wind  and  their  no 
bility.'  They  wear  the  last  productions  of  Watson, 
or  Jennings,  or  Carpenter,  and  display  a  clean  pair  of 
kid  gloves,  with  the  last  fashion  of  wrist-buttons. 
You  might,  if  uninitiated,  suppose  them  some  dis 
tinguished  foreigners  on  their  travels.  In  nine  cases 
out  of  ten  (hey  belong  to  the  parvenu  order  of  the 
aristocracy.  Whiskey  or  codfish  has  taken  a  rise, 
and  their  honored  father  has  made  a  fortune.  The 
family-mansion  in  a  back  lane  has  been  abandoned  for 
some  fashionable  quarter,  and  visits — on  one  side — 
have  been  paid  throughout  the  neighborhood.  If 
they  choose,  they  could  astonish,  but  they  would  not 
condescend.  The  railroad-car  does  not  shake  down 
their  consequence.  They  regret  this  progress  of  one 
art,  which  makes  so  many  other  arts  useless.  They 
are  delighted  when  they  escape  from  the  crowd  and 
seek  the  hotel,  where  the  extravagant  charges  prevent 
the  danger  of  further  collision." 

We  received  yesterday  an  anonymous  letter,  re 
proving  us,  in  sober  bad  English,  for  ministering  to 
the  vanity  of  the  rich,  by  an  article  in  the  Mirror  on 
the  selection  of  "  a  promenade  drive."  This,  the  re 
proof  also  given  us  a  day  or  two  since  by  a  political 
paper  for  an  article  on  the  prima-donna,  and  the  fore 
going  paragraphs  from  a  neutral  paper,  aimed  princi 
pally  at  popularity  with  the  working  classes,  are  suf 
ficient  indications,  we  think,  that  some  bitter  weed, 
passing  for  an  aristocracy-nettle,  is  rolled  up  in  the 
present  cud  of  the  reposing  people. 

We  commence  taking  exceptions  to  the  tone  of 
these  articles,  by  stating  what  seems  to  us  a  fact  of 
general  notoriety — that  the  ten  thousand  people  up 
permost  in  this  city — (aristocrats,  if  wealth  and  po 
sition  make  them  so) — are  the  most  moral  and  scru 
pulous  ten  thousand  in  the  four  hundred  thousand  of 
the  population.  There  is  probably  about  this  num 
ber — ten  thousand — who  are  rich  enough,  if  they 
choose,  to  keep  a  carriage.  Two  thirds  of  them,  we 
presume,  were  poor  men  a  few  years  ago,  and  the 
children  of  three  fourths  of  them  will  be  obliged  to 
work  for  a  living  (a  flying-fish  aristocracy,  who  are 
hardly  long  enough  out  of  the  water,  one  would 
think,  to  give  offence  by  their  brief  airs  to  those  left  in 
the  element  below  them).  There  is  a  smaller  class — 
perhaps  two  thousand  families — who  have  been  respect 
able  and  well  off  for  two  or  more  generations.  There  is 
a  third  class,  still — perhaps  one  or  two  hundred — whose 
display  is  offensive,  from  no  one's  knowing  where 
their  money  comes  from,  or  from  their  being  sup 
posed  to  live  dishonestly  above  their  means,  or  from 
being  notoriously  vicious. 

Of  these  three  classes — an  "  aristocracy"  of  ten 
thousand — one  half,  at  least,  are  religious,  and  the 
remainder  seek  refined  pleasures,  and  attend  the 
atres  and  operas;  but,  with  the  exception  of  the  third 
and  smallest  class  last  named,  we  venture  to  repeat, 
that  the  upper  ten  thousand  are  by  much  the  most 


EPHEMERA. 


169 


exacting  of  moral  character  iu  their  friends,  the  most 
rigid  in  the  support  of  moral  opinions  and  charities, 
and  the  most  exemplary  in  their  individual  private 
life.  This  is  true  of  the  upper  ten  thousand  of  no  other 
country  in  the  world.  It  would  sound  Utopian  in  Eng 
land  to  assert  this  to  be  true  of  the  upper  classes  of 
any  city  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  Look  at  the  dif 
ference'  of  the  standards  in  ordinary  matters.  To 
make  a  good  match,  here,  it  is  necessary  that  a  young 
man  should  be  moral;  and  if  he  be  of  high  character 
in  this  respect  (and  the  lady  willing),  public  opinion 
will  not  suffer  his  pretensions  to  be  slighted  by  the 
richest  man!  In  every  other  country  the  lover's  mo 
rality  is  altogether  a  secondary  consideration — family 
and  fortune  far  before  it.  Morality  is  a  young  man's 
best  card  in  New  York  ;  whether  his  object  be  influ 
ence,  matrimony,  good  business-connexion,  appoint 
ments  from  societies,  or  general  position  in  the  best 
circles.  This  truth  needed  only  to  be  put  in  print  to 
make  people  wonder  it  had  not  been  said  before  ! 

It  is  a  wretched  trick  caught  from  English  papers  ; 
and  English  plays,  to  talk  of  the  rich  as  certainly 
vicious,  and  of  the  poor  as  necessarily  virtuous.  We 
live  in  a  country  where  the  sovereignty  (that  part  of 
sociely  which  vice  commonly  noses  and  follows  close 
alter)  resides  at  the  opposite  end  from  the  sovereignty 
of  England.  The  more  virtuous  class,  here  as  there,  is 
comparatively  powerless  at  the  polls.  The  rowdy 
drunkard  and  the  gambler  do  as  much  toward  presi-  j 
dent-making  and  the  selection  of  lawgivers,  as  the  I 
thrifty  merchant,  and  the  rich  father  of  a  family  of 
virtuous  daughters;  and,  as  there  are  a  hundred  hus 
bands,  of  either  of  the  first-named  classes,  to  one  of 
either  of  the  others,  virtue  and  order  keep  company 
with  sovereignty — in  this  country  as  little  as  in  Eu 
rope!  Power  is  at  the  surface  of  a  country,  and  the 
scum  rises  to  it.  We  are  quite  aware,  that  the  pen 
and  inkstand  with  which  we  write  these  sentiments 
will  not  be,  to  all  readers,  "  a  pot  of  lambative  elec 
tuary  with  a  stick  of  licorice." 


RIVALRY  AT  THE  OPERA. — The  musical  tilt,  to  de 
cide  which  was  the  more  prime  of  the  prima-donnas, 
came  off  last  night,  to  the  very  great  entertainment 
of  the  towu's  ornamentals.  It  reminded  us  very 
strongly  of  the  contention  between  the  lute  and  the 
nightingale,  in  the  old  play  of  the  "  Lover's  Melan 
choly."  Borghese  drops  dead  in  the  last  act,  very 
soon  after  a  glorious  and  triumphant  outbreak  by 
Pico;  and  we  will  quote  a  passage  to  show  how  this 
resembles  the  poetic  story — premising,  by-the-way, 
that  a  musician,  playing  in  the  woods,  is  overheard  by 
a  bird,  who  mocks  him  till  the  lute-player  gets  angry 
at  the  excellence  of  the  rivalry  : — 

"  To  end  the  controversy,  in  a  rapture, 
Upon  his  instrument  he  plays  so  swiftly — 
So  many  voluntaries  and  so  quick — 
That  there  was  curiosity  and  cunning, 
Concord  in  discord,  lines  of  differing  method, 
Meeting  in  one  full  centre  of  delight. 

the  bird  (ordained  to  be 

Music's  first  martyr)  strove  to  imitate 
These  several  sounds  ;  which,  when  her  warbling  throat 
Failed  in,  for  grief  down  dropped  she  on  his  lute, 
Aud  broke  her  heart." 

But,  to  tell  the  other  story — "after  the  manner  of 
men." 

The  opera  was  "Lucrezia  Borgia."  Signorina 
Borghese  represents  (as  well  as  we  could  understand 
the  story)  a  bad  mother,  who,  in  poisoning  a  large 
party  of  youths,  half  rakes,  half  conspirators,  for  hav 
ing  insulted  her  sign  over  the  door,  poisons  one  too 
many — her  son.  Madame  Pico  represents  the  leader 
of  the  set,  and  does  the  noise  and  the  jollification. 
She  descends  upon  the  stage  the  first  thing  after  the 


rising  of  the  curtain,  dressed  in  a  very  modest  suit  of 
male  attire,  and  figures  about  as  a  Roman  Captain 
Ryriders,  bandying  dialogue  here  and  there,  but  with 
no  chance  of  display  in  the  three  or  four  first  acts. 
Borghese,  we  began  to  think,  was  to  have  the  best  of 
it  all  the  way  through.  She  was  exquisitely  dressed, 
sang  with  as  little  of  the  split-straw  in  her  soprano  as 
we  ever  heard  her  sing  with,  and  acted  to  her  singing 
(as  she  always  does)  with  what  the  Greeks  called  ono- 
matopcia — movement  linked  with  sound  indivisibly. 
The  applause  was  pretty  well,  but  not  overpowering. 

The  fourth  act  represented  the  youths  at  the  fatal 
supper,  Pico  the  principal  customer.  After  a  little 
hobnobbing  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  she  glides 
round,  upon  her  plumptitudinous  locomotives,  and 
dashes  into  a  song,  rich,  rollicking,  and  risvegliato  ! 
Down  went  the  bucket  for  the  first  time  into  her  well 
of  contralto,  and  up  came  the  liquid  and  golden  mu 
sic,  of  a  round,  true  fulness,  that  made  the  ear's  thirst 
a  luxury.  It  was  a  passage  full  of  involutions,  abrupt, 
startling,  and  bacchanal;  but  her  skill  in  flinging  her 
voice  from  point  to  point,  with  the  capricious  surpri 
ses  of  the  music,  was  wonderfully  subtle.  The  au 
dience  was,  for  the  first  time  in  the  evening,  fairly 
lifted  clear  of  the  ground.  On  the  part  of  the  stage- 
company,  no  encore  was  looked  for  at  this  point  of  the 
opera.  The  closing  of  Pico's  song  is  the  signal  for  a 
death-bell  and  the  disclosing  of  a  hearse  a-piece  for 
the  jolly  junketers.  The  audience  were  not  ready, 
however.  The  applause  kept  on  till  the  hearses 
jacked  out,  and  the  song  was  sung  over  again.  Oh, 
"ion*  deliciously  it  was  sung!  No  voice,  however 
arge  its  compass,  was  ever  sweeter,  rounder,  mellow 
er  in  its  quality,  than  Madame  Pico's.  The  audience 
murmured,  and  leaned  forward,  and  ejaculated,  and 
with  one  unhesitating  accord,  it  seemed  to  us,  gave 
over  the  palm  to  the  contralto.  The  chorus-singers 
seemed  surprised — she  herself  forgot  her  male  attire, 
and  courtesied  (the  first  time  we  ever  saw  how  it  was 
done,  by-the-by),  a  tributary  bouquet  flew  over  the 
footlights,  and  Lucrezia  Borgia  rose  up  once  more, 
like  an  apparition  amid  the  hearses  in  waiting. 

The  last  act,  like  the  first  three,  was  all  Borghese's. 
It  is  deep  tragedy,  and  she  played  it  well.  The  young 
man,  poisoned  by  mistake,  held  his  stomach  till  he 
was  done  for,  and  his  letting  go  was  the  signal  for 
Borghese  to  give  her  "  C  sharp,"  and  go  after  him. 
The  curtain  dropped,  and  the  applause  rose  imme 
diately.  Borghese  came  out  and  was  cheered  till  she 
courtesied  out,  but  still  the  applause  continued.  No 
reply.  The  canes  began  to  rap,  and  the  audience 
seemed  not  beginning  to  go.  "  Pico  !"  shouted  some 
body.  "  Pico !"  shouted  everybody.  Still  no  an 
swer.  The  deafening  uproar  at  last  lifted  the  cur 
tain,  and  there  was  Borghese!  led  forward  by  Peroz- 
zi,  and  courtesying  again  !  And  presently,  all  alone, 
with  her  hair  down  her  back,  her  mustache  gone,  and 
a  loose  dressing-gown  about  her,  the  real  queen  by 
acclamation  took  the  honors  there  was  no  longer  any 
denying  her.  The  will  of  the  audience,  and  the  will 
of  the  Italian  corps,  were  two  entirely  different  matters. 

We  really  do  not  see  why  these  fine-throated  peo 
ple  can  not  consent  to  do  their  best,  and  let  the  pub 
lic  like  which  they  please.  The  two  singers  are  both 
admirable,  each  unrivalled  in  her  way  :  and,  because 
we  admire  the  new-comer,  it  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  not  still  appreciate  our  former  favorite.  But 
see  how  unlike  musical  people  in  prose  are  to  musical 
people  in  poetry.  We  will  quote  the  conclusion  of 
the  pretty  story  we  began  our  criticism  with,  for  a 
lesson  of  magnanimity,  after  the  bird  dropped,  broken 
hearted,  upon  the  lute. 

"  It  was  the  quaintest  sadness 
To  see  the  conqueror,  upon  her  hearse, 
Weeping  a  funeral  elegy  of  tears. 
He  looks  upon  the  trophies  of  his  art, 


170 


EPHEMERA. 


Then  sighed,  then  wiped  his  eyes,  then  sighed  and  cried, 

'  Alas  !  poor  creature,  I  will  soon  revenge 

This  cruelty  upon  the  author  of  it. 

Henceforth  this  lute,  guilty  of  innocent  blood, 

Shall  never  more  betray  a  harmless  peace 

To  an  untimely  end  :'  and,  in  that  sorrow, 

As  he  was  poshing  it  against  a  tree, 

I  suddenly  stepped  in." 

Another  night  we  trust  to  see  Borghese  submitting 
resignedly,  like  the  bird,  to  be  beaten  ;  though  if  the 
conquering  Pico  undertakes,  in  consequence,  to  "pash 
herself  against  a  tree,"  we  trust  the  manager  will 
"suddenly  step  in." 


THE  HISTORICAL  SOCIETY  DINNER. — We  went  to 
the  dinner  of  the  Historical  Society  last  evening,  with 
a  mood  in  our  mental  pocket,  which  was  as  useless  to 
us  as  the  wrong  mask  for  a  night  of  carnival.  We 
went  to  indulge  in  relaxation  and  gratify  curiosity. 
We  decided  in  the  midst  of  confusing  avocations,  that 
it  would  be  delightful  to  see  Mr.  Adams  and  Mr.  Gal- 
latin,  pleasant  to  listen  to  the  voices  whose  words  we 
should  read  in  the  next  morning's  papers,  and  curious 
to  see  the  first  menu  of  the  opening  hotel  up-town. 
We  presumed  there  would  be  some  dull  talking, 
which  the  dinner  and  the  friends  around  would  keep 
off  with  the  by-play  of  conviviality,  and  that  we 
should,  at  any  rate,  hear  wit,  get  our  cares  jostled 
from  astride  us,  and  store  up,  for  illustration  to  future 
thought  and  reading,  two  pictures  of  men  who  are 
soon  to  pass  over  to  history. 

But — (the  two  great  statesmen  who  were  to  be 
present  set  aside  for  the  moment) — it  is  not  easy  to 
come  at  all  into  the  presence  of  a  large  number  of 
men  of  superior  intellect,  without  feeling  the  dormant 
thunder  of  the  cloud  about  us.  This  is  partly  a  moral 
magnetism,  we  presume,  but  there  is  a  physiognomy 
in  crowds;  and,  to  the  eye  accustomed  to  see  men 
"  as  they  come,"  the  look  of  an  assemblage  of  master- 
intellects  is  the  laying  of  a  spirit-hand  upon  the  be 
holder.  There  were  present  the  leading  minds  of 
this  great  metropolis — able  divines,  merchant  princes, 
•  formidable  politicians,  brilliant  lawyers,  scheming  cap 
italists,  influential  citizens,  philanthropists,  scholars, 
poets,  and  journalists — none  of  them  common  men, 
and  none  without  the  sympathy-read  print  upon  the 
forehead — distinction's  philactery  of  pain.*  Seated  at 
table,  we  looked  about  upon  the  men  we  knew,  and 
followed  back  into  their  bosoms  the  visible  thread  of 
which  we  knew  the  knot  at  the  heart-strings.  We 
have  no  time  here — (our  hasty  thoughts  going  from 
us,  sentence  by  sentence,  into  irrevocable  print,  as  we 
record  them) — no  time  to  separate  and  describe  the 
crowding  influences  that  changed  our  careless  pre 
paratory  mood  into  an  overshadowed  aud  attentive 
silence.  We  passed  an  evening  of  resistless  revery — 
much  of  it  homage,  much  of  it  quickening  to  ambi 
tion,  and  in  part  a  coveting  of  fellowship  and  sympa 
thy.  But  we  can  not  go  on  with  this  misplaced  rec 
ord  of  emotions. 

There  are  weighty  and  wide  influences  exercised 
by  an  historical  society,  which,  again,  we  can  only 
hint  at,  far  too  hastily.  Historical  record  is  the 
paymaster  of  the  immortality  toiled  for  by  greatness ; 
and  it  is  vital  to  the  existence  of  great  motives,  that 
this  treasurer's  trust  should  be  faithfully  discharged, 
and  his  accounts  chronicled  in  blazon.  Affecting 
mention  was  drawn  from  Mr.  Adams  of  his  coming 
reward  from  history — the  reward  of  justificatory  tri 
umph — for  having  passed  through  the  fire  of  calumny. 
It  was  over  these  heated  plough-shares  that  he  has 

*  We  may  say,  in  passing,  that  we  have  seen  the  first  men 
of  their  time  in  many  countries,  and  many  assemblages  of 
distinguished  men,  but  it  struck  us  that  we  had  never  seen 
either  a  finer  collection  of  intellectual  heads,  or  finer  individ 
ual  specimens,  than  this  occasion  had  brought  together. 


walked  to  the  luminous  door  by  which  he  is  about  to 
pass  from  the  world  ;  and  if  he  could  be  sure  of  no 
brother-spirits  left  behind,  to  see  the  truth  written  in 
characters  legible  to  the  world,  he  would  have  done 
his  great  services  to  his  country,  by  sufferings,  indeed, 
mournfully  thankless.  In  a  republic,  especially  in  an 
age  of  free-thinking  and  irreverence  for  usage,  like 
ours — the  influence  of  a  society  which  brightens  and 
keeps  manifest  the  coolly-proved  wisdom  of  the  past, 
is  more  especially  all-needful.  History  forgotten,  the 
present  is  a  ship  without  chart  or  compass,  trusting  to 
the  stars  alone  in  the  clouded  storm-nights  of  politics. 
Ambition,  with  that  watchful  dragon  asleep — no  rec 
ord  to  be  dreaded  beyond  the  memory  of  the  living — 
would  be  a  fiend  loosed  upon  the  world.  History  is 
our  citadel  of  safety. 


NEW  KIND  OF  HOTEL  UP-TOWN. — We  have  thought 
that  it  would,  perhaps,  interest  our  readers  to  go  into 
a  detail  of  the  differences  between  the  popular  hotel 
(like  the  Astor,  the  American,  Howard's,  &c.)  and 
what  is  understood  in  Europe  as  the  hotel-garni — of 
which  the  up-town  hotel  is  the  new  example  in  this 
country. 

The  hotel-garni  is  a  furnished  house,  in  which  the 
lodging  is  the  only  charge  not  variable  at  the  option 
of  the  guest.  A  certain  price  is  charged  for  the 
rooms  occupied,  and  the  other  expenses  are  accord 
ing  to  what  is  ordered.  A  popular  bachelor,  for  ex 
ample,  makes  a  great  economy  of  this.  He  pays  for 
his  rooms  and  his  breakfast;  and,  if  invited  out  to 
dine  five  times  in  the  week,  saves  the  corresponding 
items  in  his  bill — five  dinners  and  five  bottles  of  wine. 
This,  in  Europe,  is  considered  a  fair  offset  against 
patent  blacking,  white  gloves,  and  hack-hire  ;  and 
puts  society  on  a  level  with  health,  sunshine,  reputa 
tion,  and  other  plain  matters-of-course.  A  common 
table  and  a  restaurant  are  not  necessary  parts  of  a  ho 
tel-garni,  but  they  serve  to  increase  its  eligibility. 
There  is  a  certain  price  for  a  dinner  at  the  table  d'hote, 
charged  separately  every  day  ;  but  in  Europe  few 
dine  at  the  common  table  except  strangers  in  town. 
A  fashionable  man  avoids  it  as  an  implied  confession, 
1st,  that  he  has  not  been  invited  out  that  day,  and,  2d, 
that  he  can  content  himself  with  everybody's  dinner 
and  company.  For  families,  particularly  if  there  are 
unmarried  daughters,  it  is  irreconcilable  with  position, 
if  not  with  propriety,  to  live  at  the  public  table.  The 
rooms  in  these  hotels  are  arranged  so  as  to  unite  a  draw 
ing-room  with  each  bedroom,  and  every  person,  or  fam 
ily,  respectably  lodged,  has  a  private  parlor  for  meals  and 
reception  of  visits.  There  is  no  large  common  draw 
ing-room,  of  course.  The  meals  are  furnished  by  ex 
press  order,  given  each  day,  to  the  restaurant  below, 
aud  sent  up  with  tablecloth,  silver,  glass,  &c.  —  all 
at  the  appointed  hour,  and  all  removed  together  when 
dinner  is  over — giving  the  lodger  no  trouble,  except 
to  wait  on  himself  while  dining,  or  provide  a  servant 
to  do  so.  As  each  dish  is  for  one  person  only,  how 
ever  (or  one  family),  the  expense  of  such  a  dinner  is 
much  greater  than  where  the  dishes  are  cooked  in 
larger  quantities  for  a  hundred  people.  To  dine  in 
private  on  as  many  dishes  as  you  may  taste  for  fifty 
cents  at  a  public  table,  would  cost,  probably,  from  two 
to  five  dollars. 

The  ordinary  hotel  is,  of  course,  described  by 
specifying  the  peculiarities  of  the  other.  It  will 
be  seen  at  once  that  the  hotel-garni  must  prevail 
with  the  increase  of  exclusiveism  in  this  country.  It 
is  only  in  new  countries  that  families  can  do  without 
household  gods  ;  and  it  is  only  where  the  whole  male 
society  of  a  country  is  only  unharnessed  for  sleep 
from  the  eternal  drag  of  money-making,  that  the  do 
mestic  virtues  can  be  left  safely  without  private  altars 


EPHEMERA. 


171 


and  locked  doors,  single  roof-trees,  and   four-walled 


!  to  announce  an  ASTROLOGICAL  CONJUNCTION,  however, 


simplicity.     Twenty  years  hence,  we  venture  to  say, 

the   Astor's  splendid  drawing-room  will  be  occupied 

by  some  nabob  of  a   lodger  —  needed   no   longer  as  a  , 

common   parlor—  and   its  long   galleries  will    be  but  j  fbaPe  °_fvcold[ 

suites  of  apartments,  every  third  bedroom  converted 

into  a  cosy  saloon,  and  the  occupants  seeing  as  little 

of  each  other  as  neighbors  in  a  "block." 

There  are  some  very  republican  advantages  in  our 
present  system  of  hotels,  which  the  country  is  not 
yet  ready  to  forego.  Tell  a  country  lady  in  these 
times  that  when  she  comes  to  New  Fork  she  must 
eat  and  pass  the  evening  in  a  room  by  herself,  and  she 
would  rather  stay  at  home.  The  going  to  the  Astor, 
and  dining  with  two  hundred  well-dressed  people,  and 
sitting  in  full  dress  in  a  splendid  drawing-room  with 


plenty  of  company  —  is  the  charm  of  going  to  the  city  ! 
The  theatres  are  nothing  to  that  !  Broadway,  the 
shopping,  and  the  sights,  are  all  subordinate  —  poor 
accessories  to  the  main  object  of  the  visit.  A  large 
company  as  cheap  as  none  at  all  —  a  hundred  dishes 
as  cheap  as  one  —  a  regal  drawing-room  at  her  service, 
with  superb  couches,  piano,  and  drapery,  and  costing 
no  more  than  if  she  stayed  in  her  bedroom  —  plenty  of 
eyes  to  dress  for  if  not  to  become  acquainted  with, 
and  very  likely  a  "  hop"  and  a  band  of  music  —  bless 
my  soul,  says  the  country  lady,  I  hope  they'll  never 
think  of  improving  away  all  that! 

And,  there  lies  the  pinch  !  The  senator  now  on  his 
way  to  congress,  dines  with  his  family  at  the  public 
table.  The  gentleman  who  does  not  choose  to  keep 
house,  invites  his  friends  to  dine  with  him  at  the  pub 
lic  table.  The  man  who  prefers  to  dine  in  a  private 
parlor  is  satirically  made  welcome  to  his  own  society 
—  if  he  prefers  it  !  The  distinguished,  the  fashiona- 
able,  the  dressy,  and  handsome,^  may  all  dine,  without 
peril  of  style,  at  the  public  (able.  But  —  since  so  may 
the  opposites  of  all  these,  and  anybody  else  who  is 
tolerably  dressed  and  well-behaved  —  the  public  table 
is  the  tangible  republic  —  the  only  thing  palpable  and 
agreeable  that  we  have  to  show,  in  common  life,  as 
republican.  And  when  the  exclusivism  of  the  hotel- 
garni  draws  its  dividing  line  through  this  promiscu 
ous  community  of  habits,  the  cords  ivill  be  cut  which 
let  some  people  UP,  out  of  reach,  and  drop  some 


^'iii- 


people  DOWN,  out  of  all  satisfactory  supposible  contact 
\cith  society. 


GROWTH  OF  WESTERN  LITERATURE.  —  We  are 
happy  to  notice  that  seven  out  of  the  seventeen  arti 
cles  with  the  names  of  the  authors,  in  the  last  two 
numbers  of  the  Biblical  Repository,  are  from  persons 
connected  with  literary  institutions  west  of  the  mount 
ains.  Among  the  subjects  of  the  western  writers  are, 
The  Writings  of  Martin  Luther;  Evidences  from 
Nature  for  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul  ;  'and  the 
Natural  History  of  Man  in  his  Spiritual  Relations. 
Another  article  contains  an  able  defence  of  presbyte- 
rianism.  So  far  as  we  can  judge  from  a  hasty  view, 
these  subjects,  some  of  which  are  the  greatest  that 
can  employ  the  pen  anywhere,  are  treated  with  tact 
and  ability,  and  give  us  a  favorable  opinion  of  the  con 
dition  of  our  western  seminaries  of  learning.  The 
remaining  contributions  are  from  New  England,  with 
the  exception  of  one  from  Virginia.  New  York  does 
not  appear  in  the  list  of  contributors'  names. 


THE  OPERA. — The  "  stars"  of  the  opera  are  just 
through  their  night's  work  and  the  stars  of  heaven  are 
half  way  through  theirs.  We  have  not  the  pleasure 
of  a  personal  acquaintance  with  a  single  individual  in 
either  company — knowing  neither  Venus  nor  Pico, 
Lyra  nor  Borghese,  "  off  the  stage."  We  are  about 


and,  as  "many  an  inhumane  thought  hath  arisen  from 
a  man's  sitting  uncomfortably  in  his  chamber,"  we 
have  sent  for  an  emollient  to  our  arm  chair,  in  the 

xpecting  there 
by  to  achieve  our  nearest  perihelion  to  the  calm  clear 
sightedness  of  Copernicus. 

Up-town  New  York,  a  week  ago,  was  in  the  situa 
tion  the  starry  firmament  was  in,  about  two  hundred 
years  before  the  Christian  era.  Pythagoras  recorded 
his  conviction  at  that  time  that  there  were  two  stars 
wanting  to  complete  the  harmony  of  a  certain  portion 
of  the  heavens,  and,  in  the  very  spots  named  by  the 
great  philosopher,  Mars  and  Jupiter  did  soon  after 
make  their  first  appearance.  In  like  manner  a  Daily 
Pythagoras,  of  this  city  (we  think  it  was  Mr.  King  of 
the  American),  darkly  hinted  in  a  late  evening  paper, 
that  there  were  two  stars  necessary — contralto  and 
soprano — to  complete  harmony  of  the  Palmospheric 
constellation  ;  and,  in  that  very  troop,  Pico  and  Bor 
ghese  did  soon  after  take  their  places  in  similarly  har- 
morious  conjunction.  We  trust  history  will  do  us 
justice  for  linking  together  these  two  marked  fore- 
shadowings  of  stars'  "  doing  something  for  their  fami- 
ies." 
[Your  health,  dear  reader,  in  a  glass  of  Cordon- 

)leu m — m — mplck  ! delicious  !] 

And  now  we  have  to  beg  the  discreet  portion  of 
the  public  to  step  with  us  behind  the  curtain — not 
hat  (representing  the  rosy  dawn)  which  drops  before 
Vlars  and  Jupiter,  but  that  (representing  Jupiter  feei 
ng  the  pulse  of  Minerva)  which  drops  before  Bor 
ghese  and  Pico.  There  has  been  a  terrible  rowdydow 
the  operatic  green-room.  Borghese  has  been 
hitherto  queen  of  the  zodiac,  and  her  orbit  was  only 
ntersected  by  nebula;  of  nameless  supernumeraries. 
The  breaking  of  Pico  upon  the  gaze  of  the  impartial 
slar-worshippers,  however,  and  their  undeniable  prefer 
ence,  of  the  star  at  fifty  dollars  a  night  to  the  star  at 
double  the  money,  sent  Borghese  sick  to  her  bed  ; 
and  she  is  said  to  have  vowed  (with  the  spunk  of  the 
Lost  Pleiad,  who  died  for  jealousy  of  her  six  brighter 

sisters)   that  she  would  never  rise  again if  papa 

would  excuse  her. 

[Our  astronomy  is  used  up,  dear  reader,  but  the 
champagne  still  holds  out.  A  glass  to  Borghese's 
better  resignation,  and  let  us  go  on,  in  terrestrial 
phraseology. — M-m-mpIck  !] 

Borghese  commenced  making  position,  a  year  or 
more  ago,  and  has  pursued  it  very  skilfully,  and, 
therefore,  very  creditably  to  herself.  For  a  winter, 
or  more,  before  showing  herself  as  an  admirable  ac 
tress,  she  revolved  in  the  japonica  circles  up-town, 
as  a  singer  at  parties,  and  made  acquaintances  and 
friendships  exclusively  among  the  forced-plant  cus 
tomers  of  Hogg  and  Thorburn.  Her  manners  were 
of  that  well-studied,  eager  unconsciousness,  which 
is  the  modesty  of  nature  in  a  hot-house  school ;  and 
her  tact,  elegance,  and  musical  science,  were  leaved 
like  a  rose-bud  tied  up  with  a  string— showing  what 
the  prima-donna  might  be,  if  the  young  lady  were 
loosed  and  expanded.  As  the  parent-stem  required 
to  be  relieved  of  her,  she  prepared  to  throw  herself 
on  the  public;  and  when  she  did,  she  was,  of  course, 
plucked  from  neglect,  and  cherished  in  the  protect 
ing  bosom  of  the  society  that  had  secluded  her.  She 
has  been  worn  in  triumph,  as  the  first  flower  of  the 
opera,  for  a  couple  of  seasons— as  you  know,  dear 
public  ! 

But  nature  exacts  an  equilibrium;  and  where  there 
is  more  public  harmony,  there  will  be  more  private 
discord.  The  children  of  the  "  boot  on  the  map," 
kick  against  authorities,  and  every  tuneful  rehearsal 
had  its  offset  in  a  quarrel.  Signor  Borghese  (the 
star-father),  not  being  of  the  sect  of  the  Apotactiw, 
who  renounce  property,  took  advantage  of  a  tight 


172 


EPHEMERA. 


place  in  the  treasury,  and  bought  in,  "  for  a  song," 
the  theatrical  weapons  and  wardrobe.  Of  course, 
whatever  solvent  might  separate  the  other  parts  of  the 
company,  they  crystallized,  again,  around  their  only 
possible  nucleus — the  prima-donna  who  had  the  tog 
gery  !  And,  at  this  stage  of  the  Borghese  monocracy 
— came  Pico  ! 

Months  passed  away.  The  story  of  Pico's  errand 
— her  husband  a  political  prisoner  at  Venice,  and  her 
voice  the  only  probable  conjurer  of  the  gold  key  to 
release  or  relieve  him — was  told  and  apparently  for 
gotten.  We  heard  it,  and  reserved  our  republican 
sympathy  till  she  should  appear.  The  Mirror  suggest 
ed  a  concert — knowing  nothing  of  her  powers — but 
her  friends  thought  she  had  better  bide  her  time  with 
the  opera.  She  has  done  so.  At  half  the  pay  of 
Borghese,  she  phyed  to-night  for  the  second  time,  in 
the  opera  of  Lucrezia  Borgia. 

We  have  come  home  from  hearing  her — "posses 
sed"  (as  this  undevoured  cold  duck  is  our  witness) — 
our  capacity  for  delight  plummeted — our  cistern  of 
unshed  tears  strangely  and  pleasurably  troubled — our 
pen  as  gushing  with  welcome  to  Pico  as  the  miraculous 
oil-spring  of  old  Rome  that  welcomed  home  the  con 
quering  Augustus. 

[Her  health  in  this  last  glass  of  champagne — God 
bless  her  !] 

The  house  was  crowded.  Borghese  sang  beauti 
fully,  and  played  as  no  other  female  in  America  can 
play.  She  was  heartily  applauded — but — as  on  the 
last  opera  night — the  tumult  of  the  house  was  reserved 
for  the  drinking  song  of  Pico.  It  is  her  first  chance 
to  unchain  soul  and  voice  after  nearly  a  whole  opera 
of  subservient  by-play.  Oh  how  the  first  swooping 
away  into  those  clear  silver  caverns  of  her  throat — 
dropping  through  unfathomable  love-depths  with  her 
fearless  down-cadences,  and  turning  with  an  easy  up- 
lift  again  toward  the  summit-perch  of  the  careless 
akissimo — how  like  an  eagle's  swoop  it  careered  ! 
overtaking  the  dew  falling,  and  the  perfume  rising 
into  the  sky,  and,  with  all  its  fierce  swiftness,  robbing 
the  cleft  air  of  nothing  but  fragrance  and  softness. 

[We  are  getting  poetical — but  champagne  after 
Pico,  is,  as  the  Venetians  say,  tanto amorevolc !  We'll 
go  to  bed  and  sum  up  in  the  morning.] 

Thursday  Morning. — Our  friend  of  the  "  Morning 
News,"  expresses,  in  his  paper  of  to-day,  a  regret  that 
"a  feeling  of  rivalry  is  encouraged  between  Borghese 
and  Pico."  We  are  surprised  at  this  discouragement, 
on  his  knowing  part,  of  the  great  secret  of  good  opera 
and  good  everything  else.  When  are  they  ever  so 
likely  to  sing  so  well,  and  to  draw  so  well,  as  when 

"  their  souls  come  upward  to  their  lips 
Like  neighboring  monarchs  at  their  borders  meeting?" 

He  adds,  that  "  Pico  fairly  out-Pico'd  Pico,"  and  we 
should  say  the  same  of  Borghese,  if  the  name  would 
come  as  pat. 

No  !  no  !  let  them  be  rivals  !  What  could  be  pret 
tier  ? — more  gracefully  done,  and  more  touchingly 
enlisting  to  the  feelings — than  Borghese's  picking  up 
the  wreath  again,  last  night,  and  giving  it  generously 
to  Pico?  We  broke  a  new  malacca  stick  in  applaud 
ing  that  action  alone.  Viva  Borghese  !  Viva  Pico! 
You  are  two  halves  of  a  scissors,  dear  ladies,  and 
rivalry  is  your  rivet.  Divide  the  public — since  both 
halves  are  your  oivn,  after  they  are  divided  ! 


Pico  AND  BORGHESE. — These  two  ladies  are  certain 
ly  most  poculent  commodities,  and  the  town  drinks 
their  delicious  music  with  unquestionable  intoxica 
tion.  The  crammed  opera-house  was  as  breathless 
with  absorbed  attention  last  night  as  if  Pico's  rosy- 
lipped  cup  ministered  to  every  heart's  measure  of  ful 


ness — one  palate  common  to  all.  For  ourself,  we  con 
fess  immeasurable  delight  in  Pico.  Her  voice  has  a 
road  to  the  heart  upon  which  criticism  takes  no  toll 
— the  gate-opening  facility  of  music  going  home.  One 
listens  to  it  as  Shelley  seems  to  have  listened  to  the 
witch  of  Atlas — 

"  Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  his  own  soul 
Heard  in  the  calm  of  thought," 

— the  very  inmost  tenant  of  your  bosom,  somehow, 
seeming  to  have  "  expected  it,  all  along." 

Borghese  is  a  treasure  to  a  town — an  uncommon 
creature — such  an  actress  and  artist  as  we  shall  not 
see  again  until  we  deserve  a  benefit  from  the  gods — 
but  Pico !  oh,  Pico  is  of  quite  another  invoice  of  goods 
from  paradise.  Borghese  is  the  most  ingenious  har 
mony-pump  that,  for  many  a  year,  has  offered  patron 
age  a  handle — the  other  is  a  natural-well  spring  of 
passionate  and  careless  music,  that  would  flow  as 
bountifully,  for  a  bird  to  drink,  as  for  an  emperor  to 
stoop  to.  Pico's  voice  would  cut  up  like  a  polypus 
— not  a  fragment  without  the  making  of  a  woman  in 
it.  She  neither  sings,  nor  moves,  nor  smiles,  as  if 
she  remembered  ever  doing  it  before  ;  and  if  she  has 
not  the  great  "  art  of  concealing  art"  (of  which  we 
have  had  our  half  a  suspicion),  she  is  one  of  those 
helpless  irresistibles  that  could  as  soon  become  invisi 
ble  as  not  bewitch. 

Th.e  drinking  song  (Pico's  only  good  chance  in  the 
whole  opera),  was  stunningly  applauded  last  night, 
and,  at  the  close,  a  wreath  was  thrown  to  her  from  a 
very  select  company  in  a  private  box,  and  thrown  with 
a  pretty  good  aim — for  she  caught  it  upon  her  bosom. 
Out  of  it — (or  the  place  where  she  caught  it — we 
could  not  tell  which) — dropped  a  sealed  note,  which 
we  trust  contained  a  check  payable  in  favor  of  the  im 
prisoned  husband  at  Venice. 

If  we  had  a  moderate  thought  during  the  opera  of 
last  night,  it  was  that  there  could  be  no  question  of 
a  keen  taste  for  music  in  New  York — for  here  was  a 
crowded  audience,  attentive,  appreciative,  measuring 
its  applause  most  judiciously,  and  leaving  the  house 
delighted.  We  are  sure  a  large  opera-house  would  do 
— with  more  inducements  to  foreign  subordinates, 
more  enterprise  to  procure  visits  from  the  Parisian 
and  London  operatics,  better  regulations  for  private 
boxes,  etc.,  etc.  We  think,  for  one,  that  there  is  no 
greater  pleasure,  away  from  a  man's  hearth,  than  a 
good  opera. 


ENVY  OF  THE  RICH,  OR,  THE  FLYING-FISH  ARIS 
TOCRACY,  AND  THE  No.  1  PASSENGER  LEFT  BEHIND. 
— In  the  hurry  of  composition,  yesterday,  we  stum 
bled  upon  a  similitude  (a  "flying-fish  aristocracy") 
which,  we  think,  expresses  that  transitory  duration  of 
American  "up-in-the-world,"  which  should  make  the 
greater  number  of  rich  people  looked  upon  with  in 
dulgent  affection  by  those  left  temporarily  below.  Of 
such  short-lease  wings  as  most  American  "  first  fami 
lies"  fly  with,  there  need  be  little  envy,  one  would 
think — in  the  democratic  element  they  drip  with  till 
they  drop  again.  There  are  families,  however — a 
small  number — who  hold  their  own  for  three  or  four 
generations ;  and,  in  the  "  measureless  content"  of 
these  with  their  position,  the  democrats  find  offence; 
but  one  of  the  most  curious  social  problems  we  know 
of,  is  the  manner  in  which  the  old  families  of  New 
York  are  let  alone,  and  tacitly  eclipsed  by  the  more 
newly  prosperous;  and  we  must  offer  to  our  readers 
a  descriptive  similitude  for  this  also.  (Our  object,  it 
will  be  seen,  is  to  take  away  the  offence  of  aristocracy, 
if  possible,  and  induce  King  Public  to  let  us  cater  for 
them,  as  for  all  other  classes,  with  level  editorial  re 
publicanism!) 


EPHEMERA. 


173 


A  half  hour  before  the  starting  of  the  Oxford  night 
mail,  a  fat  gentleman  was  discovered  fast  asleep  in  the 
coach,  which  was  stil!  under  the  shed-  He  occupied 
the  back  seat,  and  his  enormous  bulk  filled  it  so  com 
pletely  thai  there  was  no  room  for  the  usual  fourth 
inside  passenger.  But  four  seats  were  taken  and  paid 
for,  and  the  last  man  booked  insisted  on  his  right  to  a 
place— fat  man,  or  no  fat  man!  The  stout  gentleman 
was  waked,  and  requested  to  come  out  till  the  other 
three  were  seated. 

"  He  [however]  knew  his  rights,  and  knowing  dared  main 
tain  ;" 

and  having  mentioned  his  name,  and  inquired  whether 
it  was  not  first  on  the  book,  settled  his  chin  into  his 
cravat,  and  speedily  snored  again  !  "  Is  this  Oxford  ? 
— bless  me,  how  I  have  slept!"  said  the  fat  man,  rub 
bing  his  eyes,  when  the  coach  door  was  opened  the 
next  morning — in  the  same  place  where  it  stood  when 
he  went  to  sleep  .'  The  driver  had  hitched  his  team  to 
another  coach,  and  the  three  unprivileged  customers 
last  booked  were  probably  breakfasting  in  Oxford ! 

It  strikes  us  that  the  people  who  are  last  booked,  in 
this  community,  may  very  well  monopolize  the  envy 
— (success  in  arriving  at  their  destination  of  conspicu- 
ousness  being,  of  course,  the  chief  matter  of  envy) — • 
and  the  fat  sleepers,  upon  the  usurped  seats,  once  left 
out  of  the  proscription,  the  charity  for  "  flying-fish" 
easily  forgives  the  remainder. 

If  the  above  dues  not  please  our  friend  "Cheap 
Jemmy,"  we  will  never  do  a  good-natured  thing  again 
as  long  as  we  live.  If  he  knew  Latin,  we  should 
send  him  in  a  bill  for  a  diaphoretic. 


AFTER  THE  OPERA. 

(Supper  in  184's  room  at  the  Astor—the  brigadier  here 
"  on  business" — a  poulct  pique,  and  a  bottle  of  cham 
pagne  in  silver  tissue  paper,  also  here  "  on  busi 
ness" — Eleven  O'clock,  Esq.,  just  parting  from  the 
bell  of  St.  Paul's,  with  a  promise  to  be  "  round  in  the 
morning."  ) 

Brig,  (nodding,  and  taking  up  his  glass).— Mi-boy  ! 
184  (lauing  his  hand  on  the  general's  arm). — Not  in 
such  profane  haste,  my  prompt  sodger!  That  glass 
of  wine  is  the  contemporary  of  bliss — sent  to  us  to  be 
drank  lo  the  health  of  a  bride,  now  three  hours  past 
the  irrevocable  gate. 

Brig.  Married  at  eight  1  Do  you  say  that  ?  God 
bless  her,  in  a  bumper!  (gazes  abstractedly  into  the 
bottom  of  the  glass,  and  speaks  musingly.) — Ten  min 
utes  past  eleven  ! — Well,  who's  the  lady,  and  who  the 
happy  man  ? 

184.  One  of  our  parish,  who,  though  he  does  not 
personally  know  us,  wishes  us  to  be  made  aware  of 
his  happiness.  We  have  written  ourselves  into  his 
bosom.  God  bless  him  for  the  loving  door  in  his 
eye — isn't  so,  my  tree-sparer!  So  may  all  men  take 
us  in  !  Try  a  bit  of  chicken  now,  general,  or  that 
tear  in  your  eye  will  fall  back  on  an  empty  stomach! 

Brig.  And  what  a  difference  it  makes — what  it  falls 
back  upon,  mi-boy  !  The  salt  in  a  tear  is  not  natu 
ral,  depend  on  it,  or  the  in'ards  would  take  to  it  more 
kindly.  What  an  etiquette  of  mercy  it  would  be, 
now,  to  make  pathos  and  bad  news  matters  of  full- 
dress—never  to  be  alluded  to  in  good  society,  till  a 
man  has  ceased,  as  Menenius  says,  "  to  pout  upon  the 
morning  !"  What's  your  to-morrow's  leader  ? 

184.  Not  coming  to  business  at  the  second  glass,  I 
hope  ?  Fie  on  you  for  a  disrespect  to  the  bride. 
(The  brigadier  blushes,  and  covers  his  confusion  by 
reading  the  label  on  the  bottle.)  How  enchantingly 
old  Belisario  and  his  captive  sung  their  vows  of  friend 
ship  to-night  !  Ah,  musir  and  lights  !— things  are  TO 


much  finer  for  embellishing !  Our  small  friendship 
now,  general — brought  forward  to  the  prompter's  cup 
board  and  foot-lights — do  you  think  it  would  be  en 
cored,  like  that  ? 

Brig.  As  you  don't  ask   for  information,  mi-boy, 
i  let's  proceed  to  business.     Can  you  give  me  an  idea 
of  your  to-morrow's  editorial  ? 
184.  No  ! 

Brig.  And  the  boy  is  to  come  for  it  at  seven  ! 
184  (seizing  a  pen).     What  shall  it  be  ? 
Brig.  Why,  there's  the  mud   in  the  streets — and 
the  Bohemian  Girl — and   the  wretched  weather — and 
the  menagerie — and  Vandenhoff — and  Stuart's  candy- 
shop — and  Mrs.  Coles — 

184.  By — the — by  ! — a  discovery  !— rTryon  ought 
to  head  his  play-bills  with  the  Marsellois  war-cry — 
"  to  arms  ! — to  arms  !"  I  never  saw  a  pair  in  my  life 
more  exquisitely  moulded  and  polished  than  Mrs. 
Coles's,  of  the  Bowery  circus — as  shown  after  her 
third  undoing  on  horseback!  It  takes  a  symmetrical 
woman,  of  course,  to  stand  tiptoe  upon  a  flying  horse, 
and  strip,  from  a  jacketed  Cracovienne  to  a  short 
sleeved  evening  dress — but  ladies  of  this  vocation,  well 
|  made  in  all  other  respects,  are  usually  thin  from  the 
elbow  to  the  shoulder.  Shall  I  make  a  "  leader"  of 
Mrs.  Coles  ? 

Brig.  Certainly  not,  mi-boy  !  nor  a  follower  either  ! 
Just  indicate,  as  it  were — call  attention  mysteriously 
— hint  somehow — that  there  is  a  part  of  the  equestrian 
performance  that  reminds  you  of  things  you  saw  in 
Italy — statuary  or  something — delicately,  mi-boy — 
very  delicately  !  What  else  have  you  got  down  there 
in  your  memorandum-book? 

184.    Half  a   dozen   topics.      Here's    a   note   that 

I  smells  of  "above  Bleecker,"  requesting  us  to  implore 

of  Japonica-dom  not  to  give  parties  on  opera-nights! 

Really,  they  should  not  !    The  opera  is  a  rare  luxury, 

without  which  a  metropolis  is  like  a  saloon  without  a 

I  mirror,    and    there   should   be    a   little   combination, 

among  refined  people— if  not  to  give  it  extra  support, 

!  at  least  to  throw  no  hinderance  in  its  way.     They  do 

!  this   in   London— (where,  by  the  way,  there  are   but 

!  two  operas  a  week,  and  it  would  be  quite  enough  here) 

|  — Lady   Blessington,   for    one,   never  "  at   home"  on 

'  opera-nights,  and  dinner-parties  are  given-at  an  earlier 

hour  to  release  people  in  time.     The  quality  of  the 

opera  depends,  of  course,  on  its  enthusiastic  support, 

;'  and    those  who   can   appreciate  it  can  do   no   less,  I 

i  think,  than  to  go  in  full  dress,  and  go  habitually.      It 

I    is  far  pleasanter  than  a  party,  is  over  at  bearable  bed- 

time,  and,  just  now,  the  company  at  Palmo's   is   too 

good    to   be  slighted.     And,  by   the    way,  have   you 

thought  how  gloriously  Pico  has  beggared  the  loud 

trumpet  we   blew  for  her   on   her   first  appearance! 

"Ants,"  says  the  old   proverb,  "live  safely  till  they 

have  gotten  wings,  and  juniper  is  not  thrown  away  till 

it  hath  gotten  a  high  top."     She  is  neither  your  ant 

nor  your  juniper-blossom — is  she  general  ? 

Brig,  (who  has  been  dozing).  Not  my  aunt,  mi- 
boy,  whoever  you're  talking  of.  I  never  had  one- 
hope  I  never  shall  ! 

184.  What's  that  note  falling  out  of  your  pocket, 
meantime  ? 

Sri*.  Well  thought  of— I  brought  it  to  you  for  a 
paragraph.  What  do  you  think  it  is  ?  A  complaint 
from  the  ladies  that  the  young  men  waylay  them  on 
the  staircases  ! 

184  Heavens  and  Sabines  !  wait  till  I  dip  my  pen 
in  the  thunder-stand  !  Who?  How?  When?  How 
many  ? 

Brig.   At  parties— at  parties— my  dear  boy— don  t 

,  be  violent !     This  lady  declares  (brigadier  opens  the 

'  note)  that  it  is  a  "  perfect  nuisance,  the  mere  descent 

from  the  dressing-room  to  the  ball-room" — "a  pretty 

girl  has  to  comedown  a  perfect  ladder  of  boys— every 

stair  an   engagement   to   dance" — "  no  chance  for  a 


174 


EPHEMERA. 


pick" — "  her  mind  fatigued  with  the  effort  to  remem 
ber  her  partners" — "  no  hope  of  dancing  with  a  grown 
up  man  from  Christmas  to  April" — "  green  talk  alto 
gether" — "  dreadful  sense  of  unripeness" — "  no  sub 
ject  but  Pico  and  Polka" — "  begs  we  will  write  the 
boys  off  the  staircase,"  etc.,  etc.  You  see  your  sub 
ject. 

184.  Shall  I  tell  you  why  that  was  not  written  by  a 
woman  ?  Don't  you  see  that  if  this  system  of  long 
lists  of  engagements  were  done  away,  a  lady  would 
have  no  escape  from  a  disagreeable  partner — no  plea 
of  too  many  engagements — no  chance  for  a  lie  whiter 
than  many  a  truth  ?  Don't  you  see,  that  (now  duel 
ling  is  laughed  at)  a  lady  can  leave  out  an  early  part 
ner  on  the  list,  or  slip  a  tardy  one  in,  with  perfect 
ease  and  comfort — distressing  nobody's  mamma  with 
fears  of  Hoboken!  Leave  the  ladies  alone  for  put 
ting  down  troublesome  usages !  Your  letter  was 
written  by  some  old  coxcomb  going  out  of  fashion, 
who  can  get  nobody  to  dance  with  him,  and  lays  it  to 
the  boys  on  the  staircase  !  Tut! 

Brig.  Twelve  o'clock,  and  where's  your  leader  ? 
Oh,  mi-boy,  think  of  to-morrow's  paper  ! 

184.  Hang  the  leader  !  Let's  go  without  it — once 
in  a  way  ! 

Brig.  Gracious !  no  !  What  will  the  public  say  ? 
There  goes  one  o'clock  !  Bed-time  (for  me — not  for 
you) — and  nothing  from  you  for  the  boy  in  the  morn 
ing  !  Oh,  mi-boy,  sit  up!  Go  and  wash  your  face, 
and  feel  fresh!  Write  a  paragraph  requesting  the 
Mirror  brides  to  send  their  champagne,  hereafter,  ex 
clusively  to  the  talking  partner!  Where's  my  hat  ? 
Get  inspired,  mi-boy,  get  inspired  !  Good  night! 

184.  Stay — stay — stay!  Listen  to  this!  (184  reads 
the  foregoing  dialogue  to  the  brigadier,  whose  face 
gradua'.ly  reassumes  its  usual  serene  placidity.  He 
lays  down  his  hat  and  picks  another  wing  of  the 
chicken.) 

Brig.  And  you  have  been  writing  this  down,  all  the 
time,  with  your  hand  deep  in  that  old  cabinet !  Bless 
me,  what  a  boy  you  are  for  expedients!  I  thought 
you  was  scratching  autographs,  or  writing  "  Pico," 
or  sketching  Glenmary,  or  something !  But  you 
haven't  mentioned  the  weekly? 

184.  Poh  !  it  doesn't  want  mentioning. 

Brig.  Not  more  than  the  sun  and  moon,  and  other 
periodicals — but  you  trust  the  world's  memory  too 
much,  my  worky  !  They'd  forget  the  sun  shone  if  it 
wasn't  down  in  the  almanac  !  Say  something! 

184.  Well,  let's  see  !  It's  our  diary  of  the  world's 
goings-on  and  what  we  think  of  it — published  every 
seventh  day.  It  is  a  week's  corn,  ground,  sifted,  and 
bagged,  for  those  who  can't  go  to  mill  every  day.  It 
is  a  newspaper  without  the  advertisements  and  other 
trumpery — at  half  price,  in  consequence  of  lumber 
left  out  and  one  postage  instead  of  seven.  It  is  edited 
every  day,  and  other  weeklies  are  edited  once  a  week. 
It  gives  the  news,  the  fashions,  the  fun,  the  accidents, 
the  operas,  and  our  all-spice  to  make  it  keep,  in  a 
handsome,  preservable  shape — bindable  for  reference 
and  re-reading — "the  times"  as  it  were,  "boned  and 
potted."  Shall  I  say  any  more  ? 

Brig.  Three  dollars  a  year — 

184.  Mum,  man  !  Never  mention  money  after 
midnight !  What  will  the  angels  say  !  Go  to  bed  ! 
go  to  bed  !  (Exit  brigadier,  after  a  silent  embrace.) 


AFTER  THE  OPERA. 

A  FEW  GRAVE  REMARKS  WHILE  SUPPER  IS  COMING. 

The  Cinderella-tude  of  Madame  Pico's  own  situa 
tion,  in  the  operatic  corps,  and  her  still  disputed  claim 
to  the  "glass  slipper"  of  preference,  sent  us  to  Pal- 
mo's,  to-night,  with  somewhat  of  an  owl  upon  our 


shoulder.  We  dreaded  Prince  Public's  final  choice 
between  her  and  the  favorite  daughter  of  Don  Mag- 
nifico — for  the  real- life  opera  had  come  to  its  last  act, 
and,  as  she  should  or  should  not,  make  the  most  of 
the  opportunity  (of  which  we  had  done  our  best  to 
be  the  "  Pilgrim  Alidoro"),  she  would,  or  would  not, 
wear  to-morrow  the  crown  of  Palmo-dom.  The  cur 
tain  is  down,  and 

ENTER  SUPPER  FOR  NO.  184. 

Before  we  grow  too  enthusiastic  for  the  nice  distinc 
tions  of  criticism,  let  us  say  a  word  of  the  general 
performance  of  the  opera.  Why  the  frisky  Signer 
Antognini,  whose  conceit, 

"  Ploughed  by  the  sunbeams  only,  would  suffice 
For  the  world's  granary/' 

was  cast  in  a  part  that  the  unemployed  Perozzi  would 
have  done  so  much  better,  and  so  much  more  agree 
ably  to  the  public,  we  have  no  Italian  spectacles  to 
see.  And — apropos — if  it  is  the  object  of  the  com 
pany  to  please  and  draw,  why  did  not  Borghese  (ex 
cept  that  silver  is  less  tractile  than  gold)  take  the  sec 
ond  role  in  this  opera,  as  Pico  did  in  Lucrezia  Bor 
gia  ?  The  part  sustained  by  Miss  Moss  has  rather 
more  scope  in  it  than  that  of  Orsini,  and  how  vastly 
more  attractive  the  opera,  so  cast,  would  be  to  the 
public  !  Signor  Tomasi  showed  the  vertebras  in  his 
voice,  to-night,  more  than  he  did  in  Belisario — prob 
ably  from  stooping  with  difficulty  to  the  comic  ;  but 
Sanquirico — what  shall  we  say  of  his  admirable  per 
sonable  of  Don  Magnifico  ?  We'll  drink  his  health 
by  way  of  answer.  (A  lei,  Sanquirico .')  And  so 
ends  our  fault-finding. 

SECOND  GLASS. 

This  glass  of  purple  Tinta,  steeped  in  the  latitude 
of  Italy,  tastes,  of  course,  of  the  climate  of  Pico's 
voice ;  and  we  are  glad  to  vary,  with  this  redolent 
bumper,  the  avenue  to  our  heart — so  breaking  up  the 
ear's  monopoly  of  toll.  Health  to  Cinderella  tri 
umphant!  Her  voice  has  a  flavor — (if  this  wine  be 
like  it — and  it  is  the  sun  s  fault  if  it  is  not  like  it — for 
the  same  cupful  of  his  mellow  light  fed  the  grape 
from  which  gushed  the  wine  and  the  lip  from  which 
poured  the  melody) — worthy  of  the  immortality  of 
Falernian.  (For  this  discovery  of  homogeneousness 
of  pulp  we  beg  a  medal  from  the  Institute.) 

We  were  afraid,  as  we  said  before,  that  Pico,  "  like 
a  careless  farrier,  would  lame  her  well-shod  glory 
with  the  last  nail,"  but  she  sang  throughout  with  un 
blemished  deliciousness,  and  the  "  piu  mestar,"  at  the 
close,  fairly  took  the  town  !  Nothing  has  been  heard 
like  it,  in  this  city,  since  Malibran,  either  in  voice  or 
execution.  We  have  made  up  our  mind  about  Pico. 
Her  abandon  is  like  the  apparent  carelessness  of  all 
kinds  of  genius — -fearless  trust  after  finished  study. 
Of  that  desperate  and  intoxicating  let-go,  Borghese 
has  none.  She  is  artistic  and  careful  in  the  most  pas 
sionate  extremity,  dying,  even,  "with  her  wits  all 
about  her."  Pico  fastens  each  link  of  the  composer's 
melody  in  her  brain,  with  workmanlike  fidelity;  but 
when  she  comes  out  from  her  music-smithy,  she 
brings  with  her  no  memory  of  the  clink  of  hammer 
and  rivet.  In  that  relying  forgetfulness  lies  the  mys 
tery  of  her  charm.  It  is  recognised,  by  the  instinct 
men  have  that  this  is  the  quality  of  those  who  do 
best — statesmen  or  soldiers,  poets  or  lovers — the  most 
successful,  in  all  enterprises,  throwing  themselves  on 
what  they  have  once  made  up  their  minds  to,  as  a 
bird  launches  from  the  cliff.  Nature  prodigally  sec 
onds  the  unhesitating  trust  of  Pico's  execution.  Her 
voice  follows  her  concerted  thought  with  the  certainty 
of  a  shadow  and  the  fulness  of  a  floodtide.  The 
plentitude  of  every  shade  and  semi-tone,  insures, 
in  the  first  five  minutes  of  hearing  her,  an  ab 
sence  of  all  dread  of  flaw  or  falling  off — an  assurance, 


EPHEMERA. 


175 


that  whatever  height  or  depth  she  stoops  her  neck  to 
swoop  for,  it  will  bring,  for  the  listener, 

"  those  music-wings 
Lent  to  exalt  us  to  the  seventh  sphere." 

WE  DRINK  TO  THE  JACOB'S  LADDER  OF  MUSIC. 
A  new  light  breaks  upon  us  as  to  the  uses  of  the 
opera.     As~(to  the  wicked)  common  speech  is  a  con 
venience  and  swearing  a  luxury,  so  poetry  is  a  conve 
nience  to  passion,  and  music  its  luxury.     An  unhar- 
moni/.ed   shout— a   succession  of   cries— may   mean 
anything  ;  but  a  chorus,  or  a  concerted  transition  of  j 
cries,  has  a  meaning  to  convey  fioodtides  out  of  the  ' 
soul.     Poetry  may  fall  cold  upon  the  eye,  but  music 
must  melt  in  the  ear.     These  premises  allowed,  the 
opera  becomes  (does  it  not?)  a  healthful  vent  to  the 
passions  of  a  metropolis — a  chance  (for  those  who 
long  to  swear  and  do  violence),  by  a  more  innocent 

'•'  to  wreak 
Their  thoughts  upon  expression  !" 

How  common  the  feeling  "  to  want  a  spree  ."'  and 
who  that  for  three  hours  has  choked  back  tears  in  his 
throat,  and  been  enraptured  with  a  contralto  across 
the  footlights,  is  not  ready  to  go  to  bed  like  a  gentle 
man  ?  An  opera  is  a  blessed  succedaneum  to  the 
many.  To  the  few  it  is  the  loan  of  a  dictionary  from 
Heaven  !  Thoughts  otherwise  mute — feelings  whose 
dumbness  is  the  inner  man  buried  alive,  leap  to  free- 
breathing  utterance  with  music.  It  is  for  this  reason 
that  an  unknown  language  is  the  best  vehicle  for  an 
opera.  We  wish  to  hear  the  harmony,  and  let  our 
souls  furnish  the  articulation.  Don't  you  see,  now, 
my  dear  "Bohemian  Girl  .'"  the  plain  reason  of  the 
platitude  of  English  opera! 


paragement  to  the  outline  of  the  republic.  It  is  a 
pyramid,  in  fair  progression,  but  refinement  sits  with 
in  it  like  an  hourglass.  Half-way  up  the  ascent  of 
political  perfection,  the  social  diagram  within  is  at  its 
inevitable  "tight  place  ;"  and  while  we  remember  on 
what  a  breadth  of  polite  foundation  public  opinion 
built  up  society  at  the  Revolution,  and  while  we  be 
lieve  that,  half  a  century  hence,  we  shall  have  as  re 
fined  standards  as  any  country  on  earth,  we  believe 
that,  now,  there  is  a  squeeze  upon  good-breeding  in 
this  country  (less  protection  for  private  rights  and 
feelings  than  there  was  once,  and  will  be  again),  and  it 
is  as  well  that  those  who  are  to  suffer  by  the  tight 
place  should  be  prepared  to  stand  it. 


To  protect  that  upon  which  the  proprietor  has  a  right 
t  a  value,  is  the  object  of  law  and 


to  put 


civilization. 


Italian  music  has  words 

to  it,  and  so  has  a  dancing-girl  a  carotid  artery — but 
you  wish  to  feel  your  own  heart  beat  delightfully,  and 
not  to  count  the  quickening  pulses  of  Taglipni's— 
you  wish  to  embark  your  own  thoughts  in  music's  en 
chanted  boat,  and  not  see  how  it  was  first  laden  with 
other  people's.  A  man's  soul  can  have  nothing  in  it 
unsaid,  when  he  wants  a  libretlo  to  help  him  listen 
understandingly  to  Pico  ! 

And  now,  having  translated  into  grammatical  Eng 
lish,  the  inarticulate  contents  of  a  chicken's  breast, 
and  a  pint-bottle  of  Tinta  (for  the  benefit  of  a  public 
to  whom  these  eloquent  midnight  companions  would 
otherwise  have  spoken  in  vain),  let  us  to  bed — apro- 
pos-imously  remarking,  that,  in  the  paragraph  prece 
dent  to  this,  there  is  a  hint  as  to  the  uses  of  an  opera, 
worthy  the  attention  of  the  society  of  moral  reform. 
As  the  clergy  are,  probably,  asleep  at  this  hour  (3 
o'clock),  we  say  no  more. 

(Exit  "  184,"  with  a  candle.) 


THE  MIRROR  HELD  UP  TO  THE  TIMES. — It  is  a 
trick  of  ours  to  begin  at  the  other  end,  when  the  sub 
ject  would  otherwise  open  dry — bespeaking  attention, 
as  it  were,  by  first  naming  the  inducement.  As  we 
have  lately  been  pulled  up  for  not  giving  credit,  we 
may  as  well  mention,  that  we  took  this  peculiarity  of 
style  from  Mother  Goose's  politic  inducement  to  the 
five  reluctant  patrons  of  the  milkpail : — 

"  Cushy  cow  bonny,  give  down  your  milk, 
And  I  will  give  you  a  goim  of  silk." 

Silk  gown :— we  are  about  to  show  how  we  have 


Five  dollars,  paid  back,  will  satisfy  a  man  who  has 
been  robbed  of  five  dollars;  but  the  thief  goes  to 
prison  besides.  A  wound  given  to  a  man  is  soon 
healed  and  forgotten,  but  the  assailant  is  condemned 
for  a  felon.  A  newspaper-attack  upon  a  man,  for  pe 
culiarities  with  which  the  public  have  no  business, 
may  be  a  deeper  offence  to  him  than  the  loss  of  half 
his  fortune,  yet  the  attempt  at  remedy  by  law  is  worse 
than  bearing  it  in  silence.  The  damages  given  are 
rifling  and  nominal,  and  the  prosecution  propagates 
the  evil. 

The  above  is  a  skeleton  statement,  to  which  the 
memory  of  every  newspaper-reader  will  supply  the 
flesh-and-blood  illustrations.  A  late  decision  in  Mas 
sachusetts,  justifying  an  unnecessary  libel  on  the 
ground  of  its  truth,  threw  off,  to  our  thinking,  the  last 
skin  of  the  metamorphosis.  There  is  left,  now,  no 
protection,  by  law  or  public  opinion,  to  anything  but 
the  pocket  and  the  person  of  the  citizen.  His  private 
feelings,  his  domestic  peace,  his  hard-won  respect 
from  other  men,  his  consciousness  of  respectability 
abroad— commodities  of  more  value  to  him  than 
money — are  outlawed,  and,  if  wronged,  left  to  his  in 
dividual  avenging. 

Few  republicans  need  to  be  told  that  the  law  casts 
o  formidable  shadow  unless  shone  upon  by  public 
pinion.  The  law  of  libel  is  powerless,  because  the 
icense  of  the  press  is  agreeable  to  the  public.  If  it 
,ere  not  so,  the  libeller  would  not  find  himself,  after 
onviction,  still  on  the  sunny  side  of  public  favor— 
lor  would  judges  charge  juries  with  the  little  emphasis 
hey  do — nor  would  juries  give,  as  they  do,  damages 
hat  turn  the  plaintiff  into  ridicule! 

There  is  another  thing  that  republicans  need  not  be 
old  :  that  where  a  just  remedy  is  denied  by  the  law, 
he  individual  takes  the  penalty  into  his  own  hands — 
;he  same  public  that  left  him  to  administer  it,  kindly 
warding  off  the  law  when  he  is  tried  for  the  retribu 
tive  assault  and  battery.  A  case  of  this  sort  lately 
occurred  in  the  tabernacle  city.  A  family  of  the 
most  liberal  habits  and  highest  private  worth— just 
risen  to  wealth  by  two  generations  of  honest  industry 
chose  to  marry  a  daughter  with  entertainments  pro 
portionate  to  their  fortune.  A  malicious  editor,  avow 
edly  "  to  make  his  paper  sell,"  and  for  no  other  rea 
son,  came  out  with  a  foul-mouthed  ridicule  of  the 
festivities,  that  completely  destroyed  the  happiness  of 
the  brightest  domestic  event  of  their  lives.  One  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars  would  have  been  no  inducement 
to  the  family  to  suffer  the  pain  and  mortification  that 
were,  and  will  be  for  years,  the  consequences  of  that 
unprovoked  outrage.  But  where  lay  the  remedy  ? 
The  law  would  perpetuate  the  ridicule,  without  giv- 
in(T  damages  that  would  outweigh  the  additional  sale 

1US  *"*  T        .  i     .  _     -i_:_   _.    .~     .1,.,*     *V»«    in 


arrived  at  the  conclusion,  that,  in  the  state  of  the 
country  now  "opening  up,"  it  will  be  necessary  for 
every  eentleman  to  be  a  pugilist. 

We  beg  to  premise,  that  the  state  of  things  we  are     would   have  been,  had  there  been  puonc  opinion  i, 
about  to  show  forth  is  by  no  means  a  sign  of  repub       give  power  to  the  law)  ca  led  on  the  defendant 
lican  retrogression.     We  are  about  to  record  no  dis-  !  would   have  been)   and  whipped   him  severely;    ai 


of  the  paper.  It  chanced,  in  this  case,  that  the  in 
jured  man  was  of  athletic  habits  and  proportions,  and 
the  editor  was  small  and  puny.  The  plaintiff  (that 
would  have  been,  had  there  been  public  opinion  to 


176 


EPHEMERA. 


when  tried  for  the  assault  and  bnttery,  was  punished 
with  a  fine  next  to  nothing.  The  public  opinion  of 
the  city  of  "  broad  philacteries"  virtually  justified 
both  outrages.  But  where  would  have  been  the  rem 
edy,  if  the  physical  superiority  had  been  on  the  oth 
er  side,  or  if  the  popular  blight-monger  had  been  an 
unassailable  cripple  ? 

Another  case  of  legal  justification  of  club-law  lately 
occurred  in  this  city.  It  is  so  marked  an  instance, 
also,  of  the  social  impunity  of  printed  injuries  (the  in- 
flictor,  Mr.  Gliddon,  being  still  a  popular  lecturer, 
and  glorified  daily  by  the  model  family-newspaper  of 
Boston),  that  we  venture  to  quote  three  or  four  pas 
sages  from  the  libel.  Mr.  Cooley,  the  flogger,  had 
described,  with  humorous  ridicule,  some  people  he 
saw  in  Egypt,  and  Mr.  Gliddon  takes  it  for  granted 
(though  it  is  denied  by  Mr.  Cooley)  that  the  ridicule 
was  aimed  at  himself  and  his  father.  A  pamphlet  of 
thirty  or  forty  pages  of  abuse  of  Cooley  is  the  retort 
to  this  supposed  allusion,  and  from  a  notice  of  the 
pamphlet  in  a  daily  paper,  we  copy  three  or  four  of 
its  quoted  sentences: — 

"If,  since  the  publication  of  '  The  American  in 
Egypt,'  it  be  a  work  of  supererogation  on  his  part 
(Gliddon's)  to  place  upon  public  record  the  petulant 
vagaries  of  an  upstart,  to  recall  the  petty  shifts  of  an 
itinerant  miser,  to  unmask  the  insidious  insipidities  of 
a  would-be  author,  or  to  refute  the  falsehoods  of  a 
literary  abortion,  it  will  be  allowed  that  the  deed  is 
none  of  his  seeking,  but  has  been  fastened  on  him,  as 
the  only  course  within  the  letter  of  American  laws 
whereby  a  poltroon  can  receive  chastisement  from 
those  who  would  have  gladly  vindicated  their  honor 
by  means  to  them  far  more  satisfactory." 

"Again  Mr.  Gliddon  says:  'I  grieved  that,  not  hav 
ing  been  gifted  with  prophetic  vision,  I  neglected  to 
apply  it  [the  corbash]  in  the  Thebaid  to  Mr.  Cooley 
himself,  for  I  may  never  have  such  an  eligible  chance 
again.'  " 

"  Had  he  been  in  Cairo  at  the  time  [of  my  depar 
ture  from  that  city],  he  should  have  laid  aside  all  of 
ficial  character,  even  at  the  risk  of  eventual  censure, 
and  Mr.  Cooley  should  not  have  perpetrated  his  pas 
quinade  in  'Arabia  Petrea  and  Palestine,'  before  he 
[Gliddon]  had  hung  a  '  cowskin  on  those  recreant 
limbs!'" 

"  If  he  [Gliddon]  do  not  now  apply  a  horsewhip  to 
Mr.  Cooley's  shoulders,  it  is  solely  because,  in  a  com 
munity  among  which  both  are  residing,  the  satisfac 
tion  he  should  derive  from  a  physical  expression  of 
his  obligations  to  Mr.  Cooley,  might  prove  more  ex 
pensive  than  the  pleasure  is  worth." 

"  Our  relative  positions  have  been,  and,  so  far  as 
may  depend  on  him,  will  remain  perfectly  distinct ; 
for  possible  affluence  will  never  raise  Mr.  Cooley  to 
the  social  standing  of  a  gentleman.'" 

"  Mr.  Cooley's  fractiousness  is  confined  to  paper 
pellets.  Innate  cowardice  is  a  guaranty  for  his  never 
resorting  to  a  different  manifestation  of  his  vicious, 
though  innocuous  waspishness." 

The  first  time  Mr.  Cooley  saw  Mr.  Gliddon  after 
these  expressions  of  restrained  warlike  impatience,  he 
gave  him  a  beating.  Mr.  Gliddon  prosecuted  him  for 
assault  and  battery,  recovered  "  five  dollars  damages," 
and  went  on  lecturing  with  high  popular  favor.  What 
was  Mr.  Cooley's  remedy  for  being  published  as  "  no 
gentlemen,"  a  "miser,"  and  a  "coward,"  who  had 
three  times  escaped  personal  chastisement?  Mr. 
Cooley  is  not  the  "loafer"  these  epithets  would  seem 
to  make  him.  He  is  a  man  of  fortune,  and  a  most 
excellent  citizen,  with  highly-respectable  connexions, 
and  a  hearth  blessed  with  the  presence  of  beauty  and 
refinement.  A  duel  would  have  brought  upon  him 
a  ridicule  more  formidable  than  personal  danger — the 
law  on  the  subject  is  a  cipher — and,  to  remove  the 
pointed  finger  from  waiting  on  him  at  his  very  table, 


he  was  obliged  to  chastise  the  man  who  stigmatized 
him. 

One  more  proof  of  the  same  new  state  of  things, 
though  in  a  different  line.  A  highly-educated  young 
lawyer  in  this  city,  in  canvassing  for  the  whigs,  during 
the  late  political  contest,  was  severely  whipped  by 
three  members  of  the  leading  democratic  club.  He 
lay  a-bed  a  week,  recovering  from  his  bruises,  and,  at 
the  end  of  that  time,  walked  into  a  meeting  of  the 
club  referred  to  and  demanded  a  hearing.  Order  was 
called,  and  he  stated  his  case,  and  demanded  of  the 
president  of  the  club  that  a  ring  should  be  formed, 
and  his  antagonists  turned  in  to  him — one  after  the 
other.  It  was  enthusiastically  agreed  to,  and  the 
three  bullies  being  present,  were  handed  over  to  him 
and  handsomely  flogged,  one  after  the  other.  Of 
course  this  is  not  all  we  are  to  hear  of  such  a  man; 
but  who  will  deny,  that  when  he  comes  to  stand  for 
congress,  he  will  not  have  counterbalanced,  by  this 
act,  the  disadvantage  of  belonging  to  one  of  the  most 
aristocratic  families  of  the  city  ? 

We  are  expressing  no  discontent  with  our  country. 
We  are  playing  the  Mirror  only — showing  the  public 
its  face,  that  it  may  not  forget  "  what  manner  of  man" 
it  is.  We  have  shown  by  facts,  that  there  is  no  more 
remedy  among  us,  for  the  deepest  injuries  that  can 
be  inflicted,  than  there  is  among  wild  beasts  in  the 
forest.  Duelling  is  as  good  as  abolished,  we  rejoice 
with  all  our  hearts — but  it  owes  its  abolition  to  the 
country's  having  sunk  below  the  chivalric  level  at 
which  that  weed  could  alone  find  nourishment.  We 
leave  to  others  to  draw  conclusions  and  suggest  rem 
edies.  We  are  not  reformers.  We  submit.  But  we 
should  think  a  man  as  improvident,  not  forthwith  to  be 
rubbing  up  his  sparring,  as  a  gentleman  would  have 
been  in  Charles  the  Second's  time,  to  have  walked 
abroad  without  his  sword.  They  have  a  saying  in 
the  Mediterranean  (from  the  custom  of  yoking  a  hog 
with  a  donkey  together  for  draught),  "You  must 
plough  with  a  hog  if  you  stay  in  Minorca!" 


Rev.  Sidney  Smith's  description  of  himself  from  a 
letter  to  a  correspondent  of  the  New  York  American. — 
"I  am  seventy-four  years  old;  and  being  a  canon  of 
St.  Paul's,  in  London,  and  rector  of  a  parish  in  the 
country,  my  time  is  equally  divided  between  town  and 
country.  I  am  living  amidst  the  best  society  in  the 
metropolis,  am  at  ease  in  my  circumstances,  in  tolera 
ble  health,  a  mild  whig,  a  tolerating  churchman,  and 
much  given  to  talking,  laughing,  and  noise.  I  dine 
with  the  rich  in  London,  and  physic  the  poor  in  the 
country — passing  from  the  sauces  of  Dives  to  the  sores 
of  Lazarus.  I  am,  upon  the  whole,  a  happy  man, 
have  found  the  world  an  entertaining  world,  and  am 
heartily  thankful  to  Providence  for  the  part  allotted  to 
me  in  it." 

We  can  add  a  touch  or  two  to  the  auto-sketch  of 
the  witty  prebend,  who,  we  think,  is  one  of  the  men 
most  thought  about  just  now.  He  is  a  fat  man, 
weighing  probably  between  two  and  three  hundred 
pounds,  with  a  head  and  stomach  very  c/mrcA-man-like 
— (that  is  to  say  in  the  proportion  of  a  large  church 
with  a  small  belfry) — a  most  benevolent  yet  humorous 
face,  and  manners  of  most  un-English  boisterousness 
and  cordiality.  At  a  party  he  is  followed  about,  like 
a  shepherd  by  his  sheep,  and  we  remember,  once,  at 
his  own  house,  seeing  Lord  Byron's  sister,  the  Hon. 
Mrs.  LEIGH,  one  of  the  laughing  flock  browsing  upon 
the  wit  that  sprung  up  around  him.  One  would 
think,  to  see  him  and  know  his  circumstances,  that 
the  gods  had  done  their  best  to  make  one  of  the  Mr. 
Smiths  perfectly  happy. 


EPHEMERA. 


177 


JOHN    (JUINCT    ADAMS. 

(In  reply  to  our  respected  private  correspondent,  and  the 
editor  with  his  puddle  against  every  man,  and  every  man's 
inkstand  against  him.) 

When  is  a  statesman  beyond  accusation  1  NOT  while 
he  is  still  armed  in  the  arena! — NOT  while  he  has 
neither  dismounted  from  the  car  of  ambition,  nor,  j 
even  once,  made  sign  to  the  world,  that  he  would  fain 
stop  and  turn  his  face  to  his  Maker  ! 

We  are  understood   as    referring  to   Mr.  ADAMS. 
We  consider  this  present  active  member  of  congress 
as,   beyond   competition,   the   most   potent   spirit   in  ' 
America.     "  Venerable"  he  is — and  "  his  hand  trem- 

hles" but  his  venerableness  is  a  cavern  of  power,  and 

his  uplifted  forefinger 

« trembles  as  the  granite  trembles 
Lashed  by  the  waves." 

We  know  there  is  a  level  on  the  mountain  of  life, 
where  the  air  is  pure  and  cold — a  height  at  which  im 
purity  can  scarce  come,  more,  between  the  climber 
and  his  God — but,  it  is  above  where  the  lightning  comes 
from — it  is  above  the  dark  cloud  where  sleeps  the 
thunder,  collected  from  below,  and  charged  with  in- 
separable  good  and  harm.  This  incorrupt  level  is,  at 
least,  one  step  above  the  cloud  in  which  Mr.  Adams 
has  pertinaciously  lingered ;  and  if  his  friends  insist 
that  he  has  been  long  enough  lost  to  common  scrutiny 
to  have  reached  the  upper  side  of  the  cloud  of  danger 
ous  power,  we  must  be  excused  for  pointing  our  con 
ductor  till  he  is  done  stirring  in  the  thunder. 

Persuade  us  that  Mr.  Adams  is  so  "  venerable"  as 
to  have  outlived  all  liability  to  the  license  described 
by  the  poet : — 

"  For  now,  at  last,  alone,  he  sees  his  might  ! 

Out  of  the  compass  of  respective  awe 
He  now  begins  to  violate  all  right. 
While  no  restraining  fear  at  hand  he  saw." 

Persuade  us  that  a  vindictive  man  maybe  safely  bowed  > 
before,  for  an  angel,  with  his  hand,  for  the  first  time,  | 
fetterlessly    clutched   on    this   world's   thunderbolts !  | 
Persuade  us  that   Mr.  Adams  could   not  stoop   his  ; 
statesmanship  to  resent,  and  that  he  is  not  one  of  those 
dreaders  of  political  extinction,  who  feel  that  "not  to 
be  at  all  is  worse  than  to  be  in  the  miserablest  condi 
tion   of  something."     Persuade  us,  in  short,  that  no 
provocation  in  argument,  no  lull  of  responsibility,  no 
oracular  unanswerableness,  no  appetite  for  the  exercise 
of  power,  no 

"  injury, 
The  jailer  to  his  pity," 

could  tempt  Mr.  Adams,  with  his  present  undiminish- 
ed  mental  vigor,  to  swerve  a  hair  line  from  good — by 
weight  thrown  upon  public  measure,  or  by  influence 
wrongfully  exercised  over  the  fair  fame  of  the  dead 
and  the  private  feelings  of  the  living—persuade  us 
of  all  this,  and  we  will  allow  that  he  is  beyond — 
"  venerably"  beyond — the  remindings  of  human  cen 
sure  ! 

But  now — having  arms-lengthed  it,  in  reply  to  a 
very  formal  letter  we  received  last  evening  condemning 
the  admission  into  our  columns  of  a  communication 
accusatory  of  Mr.  Adams — let  us  come  closer  to  the 
reader  with  a  little  of  our  accustomed  familiarity. 

We  were  called  upon  a  day  or  two  since,  by  one 
of  the  first  scholars  and  most  intelligent  of  business 
men  among  us — this  communication  in  his  hand. 
He  left  us  to  read  it  at  our  leisure.  We,  at  first, 
were  unpleasantly  affected  by  it,  and  slipped  it  upon 
our  refusal  Iwiok — sorry  that  so  great  a  man  as  Mr. 
Adams  should  have  an  unbeliever  (and  so  weighty  an 
unbeliever),  in  greatness  so  ready  for  its  closing  seal. 
We  should  have  stopped  at  this  regret,  probably,  and 
only  thought  of  the  subject  again  when  returning  the 
1-2 


manuscript,  but  that  we  had  been  previously  impress 
ed  with  our  friend's  courage  in  historical  justice — on  a 
wholly  different  subject.  This  brought  about  the 
sober  second  thought,  and  we  turned  it  over  somewhat 
as  follows  : — 

Of  the  allowed  UPPER  TRIUMVIRATE  of  this  country 
— CLAY,  JACKSON,  and  ADAMS — the  peaceful  good 
name  of  the  first  is,  just  now,  closed  for  history,  by 
his  willing  relinquishment  of  public  action.  The 
world  owes  him  the  glorified  repose  for  which  he  has 
signified  his  desire.  The  second  has  also  retired  ; 
and,  though  he  sometimes  has  sent  his  invincible 
banner  to  wave  again  in  the  political  field,  it  would 
be  a  harsh  pen  that  would  transmute,  and  make  read 
able  by  judicious  eyes,  the  silly  abuses  syringed  at 
the  venerable  old  chieftain  by  the  Bedouin  squirt  of 
the  "  Express." 

The  third — Mr.  Adams— we  could  not  but  feel,  at 
once,  wasoff  the  pedestal  where  the  world  had  willing 
ly  placed  him,  and  had  come  down,  once  more 

"  to  dabble  in  the  pettiness  of  fame." 

(We  shall  be  pardoned,  by  the  way,  for  quoting  what 
is  recalled  by  this  chance-sprung  quotation— a  com 
parison  which  seems  to  us  singularly  to  picture  Mr. 
Clay  and  Mr.  Adams  as  to  loftiness  of  public  life  and 
motive.)  Dante  says  : — 

«'  The  world  hath  left  me,  what  it  found  me,  pure, 

And,  if  1  have  not  gathered  yet  its  praise, 
I  sought  it  not  by  any  baser  lure. 

Man  wrongs  and  time  avenges  ;  and  my  name 
May  form  a  monument  not  all  obscure, 

Though  such  was  not  my  ambition's  end  and  aim- 
To  add  to  the  vain-glorious  list  of  those 

Who  dabble  in  the  pettiness  of  fame, 
And  make  men's  fickle  breath  the  wind  that  blows 

Their  sail." 

We  felt,  at  once,  that  this   latter  character — this 

aliquis  in  omnibus,  nihil  in  singulis — was,  as  displayed 

in  Mr.  Adams's  career,  rather  the  mettle  of  invincible 

!  obstinacy  and  unrest  acting  upon  strong  talent,  than 

'  the  r\n«  of  the  clear  metal  of  human  greatness.     There 

was  nothing  in  Mr.  Adams's  life  of  toil  that  had  not 

fed  his  innate  passion  for  antagonism.     He  was  a  born 

ascetic,  in  whose  nostrils  the  fiery  perils  of  other  men 

were  but  offensive  smoke — who  had  no  temptation  to 

softer  pleasure  than  a  pasquinade   against   a   political 

rjval who  had  made  the  most  of  the  morality  which 

came  natural  to  him,  and  which,  in  this  land,  covers 
more   sins  than  charity.     He  was  not,  like  Clay  and 
Jackson,  great  in  spite  of  the  impassioned  nature  for 
which  we  (so  inconsistently),  love  the  man  and  dis 
claim  his   greatness.     He  has  been  the  terror  of  his 
time   for  wounds   worse   than   murder— yet    gave   no 
stab   that   could   be    "stopped   with   parsley." 
needed  no  shirt  of  penance  to  make  him  remem 
that 

"  The  virtues  of  great  men,  will  only  show 
Like  coy  auriculas,  in  Alpine  snow. ' 

He  has  profited   by  men's  not  remembering  that  (in 
the  zoology   of  the   pleasures),  the  sm  of  the  sloth 
,  were  a  merit  in  the  armadillo-one  hatmg  to   move 
'and    the   other   hating  to  be  st.l  ,  and  bo th  tested  by 
tw;.    artivitv  of  motion.      In   short,    Mr.    Adarns — 
h  he  has  unquestionably  walked  to  the  topmost 
if  of  the  temple  of  statesmanship,  and  is  now  the 
third     reatest  man  in  the  country  that  shakes  under 
"las  exclusively  pampered  his  own  des.res,  top 
most  and  undermost,  by  the  practice  of  the  virtues 
h .   Inve  shielded  him.     The  toils  that  have  advanced 
Sm   were   begun   in    the   pastime   of  an    -istocratic 
youth;    and  position,   up  to  quite  the   end    of  that 
-  second  heat"  of  his  ambition-race,  was  an  inheritance 
nerseveringly  thrust  on  him.     Can  such  a  man,  while 
!  our  ditmy^  still    hourly   hanging   on  his  l.ps,   be 
11°  venerable"  beyond  the  possibility  of  censure? 


178 


EPHEMERA. 


With  this  unwilling  mental  review  of  the  "  boiled 
peas"  of  Mr.  Adams's  pilgrimage  to  greatness — un 
willingly,  as  it  was  irresistibly  and  truthfully  dispara 
ging — we  reverted  to  our  first  picture  of  his  present 
position.  We  had  been  truly,  and  even  tearfully,  af 
fected,  on  seeing  the  old  man,  at  the  late  festival  of 
the  Historical  Society — doubtless  very  near  his  grave, 
but  fighting  his  way  determinately  backward  through 
the  gate  of  death — and  we  expressed  ourself  in  terms 
of  high  respect  and  honor,  when  we  wrote  of  it  the 
morning  after.  It  is  a  recompensing  ordinance  of 
Nature,  that  the  glory  and  virtues  of  a  great  man  ac 
company  his  person  and  his  sins  lie  where  they  first 
fall — in  the  furrow  of  history.  It  is  hard  to  look  upon 
any  man's  face,  and  remember  ill  of  him  ;  and  there 
is  many  a  great  man,  who  has  a  halo  where  he  comes, 
and  none  where  he  is  heard  of. 

We  remembered  nothing  disparaging  to  Mr.  Adams 
that  evening.  But  in  our  office,  with  a  shade  drawn 
over  our  eyes,  to  compel  a  disagreeable  decision  of 
duty,  we  saw  that  the  age  and  decrepitude,  which 
apparently  exacted  submission  to  his  will,  had  left  no 
joint  open  in  his  harness,  loosened  no  finger  upon  his 
weapons  of  attack.  He  can  defend  himself — he  has 
hundreds  to  defend  him,  should  he  be  silent.  His 
much  talked-of  "diary"  lacks  no  evidence  that  truth 
can  furnish ;  and  if  the  charges  against  him  are  "  mere 
cobwebs  in  a  church  bell,"  the  best  of  prayers  is,  that 
he  may  burst  them  with  one  stroke  of  living  triumph, 
and  not  leave  even  that  slight  violence  to  be  done  by 
the  knell  of  his  departure. 

The  last  thought  that  came  to  us,  and  the  only  one 
we  thought  necessary  fora  preface  to  the  communica 
tion,  was,  that  now  would  probably  be  the  time  chosen 
by  Mr.  Adams  himself  for  denying  (and  they  MUST 
BE  DKNIED  !)  these  indictments  against  his  greatness. 
The  five  years'  silence  that  will  follow  his  death,  had 
better  harden  over  no  ulcer — to  be  re-opened  and 
cleansed,  to  the  world's  offence,  hereafter.  We  took 
some  credit  to  ourself,  for  simply  saying  this,  without 
recording  what  we  have  been  compelled  to  record  now 
• — the  reasons  of  our  thinking  gravely  of  the  com 
munication.  We  would  have  taken 'the  other  side 
and  entered  into  the  defence  quite  as  willingly — but 
the  writer,  as  well  as  Mr.  Adams,  is  a  man  not  to  be 
denied  a  hearing.  We  may  perhaps  be  permitted  to 
close  this  article — written  in  a  most  unwonted  vein, 
for  us— with  a  little  editorial  comfort  from  Shak- 
spere : — 

"  What  we  oft  do  best, 
By  sick  interpreters,  or  weak  ones,  is 
Not  ours,  or  not  allowed  ;  what  worst,  as  oft, 
Hitting  a  grosser  quality,  is  cried  up 
For  our  best  act.     But  if  we  shall  stand  still— 
For  fear  our  motion  will  be  mocked  or  carped  at, 
We  should  take  root  here  where  we  sit,  or  sit 
For  statues  only.'' 


"  MONEY  ARTICLE"  ON  THE  OPERA. — We  were  de 
lighted  to  hear  it  whispered  about  at  the  opera,  last 
night,  that  there  is  a  movement  among  the  people  of 
taste  and  influence  to  "  set  up,"  by  a  liberal  subscrip 
tion,  the  present  excellent,  but  impoverished  and 
struggling  operatic  company.  The  first  thought  that 
occurs  to  any  one  hearing  of  this,  would,  probably,  be 
a  surprise  that,  with  such  full  houses  as  have  graced 
the  opera,  they  have  not  been  thriving  to  the  fullest 
extent  of  reasonable  expectation.  We  understand, 
however,  that  it  is  quite  the  contrary.  When  the 
present  company  commenced  their  engagement,  there 
was  an  arrearage  of  gas  expenses  to  be  paid  up,  the 
license  was  to  be  renewed,  at  $500;  and  the  house, 
even  when  full,  gives  but  a  slender  dividend  over  the 
expenses  of  the  orchestra,  scenery,  lights,  stage  prop 
erties,  and  dresses.  At  the  onlv  "  division  of  the 


spoils"  that  has  yet  been  made,  Madame  Pico  re 
ceived  but  sixty  dollars — so  insufficient  a  sum  being 
all  that  this  admirable  singer  has  received  for  several 
months'  waiting,  and  one  month's  playing  and  singing  ! 
Her  dresses  alone  cost  her  twice  the  sum!  Borghese 
received  twice  this  amount,  but  the  other  performers, 
of  course,  much  less  even  than  Pico. 

In  the  history  of  the  first  introduction  of  Italian 
music  into  England,  in  1692,  it  is  stated  that  the  sing 
ers  (an  "  Italian  lady,"  a  basso,  and  a  soprano}  were 
taken  up  by  two  spirited  women  of  fashion,  wives  of 
noblemen,  who  arranged  benefit  concerts  at  their  own 
houses,  for  the  "  charming  foreigners,"  and  inviting 
their  friends  as  if  to  a  ball — demanding  Jive  guineas 
for  each  invitation!  The  rage  for  these  expensive 
concerts  is  recorded  as  a  curious  event  of  the  time, 
and  it  was  a  grievous  mark  of  unfashionableness  not 
to  be  honored  with  a  ticket. 

The  American  public  is  a  hard  master  to  these 
children  of  the  sun.  They  take  no  comfort  among 
us,  if  they  lay  up  no  money.  Our  climate  is  both 
dangerous  and  disagreeable  !  Our  usages,  and  preju 
dices,  and  manner  of  life,  all  at  variance  with  theirs! 
Their  hearts  are  bleak  here,  and  their  pockets  at 
least  should  have  a  warm  lining  !  And  (by  the  way) 
see  what  a  difference  there  is,  even  between  our  coun 
try  and  chilly  England,  in  the  way  society  treats 
them!  We  chance  to  possess  an  autograph  letter  of 
JULIA  GRISI'S,  given  us  by  the  lady  to  whom  it  was 
addressed— a  daughter  of  Lucien  Bonaparte  married 
to  an  English  nobleman.  Look  at  the  position  this 
little  chance  record  reveals  of  a  prima  donna  in  Eng 
land  : — 

"  AlMABLE  ET  TRES  CHERE  PRINCESSE  ! — 

"  Je  suis  vraiment  desolee  de  ne  pouvoir  aller  ce  soir  chez 
Lady  Morgan.  Je  dine  chez  le  Prince  Esterhazy  ou  je  dois 
passer  la  soiree.  Demain  au  soir,  j'ai  un  concert  pour  M.  La- 
porte,  le  reste  de  la  semaine  je  suis  libre  et  tout  </  vos  ordres. 
Si  vous  croyez  de  combiner  quelque-choze  avec  Lady  Morgan, 
comptez  sur  moi  !  Domain  je  passerai  chez  Lady  Morgan 
pour  faire  mes  excuses  en  personne. 

"  Que  dirai-je  de  ce  magnifique  voile  !  Que  la  geuerosite  e 
1'amabilile  sont  innees  dans  la  grandefamille. 

"  Croyez  toujours,  madame  la  princesse,  a  tout  le  devoue- 
ment  de  votre  servante,  JULIA  GRISI. 

We  chance  to  have  another  dramatic  autograph,  a 
note  of  LEONTINE  FAY'S,  given  us  by  the  same  noble 
lady  (and  we  may  say  here,  apropos,  that  we  should 
be  very  happy  to  show  these,  and  others,  to  persons 
curious  in  autographs) — showing  the  same  necessary 
reliance  ou  special  patronage  : — 

"  THEATRE  FRANCAIS. 

"  M'lle  Leontine  Fay  a  1'honneur  de  presenter  ses  humble 
respects  a  Lady  D ,  et  de  solliciter  sa  puissante  protection 

rr  la  soiree  qui  aura  lieu  a  son  benefice  Vendredi,  10  Juliet, 
choix  des  pieces  et  les  noms  des  artistes  qui  veulent  bien 
contribuer  a  son  succes  liu  font  esperer  que  miladi,  qui  aime 
a  encourager  les  arts,  daignera  1'honorer  de  sa  presence." 

This  is  dated  from  the  French  theatre  in  London, 
but  we  treasured  up  the  autograph  with  no  little  ava 
rice,  for  Leontine  Fay  was  in  the  height  of  her  glory, 
in  Paris,  when  we  first  went  abroad,  and,  to  us,  she 
seemed  a  new  revelation  of  things  adorable.  She 
was  made  for  the  stage  by  nature — as  scenery  is 
adapted  by  coarse  lines  for  distant  perspective.  Her 
eyes  were  dark,  luminous,  and  of  a  size  that  gave 
room  for  the  whole  audience  to  "repose  on  velvet"  in 

them. But  we  wander!  '  We  resume  our  subject, 

after  saying  that  we  never  envied  prince  or  king,  till 
we  heard,  at  that  time,  that  Leontine  Fay  passion 
ately  loved  the  prince  royal — the  young  duke  of  Or 
leans.  He  is  dead,  she  is  grown  ugly,  and  we  are  left 
to  admire  Pico.  "  Much  after  this  fashion,"  etc.,  etc. 

Grave  people  (though  by  no  means  all  grave  peo 
ple)  are  inclined  to  bid  the  opera  "  stand  aside"  as  a 
!  thing  unholy.  We  think  this  is  a  mistake.  We  be- 


EPHEMERA. 


179 


lieve  music  to  be  medicinal  to  body  and  soul.  Wilh 
entire  reverence,  we  take  leave  to  remind  the  religious 
objector  of  the  cure  of  Saul,  and  to  quote  the  pas 
sage  : — 

"  But  the  spirit  of  the  Lord  departed  from  Saul,  and  an  evil 
spirit  from  the  Lord  troubled  him.  And  Saul's  servants  said 
unto  him,  Behold  now,  an  evil  spirit  troubleth  thee.  Let  our 
Lord  now  command  thy  servants  which  are  before  thee,  to 
seek  out  a  man  who  is  a  cunning  player  on  a  harp  ;  and  it 
shall  come  to  pass,  when  the  evil  spirit  from  God  is  upon 
thre,  that  he  shall  play  with  his  hand,  and  thou  shall  be  well. 

"  And  it  came  to  pass  that  when  the  evil  spirit  from  God 
was  upon  Saul,  that  David  took  a  harp  and  played  with  his 
hand :  so  Saul  was  refreshed,  and  was  well,  and  the  evil 
spirit  departed  from  him.'' 

The  medicinal  value  attached  to  music  by  the  an 
cients  is  also  shown  in  the  education  of  Moses  at  the 
court  of  Pharaoh.  Clemens  Alexandrinus  has  re 
corded  that  "  Moses  was  instructed  by  the  Egyptians 
in  arithmetic,  geometry,  rhythm,  harmony,  but,  above 
all,  in  medicine  and  music."  Miriam  sang  and  danced 
in  costume,  and  David  "  in  his  linen  ephod,"  and  the 
only  reproach  made  by  Laban  to  Jacob,  for  carrying 
off  his  two  daughters,  was,  that  he  did  not  give  him 
the  opportunity  to  send  him  away  "with  mirth  and  with 
songs,  with  tabret  and  with  harp."  We  refer  to  these 
historic  proofs,  to  remind  the  objecting  portion  of  the 
community  that  scenic  musical  representation  was  a 
vent  for  domestic  and  religious  feeling  among  the  an 
cients,  and  that,  in  an  opera — particularly  one  unac 
companied  by  modern  ballet — there  is  no  offence  to 
mor;il  feeling,  but,  on  the  contrary,  authorized  good. 

To  revert  to  our  purpose,  in  this  article — (chrono 
logically,  somewhat  spready  !) — We  do  not  know 
what  shape  the  aroused  liberality  of  the  wealthy  clas 
ses  of  New  York  will  take,  but  we  should  think  that 
Madame  Pico — (as  she  has  given  us  the  most  pleas 
ure,  at  the  greatest  expense  to  herself,  and  is  an  un 
protected  and  exemplary  woman,  alone  among  us)  — 
should  have  a  special  benefit  by  subscription  concert, 
or  some  other  means  as  exclusive  to  herself.  We 
suggest  it — but  we  presume  we  are  not  the  first  it  has 
occurred  to.  Will  the  wealthy  gentlemen  who  are 
nightly  seen  in  the  dress-circles,  delighted  with  her 
exquisite  music,  turn  the  subject  over  at  their  luxuri 
ous  firesides? 


stract  principles  to  which  there  is  no  opposition — 
nothing  is  dearer  to  the  heart  than  opinions  for  which 
we  have  been  called  on  to  contend  and  suffer.  A 
free  press,  therefore,  keeping  open  gate  for  all  sub 
jects  not  prohibited  by  law  and  morals,  is  far  safer 
than  a  press  over-guarded  in  its  admissions  to  the 
public  eye. 

Having  thus  repeated,  as  it  were,  a  page  of  the 
very  spelling-book  of  freedom,  let  us  bespeak,  of  our 
subscribers,  a  let-off,  as  far  as  we  personally  are  con 
cerned,  for  any  decent  opinions  expressed  under  the 
head  of  "  correspondence."  We  throw  open  that  part 
of  our  paper.  It  is  interesting  to  know  what  people 
think  who  do  not  agree  with  us.  We  court  variety. 
We  would  not  (in  anything  but  love)  be  called  a  big- 
•  ot.  New  opinions,  even  the  truest,  are  reluctantly 
|  received,  and,  we  think,  very  often  culpably  distrusted. 
As  far,  therefore,  as  the.  yea  or  nay  may  go,  on  any 
proper  subject,  we  care  not  a  fig  which  side  writes 
first  to  us.  and  we  hereby  disclaim  responsibility  for 
all  articles  under  "owr  correspondence,1"  except  on  the 
score  of  morals  and  readableness. 


To  AND  ABOUT   OUR    CORRESPONDENTS. We   Wish 

to  "define  our  position"  with  regard  to  our  corre 
spondents  and  their  opinions. 

Were  an  editor  to  profess  an  agreement  of  opinion 
with  every  writer  for  his  paper,  he  would  either  claim 
a  superhuman  power  of  decision  on  all  possible  sub 
jects,  at  first  sight,  or  he  would  exclude  communica 
tions  on  all  subjects,  except  his  own  mental  hobbies 
and  matters  of  personal  study  and  acquaintance.  To 
avoid  both  horns  of  this  fool's  dilemma,  he  opens  a 
correspondence  column,  in  which  anything  (short  of  an 
invasion  of  a  cardinal  virtue,  or  violation  of  a  palpable 
truth)  may  very  properly  and  irresponsibly  appear. 
The  only  questions  the  editor  asks  himself  are,  whether 
it  will  interest  his  readers,  and  whether  it  is  worth  its 
space  in  the  paper. 

But  there  are  people  for  whom  it  is  necessary  that 
we  should  go  back  to  the  very  catechism  of  political 
economy,  and  show  upon  what  principle  is  founded 
the  expediency  of  a  FREE  PRESS — a  press  untrammel 
led  by  a  king  in  a  kingdom,  and  by  the  sovereign  re 
publicans  in  a  republic. 

Opinions  have  been  well  likened  to  steam — power 
less  when  diffused  abroad,  resistless  when  shut  in  and 
denied  expansion.  The  unconscious  apostleship  of 
Mr.  Adams — procuring  an  explosion  in  favor  of  aboli 
tion,  by  his  obstinacy  in  provoking  an  undue  suppres 


THE  OPERA. — The  PURITAM  is  one  of  those  ope 
ras  with  which  musical  criticism  has  little  or  nothing 
to  do.  If  only  tolerably  sung,  the  feeling  of  the  audi 
ence  goes  on  before — making  no  stay  with  fault-find 
ing.  The  applause  last  night,  after  a  most  limping 
and  ill-paced  duett  between  Tomasi  and  Valtellina, 
|  was  tempestuous  ;  and  Antognini,  in  one  passage,  ran 
off  his  voice,  and  was  gone  for  several  notes  in  some 
unknown  region,  and  yet,  on  spreading  out  his  hands 
immediately  after,  there  was  great  approbation  by  the 
audience !  Great  effort  was  made  by  the  audience  to 
encore  "  Suoni  la  tromba"  but  the  two  bases  thought 
more  basely  of  their  bases  than  the  audience,  and  did 
not  repeat  it.  Is  there  no  way  to  implore  Valtellina 
to  abate  a  little  of  his  overreaching  of  voice,  in  that 
superb  invocation  ?  He  overdoes  it  terribly. 

We  are  not  writing  in  very  good  humor,  we  are 
afraid — but  the  enthusiasm  of  a  crammed  house  needs 
no  propping.  We  would  not  find  fault  if  they  needed 
our  praise.  BORGHESE  did  well — but  will  do  better  at 
the  next  representation.  She  would  sing  with  fuller 
tone  for  a  little  egg  beat  up  with  brandy.  We  longed 
to  unreef  her  voice — in  some  way  croud  a  little  more 
abandon  into  it.  She  acted  as  she  always  does — to  a 
charm. 

Pico  was  in  one  of  the  proscenium  boxes,  looking 
very  charming,  and  evidently  enjoying  the  whole  op 
era  with  uu-envious  enthusiasm.  She  went  with  a 
bouquet  for  Borghese — so  said  a  bird  in  our  ear. 


OLE  BULL'S  NIAGARA. 

(AN  HOUR  BEFORE  THE  PERFORMANCE.) 

Saddle,  as.  of  course,  we  are,  under  any  very  striking 
event,  we  find  ourselves  bestridden,  now  and  then, 
with  a  much  wider  occupancy  than  the  plumb-line 
of  a  newspaper  column.  Ole  Bull  possesses  us  over 
our  tea-table;  he  will  possess  us  over  our  supper- 
table his  performance  of  Niagara  equi-dietant  between 

the  two.  We  must  think  of  him  and  his  violin  for 
this  coming  hour.  Let  us  take  pen  and  ink  into  our 
confidence. 

The  "origin  of  the  harp"  has  been  satisfactorily 
recorded.  We  shall  not  pretend  to  put  forward  a 
credible  story  of  the  origin  of  the  violin  ;  but  we  wish 
to  name  a  circumstance  in  natural  history.  The 
house-cricket  that  chirps  upon  our  hearth,  is  well 


sion'  of  the  subject— is  a  striking  illustration  of  this,     known  as  belonging  to  the  genus  Pneumora.     Its  in- 
Nothing  makes  less  impression  on  the  mind  than  ab-  |  sect  si/.e  consists  almost  entirely  of  a  pellucid  abdomen. 


180 


EPHEMERA. 


crossed  with  a  number  of  transverse  ridges.  This, 
when  inflated,  resembles  a  bladder,  and  upon  its  tight 
ened  ridges  the  insect  plays  like  a  fiddler,  by  drawing 
its  thin  legs  over  them.  The  cricket  is,  in  fact,  a 
living  violin;  and  as  a  fiddler  is  "scarce  himself" 
without  his  violin,  we  may  call  the  cricket  a  stray 
portion  of  a  fiddler. 

Ole  Bull  "  is  himself"  with  his  violin  before  him — 
but  without  it,  the  commonest  eye  must  remark  that 
he  is  of  the  invariable  build  of  the  restless  searchers 
after  something  lost — the  build  of  enthusiasts — that  is 
to  say,  chest  enormous,  and  stomach,  if  anything, 
rather  wanting  !  The  great  musician  of  Scripture,  it 
will  be  remembered,  expressed  his  mere  mental  afflic 
tion  by  calling  out  "My  bowels!  my  bowels!"  and, 
after  various  experiments  on  twisted  silk,  smeared 
with  the  white  of  eggs,  and  on  single  threads  of  the 
silk-worm,  passed  through  heated  oil,  the  animal  fibre 
of  cat- gut  has  proved  to  be  the  only  string  that  answers 
to  the  want  of  the  musician.  Without  trying  to  re 
duce  these  natural  phenomena  to  a  theory  (except  by 
suggesting  that  Ole  Bull  may  very  properly  take  the 
cricket  as  an  emblem  of  his  instinctive  pursuit),  we 
must  yield  to  an  ominous  foreboding  for  this  evening. 
The  objection  to  cat-gut  as  a  musical  string  is  its 
sensibility  to  moisture  ;  and  in  a  damp  atmosphere  it 
is  next  to  impossible  to  keep  it  in  tune.  The  string 
comes  honestly  enough  by  its  sensitiveness  (as  any 
one  will  allow  who  has  seen  a  cat  cross  a  street  after 
a  shower) — but,  if  the  cat  of  Ole  Bull's  violin  had  the 
least  particle  of  imagination  in  her,  can  what  is  left  of 
her  be  expected  to  discourse  lovingly  of  her  natural 
antipathy — a  water-hU  1 

But — before  we  draw  on  our  gloves  to  go  over  to 
Palmo's — a  serious  word  as  to  what  is  to  be  attempted 
to-night. 

Old  Bull  is  a  great  creature.  He  is  fitted,  if  ever 
mortal  man  was,  to  represent  the  attendant  spirit  in 
Milton,  who 

"  Well  knew  to  still  the  wild  woods  when  they  roared 
And  hush  the  moaning  winds  ;" 

but  it  seems  to  us  that,  without  a  printed  programme, 
showing  what  he  intends  to  express  besides  the  mere 
sound  of  waters,  he  is  trusting  far  too  rashly  to  the 
comprehension  of  his  audience  and  their  power  of 
musical  interpretation.  He  is  to  tell  a  story  by  music  ! 
Will  it  be  understood? 

We  remember  being  very  much  astonished,  a  year 
or  two  ago,  at  finding  ourself  able  to  read  the  thoughts 
of  a  lady  of  this  city,  as  she  expressed  them  in  an  ad 
mirable  improvisation  upon  the  piano.  The  delight 
we  experienced  in  this  surprise  induced  us  to  look 
into  the  extent  to  which  musical  meaning  had  been 
perfected  in  Europe.  We  found  it  recorded  that  a 
Mons.  Sudre,  a  violinist  of  Paris,  had  once  brought 
the  expression  of  his  instrument  to  so  nice  a  point 
that  he  "  could  convey  information  to  a  stranger  in 
another  room,"  and  it  is  added  that,  upon  the  evidence 
thus  given  of  the  capability  of  music,  it  was  proposed 
to  the  French  government  to  educate  military  bands 
in  the  expression  of  orders  and  heroic  encouragements 
in  battle!  Hayden  is  criticised  by  a  writer  on  music 
as  having  failed  in  attempting  (in  his  great  composi 
tion  "  The  Seasons")  to  express  "  the  dawn  of  day," 
"the  husbandman's  satisfaction,"  "the  rustling  of 
leaves,"  "  the  running  of  a  brook,"  "the  coming  on 
of  winter,"  "thick  fogs,"  etc.,  etc.  The  same  writer 
laughs  at  a  commentator  on  Mozart,  who,  by  a  "  sec 
ond  violin  quartette  in  D  minor,"  imagines  himself 
informed  how  a  loving  female  felt  on  being  abandoned, 
and  thought  the  music  fully  expressed  that  it  was 
Dido  !  Beethoven  undertook  to  convey  distinct  pic 
tures  in  his  famous  Pastoral  Symphony,  but  it  was 
thought  at  the  time  that  no  one  would  have  dis- 


the  country  and  his  musical  sensations  while  sitting 
beside  a  river — unless  previously  told  what  was  com 
ing  ! 

Still,  Ole  Bull  is  of  a  primary  order  of  genius,  and 
he  is  not  to  wait  upon  precedent.     He  has  come  to 
our  country,  an  inspired  wanderer  from  a  far  away 
shore,  and  our  greatest  scenic  feature   has  called  on 
him  for  an  expression  of  its  wonders  in  music.     He 
may   be  inspired,  however,  and  we,  who  listen,  still 
!  be  disappointed.     He  may  not  have  felt  Niagara  as  we 
|  did.     He   may  have   been  subdued  where  a  meaner 
spirit  would  be  aroused — as 

"  Fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread." 
(Seven  o'clock,  and  time  to  go.) 

(AFTER  THE  PERFORMANCE.) 

We  believe  that  we  have  heard  a  transfusion  into 
music — not  of  "  Niagara,"  which  the  audience  seemed 
bona-fide  to  expect,  but — of  the  pulses  of  the  human 
heart  AT  Niagara.  We  had  a  prophetic  boding  of  the 
result  of  calling  the  piece  vaguely  "  Niagara" — the 
listener  furnished  with  no  "  argument,"  as  a  guide 
through  the  wilderness  of  "  treatment"  to  which  the 
subject  was  open.  This  mistake  allowed,  however, 
it  must  be  said  that  Ole  Bull  has,  genius-like,  refused 
to  mis-interpret  the  voice  within  him — refused  to  play 
the  charlatan,  and  "  bring  the  house  down" — as  he 
might  well  have  done  by  any  kind  of  "  uttermost,"  from 
the  drums  and  trumpets  of  the  orchestra. 

The  emotion  at  Niagara  is  all  but  mute.  It  is  a 
"  small,  still  voice"  that  replies  within  us  to  the  thun 
der  of  waters.  The  musical  mission  of  the  Norwegian 
was  to  represent  the  insensate  element  as  it  was  to 
him — to  a  human  soul,  stirred  in  its  seldom-reached 
depths  by  the  call  of  power.  It  was  the  answer  to 
Niagara  that  he  endeavored  to  render  in  music — not 
the  call !  We  defer  attempting  to  read  further,  or 
rightly,  this  musical  composition  till  we  have  heard 
it  again.  It  was  received  by  a  crowded  audience,  in 
breathless  silence,  but  with  no  applause. 

Miss  JULIA  NORTHALL'S  first  appearance  as  a  public 
singer  was  very  triumphant.  If  her  heart  had  not 
kept  beating  just  under  her  music-maker,  she  would 
have  made  much  better  music,  however.  When  we 
tell  the  lovely  debutante,  that  persons  in  besieged 
fortresses  can  detect  the  direction  of  the  enemy's  ap 
proach  under  ground,  by  placing  sanded  drums  on 
the  surface,  which  betray  the  strokes  of  the  mining 
pickaxes  by  the  vibrations  of  the  particles,  she  will 
understand  how  the  beating  of  her  heart  may  disturb 
the  timbre  of  her  voice — to  say  nothing  of  the  disturb 
ance  in  the  air  by  the  accelerated  beating  of  the 
anxious  hearts  of  her  admirers!  She  has  great  ad 
vantages — a  rich  voice  deep  down  with  an  upper 
chamber  in  it  (what  the  musicians  call  a  contralto 


tinguished  between  his  musical  sensations  on  visiting  I.  man  is  stylish,  now, 


sfogato),  and  a  kind  of  personal  beauty  susceptible  of 
great  stage  embellishments.  "  Modest  assurance" 
(with  a  preponderance  of  assurance  if  anything),  is  her 
great  lack. 

Sanquirico  sang  admirably — but  his  black  coat 
spoiled  it  for  all  but  the  cognoscenti. 

We  came  out  of  the  opera-house  amid  a  shower  of 
expressions  of  disappointment,  and  we  beg  pardon  of 
"  the  town"  for  remembering  what  Antigenides  of 
Athens  said  to  a  musical  pupil  who  was  once  too  little 
applauded.  "  The  next  time  you  play,"  said  Anti 
genides,  "shall  be  to  me  and  the  Muses." 


THE  TWO  NEW  FASHIONS,  WHITE  CRAVATS  AND 
LADIES'  TARPAULINS. — Here  and  there  a  country 
reader  will,  perhaps,  require  to  be  informed  that  no 


in  the  evening,  without  a 


EPHEMERA. 


181 


white  cravat.  To  those  who  frequent  the  opera  this 
will  be  uo  news,  of  course ;  us  no  eye  could  have 
failed  to  track  the  "milky  way,"  around  the  semi 
circle,  from  stage-box  to  stage-box.  The  fact  thus 
recorded,  however,  we  proceed  to  the  diagnosis  of  the 
fashion  (aud  of  another  fashion,  of  which  we  shall 
presently  speak) — premising  only  that  we  are  driven 
to  the  discussion  of  these  comparatively  serious 
themes,  by  the  frivolous  character  of  other  news,  aud 
the  temporary  public  surfeit  of  politics,  scandal,  and 
murder. 

The  white  cravat  was  adopted  two  years  since,  in 
London,  as  the  mark  of  a  party — "  Young  England." 
Our  readers  know,  of  course,  that  for  ten  years,  they 
have  been  worn  only  by  servants  in  that  country,  and 
that  a  black  coat  and  white   cravat  were  the  unmis 
takable  uniform  of  a  family  butler.     The  Cravat  hav 
ing  been  first  worn  as  the  distinction  of  a  certain  re-  i 
forming  club,  in  Cromwell's  parliament,  however,  the  ! 
author  of  Vivian  Grey  adopted  it  as  the  insignium  of  j 
the  new  political  party,  of  which  he  is  the  acknowl-  i 
edged  leader;  and,  as  the  king  of  the  white  cravats,  he  ! 
has  set  a  fashion  for  America.     The  compliment  we 
pay   him   is   the  greater,  by  the  way,  that  we  do  not 
often  copy  the  tight-legged  nation  in  our  wearables.      I 

It  was  established  in  Brummell's  time  that  a  white  | 
cravat  could  not  be  successfully  tied,  except  upon  the 
critical  turn  preceding  the  reaction  of  a  glass  of  cham 
pagne  and  a  cup  of  green  tea.     A  felicitous  dash  of 
inspired  dexterity  is  the  only  thing  to  be  trusted,  and 
failure  is  melancholy!    As  to  dressiness,  a  white  cravat  i 
is  an  intensifier — making  style  more  stylish,  and  the 
lack  of  it  more  observable  ;  but  artistically  it  is  only  [ 
becoming  to  light  complexions — by  its  superior  white 
ness,   producing  an  effect  of  warmth  on  a  fair  skin,  | 
but  impoverishing  the  brilliancy  of  a  dark  one.     As  a 
sign  of  the  times,  the  reappearance  of  the  white  cra 
vat   is   the    forerunner  of  a   return    to   old-fashioned 
showiness  in  evening  dress,  and,  as  the  wheel  comes  ] 
round  again,  we  shall  revive  tights,  buckles,  and  shoes 
— expelling  the  levelling  costume  of  black  cravat  and 
boots,  and  making  it  both  expensive  and  troublesome 
to   look   like  a  gentleman  after  candlelight.     So  tilts 
the   plank    in  republics — aristocratic  luxury  going  up 
as  aristocratic  politics  are  going  down  ! 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  trains  and  tarpaulins  for 
ladies  wear!  Jack's  hat,  copied  exactly  in  white  satin, 
is  the  rage  for  a  head-dress,  now — (worn  upon  the 
side  of  the  head  with  a  ruinous  feather) — and  a  velvet 
train  is  about  becoming  indispensable  to  a  chaperon  ! 
It  will  be  a  bold  poor  man  that  will  dare  to  marry  a 
lady  ere  long — what  with  feathers  and  trains  and 
pages'  wages  !  We  rejoice  that  we  had  our  fling  in 
the  era  of  indifferent  pocket.  Keep  the  aristocracy 
unemployed  on  politics  for  another  administration  or 
two,  and  we  shall  drive  matrimony  to  the  extremities 
of  society — none  but  the  very  rich,  or  very»poor,  able 
to  afford  the  luxury  ! 


MKRRY  CHRISTMAS. — Our  paper  of  this  evening — 
(Christmas  eve) — is  to  be  read   by  the  light  of  the 
"  YULE  LOG," — or  whatever  else  represents  the  bright   j 
centre  around  which,  dear  reader!  your  family  does 
its  Christmas  assembling.     We  shall  perhaps  amuse 
you  by  suggesting  a  comparison  between  the  elegant 
lamp,  which  diffuses  its  light  over  your  apartment,  > 
and  the  expedient  resorted  to  by  your  English  ances 
tors  to  brighten  the  hall  for  their  Christmas  evening. 
"  I  myself,"  says  an  old  historian,  "  have  seen  table 
cloths,  napkins,  and  towels,  which  being   taken  foul  \ 
from  the  table,  have  been  cast  into  the  fire,  and  there 
they  burned  before  our  faces  upon  the  hearth."     This, 
of  course,  was  by  way  of  illustrating  the  greasy  habits 
of  our  ancestors  at  table,  and  gives  an  amusing  piquan- 


cy  to  the  injunction  of  wisdom  that  we  should  cherish 
the  "  lights  of  the  past." 

There  are  two  points  of  freedom  in  which  we  envy 
the  condition  of  slaves  at  the  south — FREEDOM  from 
responsibility  at  all  times,  and  FREEDOM /ro//i  all  man 
ner  of  work  from  Christmas  to  New  Year.  "  The 
negroes"  (says  a  writer  on  the  festivals,  games,  and 
amusements,  in  the  southern  states),  "  enjoy  a  week's 
recreation  every  winter,  including  Christmas  and  New 
Year's  ;  during  which  they  prosecute  their  plays  and 
sports  in  a  very  ludicrous  and  extravagant  manner, 
dressing  and  masking  in  the  most  grotesque  style,  and 
having,  in  fact,  a  complete  carnival."  We  confess 
this  let-up  from  the  pressure  of  toil  is  enviable.  The 
distinction  between  horse  and  man,  in  the  latter's  re 
quiring  mental  as  well  as  bodily  rest,  should  be  legis 
lated  upon — all  business  barred  with  penalties,  except 
for  the  necessaries  of  life,  during  the  Christinas  holy- 
days  and  during  another  week  somewhere  in  June. 
We  are  a  monotonous  people  in  this  country.  The 
festivals  of  the  Jews  occupied  a  quarter  of  the  year, 
and  eighty  days  were  given  to  festivals  among  the 
ancient  Greeks!  We  do  not  fairly  keep  more  than 
one  in  New  York — New  Year's  day — the  only  day, 
except  Sundays,  when  newspapers  are  not  issued  and 
shops  are  all  shut. 

We  are  sorry  we  can  not  paragraph  America  into 
more  feeling  for  holydays,  but  we  may  perhaps  prevent 
a  gradual  desuetude  of  even  keeping  Christmas,  by 
heaping  up  our  regrets  when  it  comes  round.  We 
shall  join  the  procession  of  visitors  to  the  toy-shops 
aud  confectioners  to-night,  and  we  think,  by  the  way, 
that  these  rounds  to  the  gift-venders,  might  be  made 
exceedingly  agreeable.  "GuiON,"  "SANDS,"  "THOMP 
SON,"  "  TIFFANY  &  YOUNG,"  "  STUART'S  CANDY 
PALACE,"  "  BONFANTI'S,"  and  "THE  ALHAMRA,"  are 
beautiful  places  for  a  range  of  soirees  in  hat  and  bon 
net,  and  we  went  this  round  last  Christmas  eve  with 
great  amusement.  Happy  children  are  beautiful 
sights,  and  we  can  still  see  bons-bons  with  their  eyes. 

READER  !  a  merry  Christmas !  and  let  us  repeat 
once  more  to  you  the  old  stanza  (tho*  old  Trinity  is 
no  longer  what  it  was  when  this  was  written)  : — 

"  Hark  the  merry  bells  chiming  from  Trinity, 

Charm  the  ear  with  their  musical  din. 
Telling  all,  throughout  the  vicinity, 

Holyday  gambols  are  now  to  begin  ! 
Friends  and  relations,  with  fond  salutations, 

And  warm  gratulations,  together  appear, 
While  lovers  and  misses  with  holyday  kisses 

Greet  merry  Christmas  and  happy  New  Year." 


THE  OTHER  SIDE  OF  BROADWAY. — It  is  time  that 
the  decline  of  the  era  of  shopping  a-foot  was  fairly  an 
nounced  as  at  rtsfall — an  epoch  gone  over  to  history. 
Washington  Hall  has  been  purchased  as  a  property 
no  longer  objectionable  from  its  being  the  other  side 
of  mud,  and  is  to  be  speedily  converted  into  the  most 
magnificent  "ladies  store"  within  the  limits  of  silk 
and  calico.  We  are  credibly  assured  that  this  last 
assertion  is  fully  borne  out  by  the  plans  of  Mr.  Stuart, 
the  projector.  No  shop  in  London  or  Paris  is  to 
surpass  it.  But  the  best  part  of  it  remains  to  be  told  : 

The  building  is  to  have  a  court  for  carnages  in  the 

centre,  so  that  shoppers  will  thunder  in  at  a  porte 
cochere,  like  visiters  to  the  grand  duke  of  Tuscany  ! 
There  will  of  course  be  a  spacious  door  on  the  street, 
for  those  who  can  cross  Broadway  without  a  carriage 
(poor  zealous  things!)— but  the  building  is  con 
trived  for  those  to  whom  the  crowded  side  of  the  street 
is  rather  an  objection,  and  who  wish  their  hammer- 
cloths  to  stand  out  of  the  spatter  of  omnibuses  while 
they  shop  !  !  There  is  a  comment  on  "  the  times" 
in  this  plan  of  Mr.  Stuart's  which  we  commend  to  the 
notice  of  some  other  parish. 


182 


EPHEMERA. 


Farther  down-town,  however  (156)  the  shilling  side  ' 
of  Broadway  has  been  embellished  by  a  new  store,  in-  , 
tended  for  all  comers  and  customers,  and  certainly  an  j 
ornament  to  the  town — occupied  by  BEEBK  &  Cos-  I 
TAR,  hatters.  No  more  showy  and  sumptuous  saloon  | 
could  possibly  be  contrived  than  this  "  hatter's  shop;"  ! 
and  it  is  very  well  that  they  keep  one  article  of  ladies'  [ 
wear — (riding-hats) — for  it  is  altogether  too  pretty  a  j 
place  for  a  monastery.  The  specimen  hats  stand  on  j 
rows  of  marble  tables,  and  the  room  is  lined  with  mir-  I 
rors  and  white  panels — the  effect  very  much  that  of  a  ' 
brilliant  French  cafe.  As  to  the  article  of  merchan-  j 
disc,  Beebe  &  Costar  have  made  tributary  the  "  lines  i 
of  beauty"  to  a  degree  which  gives  their  hats  a  most 
peculiar  elegance  of  shape,  and  it  is  worth  the  while 
of  those  who  are  nice  in  their  tea-men,  to  "  look  in." 

Apropos  : — The  only  god  who  employed  a  hatter  j 
was  Mercury — why  is  not  that  "  English  clever" 
deity,  with  his  winged  hat,  installed  as  a  hatter's 
crest  ?  The  propriety  of  it  must  have  occurred  to  the 
hatters.  Possibly  we  are  so  mercurial  a  nation,  that 
it  was  thought  impolitic — no  man  wanting  any  more 
mercury  in  his  hat — at  least  when  it  is  on.  We  see 
that  the  annual  hatters'  ball  comes  off  on  the  26th. 
May  we  venture  to  suggest  as  topics  of  discussion  in 
the  quadrilles — 1st,  Mercury's  claims  to  the  arms  of 
the  assembly,  and,  2d,  what  peltry  was  probably  used 
by  the  hatter  of  Olympus,  and  3d,  whether  (as  it  was 
a  winged  hat)  it  must  not  have  been  made  of  the  only 
quadruped  that  flies  fur,  the  flying  squirrel?  "Curi 
ous  questions,  coz  !" 


English  (and   Americans)   are  proud,   but  not  vain  ; 

i  the  French  are  very  vain,  but  have  little  pride. 

"Again:    we  like  the   Englishman's   fondness  for 

j  white  linen,  and  in  this  we  can  not  imitate  him  too 
closely.  It  is  not  only  in  the  evening,  as  with'the 
Frenchman,  that  he  puts  on  his  fine  linen,  but  at 
rising  he  must  have  it. — Though  he  may  wear  a 
shaggy  morning  coat,  his  under  garments  must  be 

I  spotless.     You  may  know  him  when  travelling  on  the 

I  continent,  by  the   unrivalled  whiteness   of  his  linen. 

j  The  same  cleanliness  makes  the  white  cravat  prefer- 

!  able.  It  has  its  recommendation  in  being  a  clean 
fashion — for  no  gentleman  can  wear  it  more  than 
once  ;  whereas,  the  black  satin  cravat,  which  your 
correspondent  so  much  extols,  is  an  exceedingly  dirly 
fashion — for,  after  dancing,  the  perspiration  settles  in 

|  the  satin  ;  and  with  the  dust  in  the  room,  &c.,  it  be 
comes  unfit  to  wear  more  than  twice,  whereas  the 
French  wear  their  cravats  until  they  are  worn  out." 


FRANCE  versus  ENGLAND,  or  the  BLACK  CRAVAT 
versus  THE  WHITK. — We  have  received,  in  a  very  j 
Loudon-club-y  handwriting,  a  warlike  reply  to  the 
note  we  published  lately  from  a  French  gentleman  on 
the  subject  of  the  white  cravat.  The  two  nations 
seem  to  have  separated  into  hostile  array  on  the  sub 
ject.  Our  English  correspondent  certainly  brings 
cogent  arguments  in  favor  of  the  white,  and  indeed 
of  English  costume  generally.  After  asking  very 
naturally  what  our  French  correspondent's  phrase, 
"•perfidious  Albion,'1''  had  to  do  with  it,  and  suggesting 
that  "black  cravat"  had  better  "reflect  on  the  late 
conduct  of  the  French  in  the  Pacific,"  he  goes  on 
with  the  matter  in  question  : — 

"The  P^nglish  fashion  for  gentlemen's  dress  is  never 
to  sacrifice  comfort  to  appearance,  which  the  French 
fashion  invariably  does;  the  clothes  of  the  English 
are  loosely  made,  so  that  every  limb  of  the  body  is 
free.  You  see  nothing  in  the  dress  that  can  be  called 
effeminate  ;  they  appear  to  eschew  everything  that 
approaches  the  '  Miss  Nancy  school  ;'  no  man  with 
them  is  considered  well-dressed,  however  costly  his 
attire,  if  he  be  not  manly  in  his  appearance.  Now,  a 
Frenchman's  clothes  are  made  to  fit  so  tight,  that  it 
is  impossible  for  him  to  look  at  his  ease.  A  French 
man  dressed  looks  as  if  he  had  just  come  out  of  a 
band-box;  he  looks  like  a  pretty  doll  which  you  see 
in  the  shop  windows  in  Paris.  To  hand  a  lady  a 
chair,  he  runs  the  danger  of  bursting  his  coat,  or 
cracking  his  waist-band  ;  he  can  not  stoop  to  pick  up 
a  lady's  fan,  without  danger  to  his  inexpressibles. 
The  Frenchman  dressed  is  no  longer  the  easy,  pliant, 
laughing  man,  that  we  know  him  to  be  when  in  dis 
habille — but  he  is  stiff,  unnatural,  ind  effeminate. 

"The  English  fashion  abhors  display  ;  the  French, 
on  the  contrary,  invites  it.  With  the  Frenchman 
dress  is  a  great  affair,  for  he  intends  to  make  a  sensa 
tion.  With  the  Englishman  it  is  but  secondary,  for 
he  does  not  believe  that  mere  dress  can  have  any  in 
fluence.  You  may  form  an  idea  of  the  sentiments  ' 


i;i>' 
in 


of   both   nations   from    this   national    character — the   i 


The  sun  "kept  Christmas"  yesterday,  by  appearing 
••in  his  best."     We  never  saw  a  more  joyous,  kindly, 
i  holyday  quality  of  sunshine.     All  who  had  hearts  to 
I  go  abroad  with,  went  abroad,  and  a-Broadway  was  a 
long  aisle  of    beauty   in   nature's   roofless   cathedral. 
j  God  help  all  who  were  not  happy  yesterday  !     We 
I  picked  up  a  bit  of  real-life  poetry  (by-the-way)  in  a 
very   unexpected    place    yesterday — a    confectioner's 
shop  !     The  circumstance  is  at  such  a  distance  from 
poetry,   that  the  flash   comes   before    the   report — a 
laugh  before  the  eye  is  moistened.     At  Thompson's, 
the  best  confectioner  of  the  city,  we  saw  a  large  pound- 
j  cake,  with  a  figure  of  a  nun  standing  on  it,  dressed  in 
j  white,  and  we  were  told  that  a  cake  had  just  gone  to 
I  the  sisters  of  the  Barclay-street  convent,  with  this  lit- 
tie  figure  in  mourning  instead  of  white — sent  by  a 
young  catholic  lady  who  had  just  lost  her  mother. 
As   a  conveyance  of  a  thought,  intended  to   be  en 
tirely  between  the  mourner  and  the  sympathising  sis 
ters,  we  think  this  was  very  beautiful.     Perhaps  we 
spoil  it  by  giving  the  coarse-minded  a  chance  to  ridi 
cule  it. 


We  wish  to  introduce  to  the  reader  the  word  tonal- 
it]).  Let  us  show  its  availableness  at  once  by  using 
it  to  express  the  secret  of  Pico's  overwhelming  effect 
upon  the  audience  on  Saturday  evening.  As  musical 
people  know,  melody  is  the  natural  "concord  of  sweet 
sounds,"  and  harmony  may  be  tolerably  defined  as  the 
artificial  creation  of  surprises  to  vary  melody.  Mali- 
bran  saw,  for  instance,  that  one  of  her  rustic  audiences 
could  feel  melody,  but  was  incapable  of  appreciating 
harmony,  when  they  tumultuously  encored  her  in 
"  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  and  let  her  "  Di  tanti  pal- 
pili"  go  by  without  applause!  It  takes  more  than 
one  hearing,  for  persons  not  learned  in  music,  to  ap 
preciate  the  harmony  of  an  opera,  though  if  there  be 
in  it  an  air  of  simple  melody,  a  child  will  listen  to 
it,  for  the  first  time,  with  delight.  But  there  are  op 
eras,  much  cried  up,  where  the  melody  and  harmony 
are  not  in  TONE  ;  and  though  people  may  be  made  to 
like  them  against  nature  (as  they  like  olives),  the  ma 
jority  of  the  audience  will  feel  incredulous  as  to  its 
being  "  good  music."  (We  were  two  or  three  years 
opera-going  before  these  unwritten  distinctions  got 
through  our  dura  mater,  dear  reader;  and  if  you  are 
not  in  a  hurry,  perhaps  you  will  pay  us  the  compli 
ment  of  reading  them  over  again,  while  we  mend  our 
pen  for  a  new  paragraph.) 

Pico  sang  a  part  in  the  opera  of  Saturday  night, 
which,  in  our  opinion,  owed  its  electric  power  to  three 
tonalities:  tone  No.  1,  between  the  harmony  and  mel 
ody  of  the  music — tone  No.  2,  between  the  music 


EPHEMERA. 


183 


and  her  own  impression  on  the  public  as  a  woman — 
and  tone  No.  3,  between  the  opera  and  the  mood  of 
the  public  for  that  evening. 

Tone  No.  1  is  already  explained.      Tone  No.  3  was, 
perhaps,   a  combination   of   pleasurable   accidents — 
both  the  donnas  in  one  piece,  the  house  crammed 
with  fashion,  and  graced  with  more  beauty  than  usual, 
and  (last,  not  least)  the  change  in  the  weather.     A  sud 
den  south  wind  in  December,  makes  even  fashion  af 
fectionate,  and,  with  such  influences  in  the  air,  mu-  ; 
sic  that  is  "the  food  of  love,"  may  "play  on" — with  ' 
entire  confidence  as  to  its  reception.     Of  tone  No.  2  jj 
(the  p;irt  in  Donizetti's  opera)  we  wish  to  speak  more 
at  large,  but  we  can  not  trust  ourself  afloat  with  it  in  ^ 
a  paragraph  already  under  headway. 

Donizetti  is  commonly  rated  as  a  trite  and  not  very  j 
vigorous  composer.     Asa  musical  convoy,  he  never   ; 
drops  the  slowest  sailor  below  the  horizon.     Bur,  that 
he  lets  his  heart  steer  the  music  whenever  he  can  per 
suade  science  to  give  up  the  helm,  everybody  must  ( 
have  felt  who  has  embarked  a  thought  in  one  of  his  ; 
operas.     The  music  written  down  for  Orsini  (Pico's  ' 
part)  expresses  the  character  that  Slr-ikspere's  words 
give  to  Mercutio — the   prince  of   thoughtless   good  jj 
fellows,   careless,  loveable,  and   amusing.      Between  ' 
this  and    Pico's   personal   qualities  (as  made   legible  |; 
across  the  footlights),  there  is  a  tonality  the  town  has  j 
felt— a  joyous  recognition,  by  the  audience,  of  a  com-  : 
plete  correspondence  between  the  good-fellow  music 
she  sings  and   the  good  fellow  nature  has  made  her.  j 
There  is  a  class  of  such  women — some  of  them  the  ' 
most  captivating  of  their  sex,  and  every  one  of  them 
the  acknowledged  "best  creature  in  the  world"  of  the  |. 
circle  she  lives  in.     Here  and  there  a  person  will  un-  jj 
derstand   better  what  we   mean  if   we  mention   that  | 
Pico  sat  in  the  proscenium-box  on  the  night  of  Oie 
Bull's  concert,  and,  with  a  full  house  looking  at  her  j 
with  eager  curiosity,  sat  and  munched  her  under-lip 
most    unbecomingly,  in    perfect  unconsciousness    of  .| 
any  need  of  forbearing  to  do  in  public  what  she  would   , 
have  done  if  she  were  alone!     We  must  say  we  like 
women  that  forget  themselves  ! 

We  heard  twenty  judicious  persons  comment  on 
the  opera  of  Saturday,  and  with  but  one  expression 
of  never,  in  any  country,  having  enjoyed  opera  more. 
The  universal  tonality,  to  which  we  have  tried  to  play 
the  interpreter,  is  partly  a  matter  of  coincidence,  and 
may  not  happen  again;  but  we  assure  the  two  donnas 
and  our  friend  Signor  Sacchi,  that  with  the  remem 
brance  of  it,  and  with  them  both  in  the  glorious  opera  \ 
of  Semiramide,  next  week,  they  will  want  a  larger 
house  than  Palmo's. 

And,  by-the-way,  this  amiable  "Quintius  Curtius" 
of  the  opera,  who  has  procured  us  the  luxury  of  a 
temple  of  music  by  jumping  into  the  gulf  with  his 
$47,000 — excellent  Signor  Palmo — claims  of  the  pub 
lic  a  slight  return;  no  more  than  that  they  should  ac 
knowledge  the  fact  of  his  disaster  !  It  has  been  doubt-  j! 
ed  that  he  has  lost  money,  and  some  of  the  world's 
cruelty  has  been  dealt  out  to  him  in  the  shape  of  a 
sneer  at  his  sincerity.  We  copy  (literally)  the  ex 
planation  sent  us  on  the  subject,  and  bespeak  for  him 
present  public  regard,  and  some  future  more  tangible 
demonstration : — 

"Being  attracted  by  a  statement  made  in  the  Mir 
ror  in  reference  to  the  Italian  company  at  Palmo's 
opera-house,  showing  the  receipts  and  disbursements 
for  twelve  nights,  leaving  but  a  small  amount  to  be  • 
divided  by  the  company,  after  having  as  good  and  bet 
ter  houses  than  when  under  the  auspices  of  Signor  j 
Palmo,  whose  honesty  has  been  imputed  to  have  made 
money,  and  made  the  public  and  his  creditors  believe 
the  contrary,  now  the  mystery  is  solved,  and  the  pub 
lic  should  be  satisfied  of  Signor  Palmo's  integrity, 
who  is  ready  to  show  by  bills  paid,  and  his  books,  that 
he  lias  lost  $47,000  the  last  four  years." 


SUPPER  AFTER  THE  OPERA. 

Private  room  over  the  Mirror  office,  corner  of  Ann  and 
Nassau — Supper  on  the  round  table,  and  brigadier 
mixing  summat  and  water — Flagg,  the  artist,  fa 
tiguing  Oie  salad  with  a  paper-folder — Devil  in  wait 
ing — Quarter  past  ten,  and  enter  "  Yours  Truly" 
from  the  opera. 

Brig. — Here  he  comes,  like  a  cloud  dropping  from 
Olympus — -charged  with  Pico-tricity !  Boy  (to  the 
"  devil"),  stick  a  steel  pen  in  my  hat  for  a  conductor! 
Now — let  him  rain  ! 

Flagg. — Echo — let  him  reign  ! 

Yours  Truly — (looking  at  the  salad-dish). — Less 
gamboge  for  me,  if  you  please,  my  dear  artist!  Be 
merciful  of  mustard  when  you  mix  for  public  opin 
ion  !  But,  nay!  brigadier! 

Brig. — Thank  you  for  not  calling  on  me  to  bray, 
mi-boy!  What  shall  I  neigh  at? 

Yours  Truly. — How  indelicate  of  you  to  call  on 
an  artist  to  exercise  his  profession  on  a  party  of  pleas 
ure! 

Brig.— How  ? 

Yours  Truly — Setting  him  to  grind  colors  in  a  sal 
ad-dish!  What  are  you  tasting  with  that  wooden 
ladle,  my  periodical  sodger? 

Brig. — Two  of  "  illicit"  to  one  of  Croton — potheen 
from  a  private  still  in  the  mountains  of  Killarny! 
Knowles  sent  it  to  me  !  You  have  no  idea  what  a 
flavor  of  Kate  Kearney  there  is  about  it ! — (finff!  frnff!) 

Flagg — (absently). — I  smell  the  color  of  the  heath- 
flowers  in  it — crocus-yellow  on  a  brown  turf! 

Brig. — Stick  a  pin  there,  mi-boy! — a  new  avenue 
to  the  brain  for  things  beautiful!  Down  with  priv 
ileged  roads  in  a  republic!  Why  should  the  colors 
mixed  for  a  limitless  sense  of  beauty  go  in  only  at  the 
eye? 

Flagg. — No  reason  why.  I  wish  we  could  hear 
colors  ! 

Brig. — So  you  can,  my  inspired  simplicity!  and 
taste  them,  too!  You  can  hear  things  that  are  read, 
and  you  can  taste  the  brown  in  a  turkey!  (Turning 
to  Yours  Truly) — Was  that  well  said,  my  dear  boy  ? 

Yours  Truly. — Pardon  me  if  I  suggest  still  an  im 
provement  in  the  aristocracy  of  the  senses  !  The 
eye  has  a  double  door  of  fringed  lids,  and  the  mouth 
an  inner  door  of  fastidious  ivory;  and,  with  the  power 
to  admit  or  exclude  at  will,  these  are  the  exclusive  or 
gans!  The  republicans  are  the  nose  and  ear — open 
to  all  comers,  and  forced  to  make  the  best  of  them ! 

Flagg. — A  new  light,  by  Jupiter  !  Let  us  pamper 
the  aristocracy  !  An  oyster  for  my  ivory  gate,  if  you 
please,  general,  and  let  us  spite  the  ear's  monopoly 
of  Pico  by  drinking  her  in  silence  !  ( ) 

Brig.—( ) 

Yours  Truly.— ( ) 

Brig. — Touching  Pico — is  she,  or  isn't  she  ? — you 
know  what  I  want  to  know,  my  boy !  Disembowel 
your  mental  oyster!  What  ails  Borghese?  What 
is  a  "  contralto?"  Is  it  anything  wrong— or  what  ? 
Yours  Truly. — A  contralto,  my  particular  general, 
fe  a  voice  that'touches  bottom — rubs  your  heart  with 
its  keel,  as  it  were,  while  floating  through  you — com 
paring  with  a  soprano,  as  the  air  on  a  mountain-top 
compares  with  a  breeze  from  lower  down. 

grig. Best  possible  description  of  yourself,  mi- 
boy  !  Go  on,  my  contralto  ! 

Flagg. — Yes — go  on  about  Borghese — what  is  the 
philosophy  of  Borghese's  salary  being  the  double  of 
Pico's  ? 

Yours  Truly. — Ah!  now  you  touch  the  weight 
that  keeps  Borghese  down  !  The  public,  like  your 
self,  ask  why  the  prima-donna  who  gives  them  the 
more  pleasure  is  the  poorer  paid !  Borghese — but 
first  let  me  tell  you  what  I  think  of  her,  comparison 


184 


EPHEMERA. 


apart.  (Boy,  light  a  cigar,  and  keep  it  going  with  the 
bellows,  a  la  pastille  !  I  like  the  smoke,  but  to  talk 
with  a  cigar  in  the  mouth  spoils  the  delicacy  of  dis 
crimination.) 

Brig. — Spare  us  the  scientific,  mi-boy  ! 
Yours  Truly. — Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  I  am  as 
ignorant  of  music,  my  dear  sodger,  as  an  Indian  is  of 
botany — but  he  knows  a  weed  from  a  flower,  and  / 
talk  of  music  as  the  audience  judge  of  it — by  what  I 
hear,  "  mark,  and  inwardly  digest." 

Brig. — But  the  big  words,  my  dear  contralto  ! 
Yours  Truly. — "  Foreign  slip-slops,"  I  grant  you — 
but  nothing  more  ! — I  lived  three  years  in  Italy,  and, 
of  course,  heard  Italian  audiences  express  themselves, 
and  here  and  there  a  phrase  sticks  to  me — but  if  I 
know  "B  sharp''1  from  "B  flat"  (which  is  more  than 
some  musical  critics  know),  it  is  the  extent  of  my 
knowledge.  No,  general !  there  is  no  sillier  criticism 
of  music  than  technical  criticism.  You  might  as  well 
paint  cannon-balls  piebald  and  then  judge  of  their 
effect  by  remembering  which  color  showed  through 
the  touch-hole  before  priming  !  Notes  go  to  the  ear ; 
effects  shower  the  nerves.  A  musician  who  is  a  critic, 
judges  of  a  prima-donna  by  the  accuracy  with  which  ' 
she  imitates  what  he  (the  musician)  has  played  on  ' 
an  instrument — like  a  light-rope  dancer  criticising  his 
brother  of  the  slack-rope,  because  he  don't  swing  over 
the  pit!  Analyze  the  applause  at  an  opera  !  There 
are,  perhaps,  ten  persons  in  a  Palmo  audience  who  are 
scientific  musicians.  These  ten  admire  most  what 
they  can  most  exclusively  admire — rapid  and  difficult 
passages  (what  the  Italians  call  fiorituri,  or  "  flourish 
es")  executed  with  the  most  skilful  muscular  effort. 
of  the  vocal  organs.  These  ten,  however,  pass  over, 
as  very  pleasant  accidents  of  the  opera,  the  part  which 
pleases  the  rest  of  the  audience — the  messa  di  voce — 
the  tender  expression  of  slower  notes  which  try  the  ' 
sweetness  of  the  voice — the  absoluteness  of  the  "  art  j 
concealing  art,"  and  which,  more  than  all,  betrays  the 
personal  sensibility  and  quality  oj  the  actress's  mind. 
My  dear  brigadier,  true  criticism  travels  a  circle,  and 
ends  where  it  began — with  nature-  But  as  the  art  of 
the  prima-donna  brings  her  to  the  same  point,  the  un 
scientific  audience  are  most  with  the  most  skilful  pri 
ma-donna — nearer  to  a  just  appreciation  of  her  than 
musicians  are. 

Brifr. — Now  I  see  the  reason  I  am  so  enchanted 
with  Pico,  mi-boy  !  I  was  afraid  I  had  no  business  to 
like  her — as  I  didn't  know  Italian  music  !  What  a 
way  you  have  of  making  me  feel  pleasant ! 

Yours  Truly. — Pico  has  enchanted  the  town,  briga-  j 
dier !    and   I   have  endeavored  to   put   the  flesh   and 
blood  of  language  to  the  ghost  of  each  night's  enchant 
ment.      That    ghost    of  remembrance    sticks    by    us  ' 
through   the   next  day,  and   I   thought   it   would    be  I 
agreeable   to   the  Mirror  readers  to  have  the  impres 
sion  of  the    music   recalled  by  our  description  of  it. 
Have  I  done  it  scientifically  ?     Taste  forbid  ! — even  if 
I  knew  how  !     I  interpret  for  "  the  million" — not  for 
"  the  ten." 

Flagg. — But  about  Borghese  ! 
Yours  Truly. — Well — I  have  a  great  deal  to  say 
about  Borghese — I  have  a  great  deal  of  the  "  flesh 
and  blood"  I  just  spoke  of,  in  reserve  for  Borghese  ; 
but  I  shall  follow  a  strong  public  feeling,  and  not 
clothe  her  enchantments  with  language,  till  she  slacks 
her  hold  upon  the  purse-strings,  and  shares  equally, 
at  least,  with  the  donna  whom  the  public  prefer. 
There  goes  the  brigadier — fast  asleep  !  Good  night, 
gentlemen  !  (Exit  "  Yours  Truly.") 


OLE  BULL'S  CONCERT. — We  longed  last  night  for 
one  of  "  Curtis's  acoustic  chairs,"  by  which  all  the 
sound  that  approaches  a  man  is  inveigled  into  his  ear 


and  made  the  most  of,  for  we  heard  Niagara  atten 
tively  through,  and  at  every  change  in  the  music 
wished  it  louder.  We  thought  even  the  "dying  fall" 
too  expiring.  It  occurred  to  us,  by  the  way,  that  if 
the  text  of  this  discoursed  music  had  been  one  of  the 
psalms  instead  of  God's  less  interpretable  voice  in  the 
cataract,  the  room  for  enthusiasm,  as  well  as  the 
preparation  for  it,  on  the  part  of  the  audience,  would 
have  been  vastly  greater.  In  a  mixed  assembly  (of 
the  quality  of  that  at  Palmo's  last  night)  no  chamber 
of  imagination  is  furnished  or  tenanted  except  that  of 
religion,  and  the  very  name  of  a  bible  psalm  on  the  vi 
olin  would  hnve  clothed  any  music  of  Ole  Bull's  per 
forming  with  the  aggrandizing  wardrobe  of  asso 
ciation  kept  exclusively  for  "  powerful  sermons"  and 
"searching  prayers."  We  rather  wonder  that  this 
ready  access  to  the  excitability  of  the  mass  has  not 
been  taken  advantage  of  by  the  violinists. 

We  confess  to  a  little  surprise  in  Ole  Bull's  organi 
zation.  With  the 

"  Bust  of  a  Hercules— waist  of  a  gnat" — 

a  superb  build  for  a  gladiator  or  an  athlete — his  violin 
is  a  woman  !  The  music  he  draws  from  it  is  all  deli 
cacy,  sentiment,  pathos,  and  variable  tenderness — 
never  powerful,  masculine,  or  imposing.  "  The 
Mother's  Prayer,"  and  the  "  Solitude  of  a  Prairie," 
are  more  effective  than  "  Niagara,"  for  that  reason. 
The  audience  are  prepared  for  a  different  sex  in  a 
cataract.  We  know  very  well  that  the  accordatura  of 
a  violin  is  of  all  compass,  and  that  Paganini  "  played 
the  devil"  on  it,  as  well  as  the  angel,  and  we  repeat 
our  surprise,  that,  even  in  a  piece  whose  name  sug 
gests  nothing  but  masculine  power,  the  burthen  should 
be  wholly  feminine  !  Fact,  as  this  unquestionably  is, 
we  leave  it  to  our  readers  to  reconcile  with  another  fact 
— that  the  applause  at  one  of  Ole  Bull's  concerts  bears 
no  proportion  to  the  enthusiasm,  as  the  ladies,  without 
exception,  are  enchanted  with  him,  and  the  men  (who 
do  the  applauding)  are,  almost  without  exception,  dis 
satisfied  with  him. 

"  Gentle  shepherd,  tell  us  why  !" 

Even  at  the  high  price  of  tickets,  nobody  draws 
like  the  Norwegian.  A  very  sensible  correspondent 
of  ours  proposed  to  him  (through  the  Mirror)  to  lower 
his  price,  and  allow  those  who  could  not  afford  the 
dollar  to  have  an  opportunity  of  hearing  him.  He  is 
the  soul  of  kindness  and  charity,  and  we  should  sup 
pose  this  would  strike  him  as  a  felicitous  hint. 


BATTLE  OF  THE  CRAVATS. — The  front  row  of  the 
opera  resembles  a  pianoforte  with  its  white  and  black 
keys — the  alternation  of  black  and  white  cravats  is  so 
evenly  distributed.  The  Frenchmen  are  all  in  black 
cravats  of  course,  and  the  English  and  Americans  in 
white,  and  a  man  might  stop  his  ears  and  turn  his 
back  to  the  orchestra  (when  the  two  donnas  are  on 
the  stage  together)  and  tell  who  is  singing,  Pico  or 
Borghese,  by  the  agitation  of  the  black  cravats  or  the 
white.  It  is  a  strong  argument  in  favor  of  the  white 
cravats,  apropos,  that  the  Americans,  whose  sympa 
thy  is  with  the  French  in  almost  everything,  should 
have  joined  the  English  in  this  division  of  opinion. 
We  have  received  two  or  three  most  bellicose  letters 
on  each  side  of  this  weighty  argument,  and  would 
publish  them  if  we  had  a  spare  page. 


THE  OPERA. — Madame  Pico  was  evidently  strug 
gling,  last  evening,  against  the  effects  of  her  late  ill 
ness ;  but  she  delighted  the  audience  as  usual,  with 
her  impassioned  and  effective  singing.  The  opera 


EPHEMERA. 


185 


is  a  very  trying  one,  and,  to  us,  not  the  most  agreea 
ble  in  its  general  character — particularly  in  the  lach 
rymose  tone,  throughout,  of  the  part  allotted  to  Pico. 
Sanquirico  was  a  relief  to  this  ennui,  and  he  so 
charmed  one  lady  in  the  house,  that  she  threw  him  a 
bouquet !  He  played  capitally  well — barring  one  little 
touch  of  false  taste  in  using  two  English  words  by 
way  of  being  funny.  It  let  him  down  like  the  falling 
out  of  the  bottom  of  a  sedan. 

Several  of  our  French  friends,  by  the  way,  have  re 
quested  us  to  contradict  the  on  dit  we  mentioned  in 
the  Mirror,  touching  a  "  cabal  to  keep  Pico  subservi 
ent  to  Borghese."  A  regularly-formed  one  there 
doubtless  is  not — but  the  French  are  zealous  allies, 
and  every  one  of  them  does  as  much  for  Borghese  as 
he  can,  and,  of  course,  as  much  as  he  could  do  in  a 
cabal.  On  the  contrary,  there  seems  to  be  no  one  in 
dividual  taking  any  pains  about  Pico — the  general  en 
thusiasm  at  the  opera  excepted.  Let  us  state  a  fact : 
We  have  received  many  visits  and  more  than  a  dozen 
letters,  to  request  even  our  trifling  critical  preference 
for  Borghese  ;  and  no  sign  has  been  given,  either  by 
Pico  or  her  friends,  that  our  critical  preference  was 
wished  for,  or  otherwise  than  tacitly  acknowledged. 
This  being  true  of  a  mere  newspaper,  what  must  be 
probably  the  difference  of  appeal  to  more  direct  sour 
ces  of  patronage?  One  or  two  persons  have  talked 
feelingly  of  pity  for  Borghese's  mortification !  We 
are  watching  to  see  when  her  mortification  will  be  so 
insupportable  that  she  will  slacken  her  grasp  upon 


The  question  whether  a  country  is  ready  for  liveries 
— that  is  to  say,  whether  it  has  arrived  at  that  stage 
where  the  want  they  imply  is  felt,  and  where  the  dis 
tinctions  they  imply  are  acknowledged — is  the  true 
point  at  issue.  It  is  a  curious  point,  too,  for,  in  every 
other  nation,  liveries  may  be  excused  as  traditional 
— as  being  only  modifications  of  the  dresses  of  feudal 
retainers — while  Americans,  without  this  apology, 
must  defend  the  abrupt  adoption  of  liveries  on  the 
mere  grounds  of  propriety  and  convenience. 

We  certainly  have  not  yet  arrived  at  that  point  of 
civilization  where  liveries  are  needed — as  in  England 
— to  protect  a  lady  from  insult  in  the  street.  A  fe 
male  may  still  walk  the  crowded  thoroughfares  of 
New  York  by  daylight — as  she  dare  not  do  in  Lon 
don — unattended,  either  by  a  gentleman  or  a  servant 
in  livery.  (We  live  in  hope  of  overtaking  the  civiliza 
tion  of  the  mother-country  !)  Neither  has  a  liveried 
equipage,  as  yet,  the  tacit  consequence,  in  America, 
which  secures  to  it  in  London  the  convenient  conces 
sions  of  the  highway.  We  are  republican  enough, 
thus  far,  to  allow  no  privileges  to  be  taken  for  grant 
ed  ;  and  he  who  wishes  to  ride  in  a  vehicle  wholly  in 
visible  to  omnibus-drivers,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
have  his  lineage  looked  into  and  perpetuated  without 
the  expense  of  heraldic  parchment,  has  only  to  ap 
pear  in  Broadway  with  liveried  equipage! 

We  differ  from  some  of  our  luxurious  friends,  bv 
thinking,  that,  as  long  as  the  spending  of  over  five 
I  thousand  dollars  a  year  makes  a  gentleman  odious  in 


Pico's  just  share  of  the  profits  !     We  are  not  only  the  ji  the    community,  liveries    are  a  little    premature.     It 


true  exponent  of  public  opinion  in  reference  to  the 
merits  of  these  ladies,  but,  if  we  are  not  personally 
impartial,  it  is  because  (though  we  have  no  acquaint 
ance  with  either  of  the  two  ladies)  we  chance  to  know 
most  of  Borghese's  friends.  Pico  is  evidently  a  kind- 
hearted  person,  indolently  careless  of  her  pecuniary 
interests,  and  it  is  impossible  to  see  the  shadows  of 
mental  suffering  in  her  face  and  not  wish  to  aid  her — 
but  we  should  not  sacrifice  critical  taste  to  do  even 
that,  and  we  have  not  written  a  syllable  that  her  effect  \ 
on  the  public  has  not  more  that  justified.  At  the  | 
same  time  we  have  never  said  a  syllable  to  disparage  | 
Borghese,  and  have  only  forborne  to  say  as  much  of] 
her  merits  as  we  should  otherwise  have  done,  because 
she  was  overpaid  and  strongly  hedged  in  with  sup 
porters. 


SERVANTS  IN  LIVERY,  EQUIPAGES,  ETC. — There  is 
a  stage  of  civilization  at  which  a  country  will  not — and 
a  subsequent  stage  at  which  a  country  will — tolerate 
liveried  servants.  In  a  savage  nation,  an  able-bodied 
man  who  should  put  on  a  badge  of  hopeless  and  sub 
missive  servitude  for  the  mere  certainty  of  food  and 
clothing,  would  be  considered  a  disgrace  to'his  tribe. 
The  further  step  of  making  that  badge  ornamental  to 
the  servile  wearer,  would  probably  be  resented  as  an 
affront  to  the  pre-eminence  of  display  which  is  the 
rightful  prerogative  of  chiefs  and  warriors. 

In  a  crowded  and  highly-civilized  country,  it  is 
found  convenient  for  patricians  to  secure  the  tacit 
giving-way  of  plebeian  encounter  in  thronged  places — 
convenient  for  them  to  distinguish  their  own  servants 
from  other  people's  in  a  crowd  at  night — and,  more 
particularly,  in  large  and  corrupt  cities,  it  is  conveni 
ent  to  have  such  attendants  for  ladies  as  may  secure 
them  from  insult  in  public — the  livery  upon  the  fol 
lower  showing  that  the  person  he  follows  is  not  only  re 
spectable,  but  of  too  much  consequence  to  be  annoyed 
with  impunity.  The  ostentation  of  servants  in  livery 
is  scarce  worth  a  comment,  as,  unless  newly  assumed, 
it  is  seldom  thought  of  by  the  owner  of  the  equipage, 
nor  is  it  offensive  to  the  passer-by,  except  in  a  coun 
try  where  it  is  not  yet  common. 


I  is  a  pity  to  be  both  virtuous  and  unpopular.  The 
I  moving  about  in  a  cloud  of  reminded  lordship  is  a 
luxury  very  consistent  with  high  morality,  but  it 
comes  coldly  between  republicans  and  the  sun  — 
whatever  fire  of  heaven  the  offending  cloud  may  em 
bosom.  We  wonder,  indeed,  at  the  remaining  in  this 
country,  of  any  persons  ambitious  of  distinctions  in 
the  use  of  which  we  are  thus  manifestly  "behind  the 
age."  It  is  so  easy  to  leave  the  lagging  American 
anno  domini  of  aristocracy,  and  sail  for  the  next  cen 
tury — by  the  Havre  packet ! 


That  Heaven  does  not  disdain  such  Jove  of  each 
other  as  is  quickened  by  personal  admiration,  is 
proved  by  the  injunctions  to  the  children  of  Israel  to 
appear  in  cheerful  and  becoming  dresses  on  festal  days 
—  those  days  occupying  rather  more  than  a  quarter  of 
a  year.  The  Jews  also  ornamented  their  houses  on 
holydays,  not  as  we  do  with  evergreens  (a  custom  we 
have  taken  from  the  Druid  "  mistletoe,  cut  with  the 
golden  knife"),  but  with  such  ornaments  as  would 
best  embellish  them  for  the  reception  of  friends.  The 
French  nation  is  to  be  admired  for  supremacy,  in  this 


age,  in  the  exhibition  of  the  kindly  feelings  and  the 
brightening  of  the  links  of  relationship  and  friendship. 
It  has  been  stated  (among  statistics)  that  for  bons-bons 
alone,  in  Paris,  on  new  year's  day,  were  expended 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars  !  We  copy  the  French 
with  great  facility  in  this  country,  and  (until  the  pro 
posed  "  annexation  of  Paris")  we  rejoice  in  the  pros 
perity  of  STUART'S  CANDY  QUARRY  in  New  York,  and 
the  myriad  cobwebs  of  affection  that  stick,  each  by 
one  thread,  to  the  corner  of  Chambers  and  Greenwich 
streets!  If  not  quite  a  "  pilgrimage  to  Jerusalem," 
it  is  a  pilgrimage  to  our  best  signs  and  emblems  of 
Jerusalem  usages,  to  go  the  rounds  of  the  gift-shops 
during  the  holydays;  and  no  kindly  Christian  parent, 
who  wishes  to  throw  out  an  anchor  for  his  children 
against  the  storm  of  political  ruffianism,  should  neg 
lect  to  bind  friendship  and  family  by  a  new  tie  in  the 
holydays  !  We  see  a  use  in  the  skill  at  temptation 
shown  by  such  admirable  taste-mongers  as  TIF- 


186 


EPHEMERA. 


FANY  &  YOUNG,  WOODWORTH,  GUION,  and  others, 
which  is  beyond  the  gratification  of  vanity,  and  far 
from  provocatives  to  "  waste  of  money."  But  this  is 
no  head  under  which  to  write  a  sermon. 

We  have  (ourselves)  a  preference  among  the  half 
dozen  curiosity-shops  of  the  city — a  preference  which 
may,  perhaps,  be  called  professional — springing  from 
love  for  the  memory  of  a  departed  poet.  The  son  of 
Woodworth,  the  warm-hearted  author  of  the  "Old 
Oaken  Bucket"  and  other  immortal  embodiments  of 
the  affections,  in  verse,  is  the  present  proprietor  of  the 
establishment  known  as  Bonfanti's — (by  our  just  men 
tioned  theory  of  the  holy  ministration  of  gifts,  employed 
on  somewhat  the  same  errand  in  life  as  the  bard  who 
went  before).  It  may  not  be  improper  to  mention 
hare,  that  the  last  few  painful  years  of  the  poet's  life 
were  soothed  with  a  degree  of  filial  devotion  and  ten 
derness  which  makes  the  Woodworths  cherished 
among  their  friends,  and  this  is  a  country,  thank  God, 
where  such  virtues  bring  prosperity  in  business ! 


BREAKFAST    ON    NEW    YEAR'S    DAY. 

A.stor  house,  No.  184 — nine  o'clock  in  the  morning — 
breakfast  for  two  on  the  table — enter  the  brigadier. 

Brig.  (Embracing "MS").— Mi-boy!  GOD  BLESS 

"  We."  (With  his  hand  to  his  forehead.)— With 
what  a  sculptured  and  block-y  solidity  you  hew  out 
your  benedictions,  my  dear  general!  You  fairly 
knock  a  man  over  with  blessing  him  !  Sit  down  and 
wipe  your  eyes  with  that  table-napkin  ! 

Brio-. — Well — how  are  you? 

"  We." — Hungry  !  I'll  take  a  wing  of  the  chicken 
before  you — killed  probably  last  year.  How  many 
"  friends,  countrymen,  and  lovers,"  are  you  going  to 
call  on  to  day  ? 

Brig. — I  wish  I  knew  how  many  I  shall  not  call  on! 
What  is  a — (pass  the  butter  if  you  please) — what  is 
a  pat  of  butter,  like  me,  spread  over  all  the  daily  bread 
of  my  acquaintance  ? 

••  We."— 

"  'Tis  Greece — but  living  Greece  no  more  !" 

I'll  tell  you  what  1  have  done,  general.  Here  is  a  list 
of  all  my  circle  of  pasteboard.  It  begins  with  those 
I  love,  and  ends  with  those  with  whom  I  arn  cere 
monious.  Those  whom  I  neither  love  nor  am  cere 
monious  with,  form  a  large  betweenity  of  indifference; 
and  though  you  may  come  to  love  those  with  whom 
you  are  ceremonious,  you  never  can  love  those  you 
are  wholly  indifferent  to.  I  have  crossed  out  this  be 
tweenity.  Life  is  too  short  to  play  even  a  game  of 
acquaintance  in  which  there  is  no  possible  stake. 

Brig. — How  short  life  is,  to  be  sure  ! 

"  We." — Shorter  this  side  the  water  than  the  other! 
In  Europe  a  man  is  not  bowed  out  till  he  is  ready  to 
go  !  Here,  he  is  expected  to  have  repented  and  made 
his  will  at  thirty-seven!  I  shall  pass  my  "second 
childhood"  in  France,  where  it  will  pass  for  a  con 
tinuation  of  the  first! 

Brig. — My  dear  boy,  don't  get  angry!  Eat  your 
breakfast  and  talk  about  New  Year's.  What  did  the 
Greeks  used  to  do  for  cookies? 

•'  We." — Well  thought  of— they  made  presents  of 
dates  covered  with  gold  leaf!  Who  ever  gilds  a  date 
in  this  country  ?  No  !  no  !  general  !  You  will  see 
dozens  of  married  women  to-day  who  have  quietly 
settled  down  into  upper  servants  with  high-necked 
dresses — lovely  women  still — who  would  be  belles  for 
ten  years  to  come,  in  France !  Be  a  missionary, 
brigadier!  Preach  against  the  unbelievers  in  mulie 


brity  !  It's  New  Year  and  time  to  begin  something  ! 
Implore  your  friends  to  let  themselves  be  beautiful 
once  more  !  (Breast-bone  of  that  chicken,  if  you 
please  !)  I  should  be  content  never  to  see  another 
woman  under  thirty — their  loveable  common-sense 
comes  so  long  after  their  other  maturities  ! 

Brig. — What  common-place  things  you  do  say,  to 
be  sure !  Well,  mi-boy,  we  are  going  to  begin  another 
year ! 

"  We." — Yes — prosperously,    thank    God  !      And, 

j  oh,   after  the  first  in-haul  of  rent  from   these   well- 

i  tenanted   columns,  what  a  change  we  shall  make  in 

I  our  paper !     Let  us  but  be  able  to  afford  the  outlay 

of  laborious  aid,  which  other  editors  pay  for,  and  see 

how  the  Mirror  will  shine  all  over  .'     I  have  a  system 

in  my  brain  for  a  daily  paper — the  fruit  of  practical 

study  for  the  last  three  months — which  I  shall   begin 

upon  before  this  month  has  made  all  its  icicles;  and 

,  you  shall  say  that  I  never  before  found  my  true  voca- 

i  lion  !     The   most   industriously  edited   paper  in   the 

country  is  but  the  iron  in  the  razor;  and  though  it  is 

not  easy  to  work  that  into  shape,  anybody  can  hire  it 

done,  or  do  it  with  industry.     The  steel  edge,  we  shall 

find  time  to  put  on,  when  ice  are  not,  as  noiv,  employed 

in  tinkering  the  iron  ! 

Brig. — Black-and-white-smiths — you  and  I! 

"  We." — No  matter  for  the  name,  my  dear  general! 
—one  has  to  be  everything  honesty  will  permit,  to 
get  over  the  gulf  we  have  put  behind  us.  Civilized 
life  is  full  of  the  most  unbridged  abysses.  Transitions 
from  an  old  business  to  a  new,  or  from  pleasure  to 
business,  or  from  amusing  mankind  to  taking  care  of 
yourself,  would  be  supposed,  by  a  "  green"  angel,  to 
be  good  intentions,  easy  enough  carried  out,  in  a 
world  of  reciprocal  charities.  But  let  them  send 
down  the  most  popular  angel  of  the  house  of  Gabriel 
&  Co.,  to  borrow  money  for  the  most  brilliant  project, 
without  bankable  security !  And  the  best  of  it  is,  that 
though  your  friends  pronounce  the  crossing  of  a  busi 
ness-gulf,  on  your  proposed  bridge  of  brains,  impossi 
ble  and  chimerical,  they  look  upon  it  as  a  matter  of 
course  when  it  is  done!  You  and  I  are  poets — if  the 
money  and  fuss  we  have  made  will  pass  for  evidence 
— yet  nobody  thinks  it  surprising  that  we  have  taken 
off  our  wings,  and  rolled  up  our  shirt-sleeves  to  carry 
the  hod  !  Not  to  die  without  having  experienced  all 
kinds  of  sensations,  I  wish  to  be  rich — though  it  will 
come  to  me  like  butter  when  the  bread  is  gone  to 
spread  it  on.  Heigho  ! 

Brig. — How  you  keep  drawing  similitudes  from 
what  you  see  before  your  eyes  !  Let  me  eat  my 
breakfast  without  turning  it  into  poetry!  It  will  sour 
on  my  stomach,  my  dear  boy  ! 

"  We." — So  you  are  ordered  out  to  smash  the  Hel- 
derbergers,  general  ! 

Brig. — Ordered  to  hold  myself  in  readiness — that's 
all  at  present.  I  wish  they'd  observe  the  seasons,  and 
rebel  in  pleasant  weather!  Think  of  the  summit  of 
a  saddle  with  the  thermometer  at  zero  !  Besides,  if 
there  is  any  fighting  to  do  one  likes  an  enemy.  This 
campaign  to  help  the  constable,  necessary  as  it  is,  goes 
against  my  stomach. 

"  We." — Fortify  it,  poor  thing  !  What  say  to  a 
drop  of  curacoa  before  you  begin  your  New  Year's 
round  ?  (Pouring for  the  general  and  himself.)  Burke 
states,  in  his  "  Vindication  of  Natural  Society,"  that 
your  predecessor,  Julius  Cesar,  was  the  means  of 
killing  two  millions  one  hundred  thousand  men!  How 
populous  is  Helderberg — women  and  all? 
|  Brig. — Twelve  o'clock,  my  dear  "boy,  and  time  to 
be  shaking  hands  and  wishing.  Take  the  first  wish 
off  the  top  of  my  heart — a  happy  New  Year  to  you, 
and — 

"  We." — Gently  with  that  heavy  benediction  ! 

Brig. — GOD  BLESS  YOU,  mi- boy  ! 

(Exit  the  brigadier,  affected.) 


EPHEMERA. 


187 


THEMES  FOR  THE  TABLE.  —  Among  the  "upper 
ten  thousand,"  there  are,  of  course,  many  persons,  not 
only  of  really  refined  taste,  but  of  practical  common 
sense,  and  to  them  we  wish  to  proffer  a  hint  or  two, 
touching  the  usages  just  now  in  plastic  and  manage 
able  transition  among  the  better  classes.  The  follow 
ing  note,  received  a  day  or  two  since,  suggests  one  of 
the  improvements  that  we  had  marked  down  for  com 
ment  :  — 

MR.  EDITOR:  I  observe  that  a   'bachelor,'  wri 

'invited' 


mocraey  might  wish  fashion  kept  inconvenient,  for  this 
very  purpose;  but  our  belief  is,  that  there  is  no  place 
like  a  republic  for  a  positive  and  even  violent  aristoc 
racy,  and,  if  inevitable,  it  is  as  well  to  compound  it 
of  good  elements  in  the  beginning.  Simply,  then,  no 
intellectual  man,  past  absolute  juvenility,  would  con 
sent  to  enfeeble  his  mind  by  fashionable  habits  injuri 
ous  to  health.  Late  hours  and  late  suppers  (in  a 
country  where  we  can  not  well  sleep  till  noon  as  they 
do  in  Europe)  are  mental  suicide.  Hours  and  usages, 


therefore,  which  are  not  accommodated  to  the  conve 
nience  of  the  best  minds  of  the  country,  will  drive 
those  minds  from  the  class  to  which  they  form  the 
objection,  and  the  result  is  easily  pictured.  We 
shall  resume  the  topic. 


ting   in    the    'American,'    recommends    to 
and  '  inviters,'  to  send  invitations  and  answers,  stamp 
ed,  through  the  penny-post.     This  is  a  capital  idea, 
and  I  shall  adopt  it  for  one.     I  perceivethat  abachelor  i 
in  another  paper  says,  '  it  will  suit  him  and  his  fellow- 
bachelors,'  for  reasons  set  forth,  and  that  he  will  adopt  ;, 
the    plan.     Now,  Mr.  Editor,   I    am  a   housekeeper,  !| 
and  married,  and  my  wife  requires  the  use  of  all  my   j 

servants,  and  can  not  spare  them  to  be  absent  three  or  J  |  LIVERIES  AND  OPERA-GLASSES.—  i  here  is  really  no 
four  days,  going  round  the  city,  delivering  notes,  on  way  of  foreseeing  what  the  Americans  will  stand  and 
the  eve  of  a  party.  These  notes  could,  by  the  plan  i!  what  they  will  not.  An  aristocratic  family  or  two, 
ested,  be  delivered  in  three  hours,  and  insure  a  unwilling  to  compete  with  the  working-classes  in  person- 


sugg          . 

prompt  answer.     I   can   then   know   exactly    who   is 

coming  and  who  is  not  —  a  very  convenient  point  of 

knowledg 


al  attire,  choose  to  transfer  the  splendors  of  their  condi 
tion  to  the  backs  of  their  servants.  They  dress  plainly 
themselves  and  set  up  a  liveried  equipage—  as  they 


-  These  reasons  induce  me  to  become  an  advocate  \\  have  an  absolute  and  (one  would  think)  an  unoffend- 
of  the  suggestion.  There  are  other  sound  arguments  !  ing  right  to  do.  This,  however,  the  American  pub- 
that  mioht  be  urged  in  its  favor,  but  pray  present  them  J  j  lie  will  not  bear—  and  the  persons  so  doing  are  insulted 
in  your  own  fashion  to  your  readers.  ;  by  half  the  presses  in  the  country. 

"  Yours,  &c." 

There   is  another  very  burthensome'  matter,    the 

annoyance  of  which  might  be  transferred  to  the  penny-  j;  classes  are  all  in  private  boxes,  with  blinds  and  curtains 
ost—care/  bavin*  /     When  men  are  busy  and  ladies  ji  to  shutout  observation  if  they  please,  the  use  of  opera- 


But  what  they  will  bear  is  much  more  remarkable. 
In  the  immense  theatres  of  Europe,  where  the  upper 
j;  classes  are  all  in  private  boxes,  with  blinds  and  curta 

—  ji  to  shutout  observation  if  they  please,  the  use  of  ope 

ill  (the  business  and  the  illness  equally  unlikely  to  be  \\  glasses  has  gradually  become  sanctioned.  It  is  fou 
heard  of  by  way  of  apology)  it  would'often  be  a  most  convenient  for  those  classes  to  diminish  the  dista 
essential  relief  to  commit  to  envelopes  a  dozen  cards,  i  across  the  house,  since  they  have  the  choice  of  sec 


It  is  found 
nee 
clu- 

and   with  an   initial   letter  or  two  in  the  corner,*  ex-     sion  behind  curtains— which  those  in  the  pit  have  not. 
pressive   of  good-will  but  inability  to  call  in  person,     Abstractly,  of  course,  the  giving  to  a  vulgarian  the 
make  and  return  visits  without  moving  from  counting     power  to  draw  a  lady's  face  close  to  him  lor  a 
house  or  easy-chair.     This,  in  a  country  where  few     hour's  examination,  would  be  permitting   a  gross  li- 
keep  carriages,  and  where  every  man  worth  knowing  j'  cense.     This  being  the  custom  in  Europe,  however, 


has  some  business  or  profession,  should   be  an   easy  pit  is  adopted  with  no  kind  of  comparisons  of  rca 
matter  to  brin-  about ;  and,  if  established  into  a  usage     why,  in  New  York.     We  budd  an  opera-house,  si- 
larger  than  a  drawing-room,  and  light  it  so  well,  and 


matter  to  bring  about  ;  and,  if  established  into  a  usage 
that  gave  no  offence,  would  serve  two  purposes  —  re-  ; 


reasons 
scarce 


lieving  the  ill  or  busy,  and  compelling  those,  who  so  arrange  the  seats,  that  people  are  as  visible  to  each 
really  wish  to  keep  up  an  acquaintance,  at  least  to  other  as  they  would  be  m  a  drawing-room  ;  and  m 
send'cards  once  in  a  wLe,  as  reminders.  this  cosy  place,  allow  peon  e -to  coolly  -^«  -r 


We  wish  that  common  sense  could  be  made  fashion 
able  among  us  —  vigorously  applied,  we  mean,  to  the 
fashions  of  the  best  style  of  people.  Why  should  not 


,  opera-glasses  and  turn  them  full  into  the  faces  of  those 
they  wish  to  scrutinize.  So  near  as  the  glass  is,  too, 
it  is  utterly  impossible  not  to  be  conscious  of  being 


. 

the  insufferable  nuisance  of  late  parties  be  put  down  looked  at   and  the  embarrassment  ,t  occas.ons  ,  to  very 

in  this  country  by  a   plot  between  a  hundred  of  our  young  ladies  ,s  easy  enough  shown.     We  have   used 

.  *J     .      J         .     .'                                                                                                 i      •  ,    .1    •_    1  _  «««•:„„«««,    nnvaalT     fHafMHlflA    111      Knmf*    Wfi    (lO    33 


sensible  and  distinguished  families?  In  England  they 
are  at  the  dinner-table  between  six  and  ten  ;  but  why 
should  ive,  who  seldom  dine  later  than  three  or  four, 
yawn  through  a  long  unoccupied  evening  before  going 
out,  merely  because  they  go  to  parties  at  eleven  in 
London  ?  Why  should  it  not  be  American,  to  revise, 
correct,  and  adapt  to  differences  of  national  character, 
the  usages  we  copy  from  other  countries  ?  The  sub 
ject  of  late  parties  is  constantly  talked  over,  however, 
and  as  all  are  agreed  as  to  the  absurdity  of  the  fashion, 
a  hint  at  it,  here,  is  enough. 

There  are  other  usages  which  require  remodelling 
by  this  standard,  but  while  we  defer  the  mention  of 
them  at  present,  we  wish  to  allude  to  another  argu 
ment  (in  favor  of  common  sense  applied  to  fashion) 
remoter  and  perhaps  weightier  than  mere  convenience. 
It  is  simply,  that,  if  an  aristocracy  is  to  be  formed  in 
this  country,  the  access  to  its  resorts  must  be  kept 
convenient  for  men  of  sense,  or  society  will  be  left  ex 
clusively  to  fools.  Believers  in  the  eternity  of  de- 

«  T.  R.  M.,  for  instance  (meaning  this  to  remind  you  of 
me),  written  in  the  corner  of  a  card,  might  imply  that  the 
friendly  wish  had  occurred,  though  the  call  was  overruled  by 
hinderances 


this  impertinence  ourself  (because  in  Rome  we  do  as 
Romans  do),  but  we  never  yet  have  levelled  a  glass 
I  upon  a  face  without  seeing  that   the  scrutiny  was  at 
I  once  detected.     Since  we  have  preached  on  the  sub 
ject,  however,  we  shall  "  go  and  sin  no  more." 

"  We  ask  for  information  :"— is  the  difference  of 
reception,  for  these  two  European  customs,  explain 
able  on  the  ground  that  opera-glasses  are  a  mxury 
within  the  reach  of  most  persons,  and  liveries  are  not  J 
Dp  republicans  only  object  to  exclusive  impertinences? 


OPERA  LAST  NIGHT — We  presume  we  are  safe  in 
saying  that  no  four  inhabitants  in  New  York  gave  as 
much  pleasure  last  night  as  Pico,  BORGHESE,  fK- 
ROZZI,  and  VALTELLINA.  We  certainly  would  not 
have  missed  our  share  for  any  emotion  set  down 

i  among  the  pleasures  of  Wall  street— well  as  we  know 
the  let-up  of  an  opportune  discount !  1  hat  emperor 
of  Rome  who  poisoned  Britannicus  because  he  was 

i  a  better  tenor  than  himself,  and  slept  in  his  imperial 
bed  with  a  plate  of  lead  on  his  stomach  to  improve 
his  voice,  knew  where  music  went  to,  and  ot  what 


188 


EPHEMERA. 


recesses,  within  his  empire,  he  was  not  monarch  with 
out  it.  (We  suggest  a  meeting  of  gentlemen  up-town 
to  erect  a  monument  to  Nero,  now  for  the  first  time 
appreciated  !) 

Let  us  tell  the  story  of  Semiramide — and  we  must 
take  the  liberty,  for  clearness'  sake,  to  use  the  names 
of  the  performers  without  the  Siamese-ry  of  the  names 
of  the  characters. 

Borghese  is  queen  of  Babylon.  She  and  Valtel- 
lina,  who  is  an  old  lover  of  hers,  have  killed  her  former 
husband,  a  descendant  of  Belus  by  whom  she  had  a 
child.  This  child  is  Pico,  rightful  heir  to  the  throne. 
At  the  time  the  curtain  rises,  Borghese  and  Valtel- 
lina  suppose  that  Pico  also  is  killed,  and  the  throne 
vacant  for  a  new  husband  to  Borghese.  Valtellina 
wishes  to  be  that  husband  ;  but  Borghese,  partly  from 
dislike  of  him,  and  partly  from  having  had  enough  of 
matrimony,  takes  advantage  of  a  thunder-storm  to  put 
off  her  expected  decision.  Meantime  Pico  arrives 
(acquainted  only  with  Mr.  Meyer,  apparently,  who  is 
a  high-priest  of  Belus),  and  Queen  Borghese,  not 
knowing  that  it  is  her  own  child,  falls  in  love  with 
him  !  There  is  a  Miss  Phillips  who  is  a  descendant 
of  this  same  Belus,  and  who  is  to  have  the  throne  if 
Borghese  does  not  marry  Valtellina.  Pico  loves  Miss 
Phillips  for  some  reason  only  hinted  at,  and  has  come 
to  Babylon  to  see  her.  Mr.  Meyer,  who  is  the  only 
one  aware  that  Pico  is  the  prince  supposed  to  be  lost, 
takes  him  down  into  the  tomb  of  the  dead  king,  tells 
him  who  he  is,  gives  him  his  father's  "  things"  in  a 
box,  and  leaves  him  there  to  have  a  conversation  with 
his  mother  who  happens  to  drop  in.  It  is  all  cleared 
up  between  them,  and  they  sing  a  duet  together,  and 
go  out  for  a  little  fresh  air.  Valtellina,  mousing  about 
after  the  queen,  comes  afterward  to  the  tomb  and 
meets  the  high-priest  there  ;  and  one  after  another 
drops  in,  till  the  tomb  is  full,  and  the  ghost  of  the  old 
king  takes  the  opportunity  to  get  up  and  mention 
what  he  died  of.  Great  confusion  of  course  ;  and, 
soon  after,  Pico,  feeling  called  upon  to  kill  the  mur 
derer  of  the  sleepless  old  gentleman,  stabs  at  some 
body  in  the  dark  and  kills  his  mother  !  Valtellina  is 
led  off  by  the  police,  Pico  faints  in  the  arms  of  Mr. 
Meyer,  the  satraps  and  Babylonians  rush  in,  and  the 
curtain  falls— leaving  Pico  to  marry  Miss  Phillips  and 
succeed  to  the  throne.  All  this  of  course  took  place 
in  a  city  built  two  generations  after  Ham  (brother  of 
Shein  and  Japhet)  but  what  with  the  look  of  the 
"  tombs,"  and  the  way  people  were  stabbed  and  pois 
oned,  it  was  impossible  not  to  wonder  what  Justice 
Matsell  would  have  done  in  the  premises. 

AVe  shall  hear  Semiramide  again  to-night,  and  speak 
more  advisedly  of  the  music  on  Monday.  At  present, 
we  can  not  convince  ourself  that  Grisi  and  Persian! 
sang  any  better  when  we  heard  them  in  London.  We 
can  never  hope  for — and  we  need  not  wish — a  better 
opera.  BORGHESE  is  a  most  accomplished  creature, 
with  (among  other  things)  an  intoxicating  way  of 
crushing  her  eyes  up  to  express  passion  (in  a  way  that 
none  but  people  of  genius  do)  and  she  does  nothing 
indifferently.  Pico,  with  her  wonderful  at-home-ative- 
ness  anywhere  between  the  lowest  note  and  the  high 
est,  faultless  in  her  science,  and  personally  of  the  kind 
of  women  most  loveable,  is  enough,  of  herself,  to  keep 
a  town  together.  PEROZZI,  with  his  sweet,  pure 
voice,  and  gentlemanly  taste  (lie  was  king  of  Egypt 
last  night,  by  the  way,  and  a  candidate  for  Borghese's 
hand),  is  worthy  to  be  a  third  star  in  any  such  Orion's 
belt,  and  the  fourth  may  well  be  VALTELLINA,  whose 
thorough  base,  we  have  no  doubt,  first  suggested  the 
idea  of  the  forty-horse  excavator  lately  patented  by 
congress. 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  the  scenery  ?  We  were 
taken  completely  by  surprise,  with  the  taste  as  well  as 
splendor  of  it,  and  we  think  Stanfield  himself,  the 
great  artist  who  produces  occasionally  such  marvels 


in  the  spectacles  of  Drury  Lane,  would  have  taken  a 
pride  in  claiming  it.  Certainly  no  comparable  scene 
ry  has  been  exhibited,  to  our  knowledge,  in  this 
country.  The  costumes  were  also  admirable. 

Abstaining  as  we  do,  for  to-day,  from  musical 
criticism,  we  can  not  help  alluding  to  the  electric  ef 
fect,  upon  the  audience,  of  the  duet  between  Pico 
and  Borghese — the  well-known  "  Giorno  d'orrore." 
The  house  was  uncomfortably  crammed,  but  a  pin 
might  have  been  heard  to  drop,  at  any  moment  dur 
ing  the  singing  of  it.  It  was  a  case  of  complete  musi 
cal  intoxication.  The  applause  was  boundless,  but 
unluckily  the  encore  (which  we  trust  will  not  be  foiled 
again  to-night)  was  defeated  by  an  evident  fear  on  the 
part  of  the  audience  of  intemipting  a  part  of  the  duet 
not  yet  completed.  If  you  love  your  public,  dear 
Semiramide,  nod,  to-nig/it,  to  the  orchestra,  after  the 
bouquets  have  descended  ! 


BEHIND    THE    CURTAIN. 

Editor's  room,  toward  midnight — Enter  the  brigadier, 
as  the  printers  go  down  stairs — The  day  over,  and 
the  shop  shut  up  under — A  pen  (too  tired  to  be 
wiped)  drying  in  peace  on  the  editor's  table — News 
boys  done  (thank  God  '.) — Brigadier  collapsed  into 
a  chair. 

Brig. — Oh,  mi-boy !  To  think  of  the  trouble  of 
"getting  along,"  and  the  very  small  place  in  which 
we  sleep,  when  we  get  there !  I  wonder  whether  a 
man  would  be  much  behind  the  time  at  his  own  fu 
neral  if  he  stopped  working!  I'm  tired,  Willis!  I'll 
send  my  ticket  for  the  afterpiece,  and  "  go  home,"  as 
the  Moravians  say. 

"  We." — You  forget !  Editors  are  on  the  "  free 
list"  in  the  theatre  of  life,  and  "  not  entitled  to  a 
check." 

Brig. — Talk  plain  to  me,  my  dear  boy,  and  save 
your  heliotropes  for  the  paper!  The  work  I  have 
done  this  week  !  Is  it  you  that  say  somewhere, 
"there's  no  poetry  in  a  steamboat?"  Think  of  the 
blessed  cry  of  "  stop  her  !" 

"  We." — And  so  you  are  fairly  fagged,  my  "  mar 
tial  Pyrrhus !" 

Brig. — Fagged  and  dispirited  !     Moving  the  print 
ing  office — getting  all  the  advertisements  set   up  in, 
new  type — little  indispensable  nothings  plaguing  my 
life  out — new  arrangements  in  every  corner,  and  the 
daily  paper  going  on  besides 

"  We." — I  don't  wonder  you're  dead! 

Brig. — That  is  the  least  of  my  trouble,  I  was  going 
to  say — (though,  to  be  sure,  what  we  have  done  this 
last  week,  changing  office,  and  renewing  type,  with 
out  stopping  the  daily,  is  very  much  like  shoeing 
your  horse  without  slacking  his  trot)  —  but  the  "ben 
efit,"  my  dear  boy,  the  benefit. 

"  We." — So  long  since  you  have  had  any  money  to 
end — is  that  what  you  mean  ?  You  are  afraid  you 
have  lost  the  art  of  making  yourself  out  poorer 
than  the  man  who  comes  to  borrow.  Why,  my  poor 
general  ! 

Brig. — Doesn't  it  strike  you  as  a  dreadful  mortifi 
cation,  my  dear  Willis  ? 

«  We" — The  whole  business  ? 

Brig. — The  whole  business. 

"  We." — Inasmuch  as  for  genius  to  be  rich,  after 
being  poor,  would  make  a  god  of  the  man  so  en 
riched  (by  the  intensity  of  his  enjoyment,  and  his  nat- 
iral  inoculation  against  catching  the  canker  from  his 
noney) — it  is  wisely  ordained  by  Providence  that  we 
shall  not  receive  it  in  sums  larger  than  $3,  city  bill, 
ithout  mental  agony.  We  should  else  be  in  heaven 


EPHEMERA. 


189 


before  our  time,  my  dear  general— purgatory  omit 
ted  ! 

Brig. — But  isn't  your  pride  wounded  for  me,  my 
dear  hoy  ? 

44  We." — As  Cassio  says  (who,  by  the  way,  loved 
general  Othello  very  much  as  I  do  you), 

'  I  do  attend  here  on  the  general, 
And  think  it  no  addition,  nor  my  wish, 
To  have  him  see  me  womaned." 

I  have  no  tear  to  shed  on  the  subject.  I  have 
thought  it  all  over,  and  would  have  stood  in  your 
place  and  received  the  painful  thousands  myself,  if  I 
had  thought  it  more  than  you  could  bear — but  let  me 
tell  you  how  I  look  at  it. 

Brig. — Do,  mi-boy,  and  don't  joke  more  than  you 
can  help  ! 


there,  and  we  are  likely  at  any  moment  to  be  "  broke" 
by  the  critics  "making  a  run  upon  the  bank." 
Brig. — Now  that's  what  I  call  clear  ! — 
"  We." — Don't  interrupt  me  !  The  risks  of  suc 
cess  in  literature,  the  outlay  for  education,  the  delay 
in  turning  it  to  profit,  the  endurance  of  the  gauntlets 
of  criticism,  and  the  rarity  of  the  gift  of  genius  from 
God,  should  be  added  to  the  usually  fragile  shop  in 
which  its  wares  are  embarked  for  vending.  The  poet, 
by  constitution  least  able  to  endure  rude  usage,  is  the 
common  target  of  coarseness  and  malice.  Here  and 
there,  to  be  sure,  a  man  is  born,  like  me — with  brains 
enough,  but  more  liver  than  brains — and  such  men 
sell  thoughts  as  they  would  potatoes,  and  don't  break 
their  hearts  if  customers  find  specks  in  them;  but  the 
literary  profession,  generally,  is  of  another  make,  and 
political  economy"  should  compensate  proportion- 


~TFe"— Editors  are  the  pump-handles  of  charity,  II  ally.  They  do  it  for  clergymen !  What  clergyman 
ilwavs  helping  people  to  water,  and  never  thought  to  feels  it  an  indignity  to  be  sent  abroad  by  subscription, 
be  thirsty  themselves  !  if  his  health  fails  ?  He  considers  that  he  is  inade- 

Bri«r —You  funny  Willis!— so  we  are!  quately  paid   unless  his   parish  take  the  risks  ol   Ins 

..  We  "—You,  particularly,  have  not  only  been  >  health  !  And  you  /—besides  the  reason  you  have, 
bolted  to  the  public  cistern  for  every  benefit  of  the!'  wholly  apart  from  our  joint  business,  for  needing  this 
last  twenty  years  the  fag  and  worky  of  every  possible  i  benefit— here  you  are,  after  passing  your  lile  in  ser- 
c'haritable  committee,  but  your  paper  has  been  called  ,;  ving  people,  with  a  pair  of  eyes  you  can  scarce  sign 
upon  (and  that  people  think  nothing  of)  to  blow  wind  !!  your  name  by,  and  a  prospect  of  a  most  purblind  view 
heme  of  benevolence,  every  j!  of  the  City  Hall  when  they  make  you  mayor. 


into  the  sail  of  every  sc 

device  for  the  good  of  individuals  or  the  public.  Peo-  ] 
pie  see  your  face  on  every  printed  note  that  comes  to 
them.  You  are  the  other-folks-beggar  of  the  town. 

When  you  die 

Unff.— No  painful  allusions  now,  mi-boy  ! 
4«  We." — I  was  only  going  to  say,  my  dear  general, 
that  they  will  wish  they  had  unmuzzled  the  ox  that 
trod  out  the  corn  ! 

Brig,  (siuallowing  something  apparently}.  But  T  have 
had  so  many  misgivings  about  this  benefit  concert,  my 
dear  Willis  ! 

"We." — The  pump-handle  changing  places  with 
the  pail !     Well — it  will  be  a  shower-bath  at  first,  but 
you'll  be  full  when  it's  over! 
Briff. — There  you  go  again ! 

4»  We." — I  was  letting  that  simile  trickle  off  my 
lips  while  I  fished  up,  from  my  practical  under-cur 
rent,  another  good  reason  for  your  benefit.  Suffer 
me  to  be  tedious  a  moment! 

Brig. — Be  so,  mi-boy — be  so  !  I  love  you  best 
when  you're  tedious! 

44  We." Well,  then !      Political   economy  differs 

from  the  common  estimates  of  things,  by  taking  into 
consideration  not  only  their  apparent  value  at  the 
time  of  sale,  but  what  it  has  cost,  directly  or  indi 
rectly,  to  attain  that  value.  Do  you  understand  me  ? 
Brig. — No. 

44  We." For  example,  then  ! — a  leg  of  mountain 

mutton  may  weigh  no  more  than  a  leg  of  lowland 
mutton — but  as  the  fibre  of  the  meat  is  finv  from  be 
ing  fed  on  highland  grass,  it  is  reasonable  to  estimate 
it^by  something  besides  its  weight — i.  e.,  the  shep 
herd's  risk  of  losing  it  by  wild  beasts,  and  the  trouble 
of  driving  it  up  and  down  the  mountain. 
J3r?>.— True. 

44  We." — Thus,  a  lawyer  charges  you  fifty  dollars 
for  an  opinion  which  it  takes  him  but  ten  minutes  to 
dictate  to  his  clerk.  A  savage  would  laugh  at  the 
price,  and  offer  to  talk  twice  the  time  for  half  the 
monev — but  a  civilized  man  pays  it,  allowing  for  the 
education,  study,  and  talent,  which  it  cost  to  give  the 
opinion  value. 

Brig. — True  again.     Now  for  our  "  mutton." 
44  We." You  and  I,  my  dear  general,  are  brain- 
mongers — which  is  an  exceedingly  ticklis^  trade.   We 
art  with  our  goods   in  supposition,  like  the  capital 


Brig. — Mi-boy  !  oh  ! 

"We." — There's  but  one  pair  of  well-endorsed  eyes 

>etween  us,  and  suppose  somebody  leaves  me  money 

enough  to  unharness  me  from  this  omnibus,  and  turn 

e  out  to  grass  at  Glenmaiy  !     What  will  become  of 

m? 

Brig. — Heaven  indissolubly  Siamese  us,  my  dear 
boy  ! 

.4  We." — And  T  have  not  even  named,  yet,  the  os 
tensible  ground  for  this  concert— the  songs  you  have 
loaded  the  women's  lips  with,  and  never  received 
even  a  kiss  for  your  trouble  ! 

Brig. — What  a  fellow  you  are  for  reasons,  Willis! 

44  We." — My  dear  friend,  I  am  going  to  state  all 
this  to  the  committee  for  your  benefit!  By  the  way 
did  you  ever  hear  of  Ismenias,  the  D'Orsay  of  an 
cient  Corinth  ? 

Brig. — Never. 

"We" — Ismenias  commissioned  a  friend  to  buy  a 
jewel  for  him.  The  friend  succeeded  in  purchasing 
it  at  a  sum  below  its  value.  "  Fool!"  said  Ismenias, 
"you  have  disgraced  the  gem!"  Did  you  suppose, 
general,  that  I  was  going  to  give  the  public,  the  pleas 
ure  of  paying  you  this  tribute  without  taxing  their 
admiration  as  well  as  their  pockets  !  No  !  (Hear 
him  !)  No  !  I  trust  every  woman  who  has  su 


heard  sung,  a  song  of  yours,  w 


be  there  to  wave  a 


handkerchief  for  you !  I  hope  every  man  who  loves 
literature,  and  has  a  corner  in  his  heart  for  the  poet 
who  has  pleased  him,  will  be  there  to  applaud  you  ! 
I  hope  David  Hale  will  give  us  gas  enough  to  see 
you  on  the  platform.  I  hope— God  bless  me,  twelve 
o'clock ! 


.OPERATIC  PARTY.— As  our  readers  are  aware,  a 
private  sparkle  from  the  stars  of  an  operatic  constella 
tion,  is  one  of  the  luxuries  rated  as  princely  in  Europe 

a  proper  fitness  in  the  other  circumstances  of  the 

entertainment  requiring  a  spaciousness  of  saloons  and 
a  magnificence  of  menu  which  only  the  very  wealthi 
est  have  to  offer.  The  private  dwelling-houses  of 
this  city,  till  within  a  few  years,  have  been  much  too 
small  for  the  introduction  of  this  advanced  phase  of 
pleasure.  Last  night,  however,  a  sumptuous  resi 
dence,  that  might  compare  to  advantage  with  any  m- 
in  Europe,  was  thrown  open,  and  its  "uilder- 


190 


EPHEMERA. 


bination.  As  being  the  head  of  a  new  chapter  of  na 
tional  refinement,  it  would,  perhaps,  be  posthumously 
worth  while  to  depict  the  scene — not  only  as  to  its 
sumptuary  splendors  and  costumes,  but  with  a  de 
scription  of  the  "  beauty  that  bewitched  the  light" — 
but  however  posterity  might  thank  us  for  such  an  inky 
Arethusa,  we  have  too  much  to  do  with  what  is  above 
ground,  just  now,  to  bury  charms  for  the  future. 

Madame  Pico  remarked,  before  the  commencement 
of  the  performance,  that  it  was  almost  as  trying  for 
singers  used  to  a  theatre  to  adapt  the  voice,  impromp 
tu,  to  a  saloon,  as  for  an  amateur  to  calculate,  at  once, 
the  volume  of  voice  necessary  to  fill  a  theatre.  The 
first  two  or  three  pieces  were,  notwithstanding  this 
judicious  apprehension,  a  little  too  loud.  Signer 
Valtellina  must  have  the  credit  of  having  been  the 
first  to  reduce  the  "  fill  of  the  empyrean"  to  the  ca 
pacity  of  a  saloon,  and,  after  the  measure  was  taken, 
the  music  was  exquisitely  enjoyable.  After  tea 
(served  in  an  adjoining  apartment  at  the  close  of  the 
first  part)  the  artists  assumed,  to  a  charm,  the  neces 
sary  abandon,  and  the  singing  between  tea  and  sup 
per  was,  to  our  ear,  faultless.  The  pianist  only,  M. 
Etienne  seemed  lacking  in  the  magnetism  to  quicken 
the  movement  with  the  acceleration  of  Pico's  climax, 
and  we  wished  a  younger  or  more  sympathetic  hand 
in  the  accompaniment;  but  this  charming  cantatrice 
has  too  infallible  an  ear  to  outrun  the  instrument,  and 
the  effect  was  sufficiently  enchanting.  She  and  Sig- 
norina  BORGHKSK  were  rapturously  encored,  and  a 
laughing  terzetto  between  BORGHKSK,  SANQUIRICO,  and 
PEROZZI,  was  called  for,  a  second  time,  with  bound 
less  delight  and  enthusiam. 

We  had  never  before  seen  Madame  Pico  off  the 
stage.  Care  has  left  no  foot-print  on  the  threshold 
of  the  gate  of  music,  and  her  mouth  is  infantine  in 
texture  and  expression  ;  but  her  eyes  have  that  in 
definable  look  which  betrays 

"  The  thieves  of  joyance  that  have  passed  that  way." 

Her  person  shows  to  more  advantage  in  a  drawing- 
room  than  on  the  stage,  and  her  manners,  like  those  of 
all  gifted  Italians,  are  of  a  natural  sculpture  beyond 
the  need  of  artificial  chiseling.  BORGHKSE,  too,  has 
charming  manners,  and  we  were  pleased  with  the  cor 
dial  accueil  given  to  the  prima-donnas  by  the  ladies 
of  the  party.  Altogether,  the  absolute  good  taste  of 
the  entertainment,  and  the  unusually  choice  mixture 
of  elements,  social,  sumptuous,  and  professional,  made 
the  evening  one  of  high  enchantment. 


OPERA  SINGERS — At  the  benefit  of  Mademoiselle 
Borghese,  lately,  the  centre  of  the  ceiling  suddenly 
gave  birth  (at  the  close  of  the  first  act)  to  a  shower  of 
billets-doux,  which,  being  immediately  followed  by  the 
descent  of  the  drop-scene,  representing  Jupiter  feeling 
the  pulse  of  Juno,  was  understood  by  the  audience 
"  as  well  as  could  be  expected."  The  delivery  was 
rather  a  relief  to  the  feeling  of  the  house,  for  the 
crowd  and  pressure  had  been  very  uncomfortable, 
and  some  critical  event  was  needed  to  relieve  the  en 
durance.  • 

We  have  been  pleased  at  the  example,  set  by  the 
good  authority  of  the  parly  of  Monday  evening,  of 
giving  a  cordial,  social  welcome  to  distinguished  musi 
cal  strangers.  America  profits  by  having  two  nations 
inarching  immediately  before  her  in  civilization — 
each  unwilling  to  imitate  the  other,  but  both  open  to 
study,  by  us,  with  no  impediment  as  to  our  selection 
of  points  for  imitation  or  rejection.  The  French  and 
English  are  wholly  at  variance  on  the  point  we  have 
just  alluded  to — the  social  position  given  to  celebrated 
musicians.  In  the  high  circles  of  France,  when  a 


!  party  is  given  at  which  the  operatic  singers  perform  a 
concert,  the  reception  for  the  musicians  consults  only 
their  personal  comfort. — Chairs  are  placed  for  them, 
which  they  rarely  leave  to  mix  with  the  party,  and 
their  supper  is  always  separate  from  that,  of  the  guests. 
There  is  no  intention  shown,  of  treating  them  like 
equals.  In  England,  on  the  contrary,  the  operatic 
company  are  the  pels  of  society.  Pasta,  Catalani, 
Persiani,  Grisi,  and  the  male  singers,  Lablache, 
Rubini,  Ivanhoff,  and  others,  were  free  of  all  exclu- 
j  sion  on  the  score  of  rank,  and  "  dined  and  teted" 
familiarly  like  noble  strangers  from  other  countries. 
We  have  seen  the  duke  of  Wellington  holding  the 
gloves  of  GRISI,  while  she  pulled  to  pieces  a  bunch  of 
grapes  at  the  supper  table  of  Devonshire  house  ;  and 
we  have  a  collection  of  autographs  of  public  singers 
(two  of  which  we  published  the  other  day),  addressed 
to  persons  of  high  rank,  and  expressed  in  terms  of 
the  most  confessed  feeling  of  ease  as  to  relative  posi 
tion. 

We  repeat  that  we  rejoice  in  the  power  to  select 
footsteps  to  follow  in  civilization  (from  those  of  two 
nations  gone  on  before),  and  we  take  pride,  that,  in 
this  latest  instance,  we  have  copied  the  more  liberal 
and  kindly-hearted  usage.  These  children  of  a  pas 
sionate  clime  are  not  justly  measured  by  our  severe 
standards;  and  we  should  receive  them  like  airs  from 
a  southern  sky,  without  cooling  them  first  by  a  chymi- 
cal  analysis.  They  are,  commonly,  ornaments  to 
society — -joyous,  genial,  free  from  the  "finikin"  super- 
fineries  of  some  of  those  inclined  to  abase  them — and 
the  difference  of  the  pleasure  they  give,  when  their  hearts 
are  in  it,  is  offset  enough  for  any  sacrifice  made  in  ex 
cusing  the  "low  breeding"  of  their  genius  ! 

BORGHKSK,  whose  benefit  came  off  so  triumphantly 
last  night,  is  a  woman  of  very  superior  mind,  of  man 
ners  faultlessly  distinguished,  and  (essential  praise  to 
a  woman)  a  model  of  toilet-ability.  She  is,  besides,  a 
remarkable  actress,  and  a  very  accomplished  musician. 
This  is  a  pretty  good  description  of  an  agreeable  ac 
quaintance  ;  and,  if  we  were  to  sketch  Madame  Pico, 
it  would  be  in  terms  still  more  warmly  eulogistic. 
We  leave  to  the  ladies  who  throw  bouquets  to  San- 
quirico,  to  laud  the  men  of  the  opera,  and  wind  up 
this  essay  of  political  economy,  by  drawing  an  instruc 
tive  example,  of  the  effect  of  what  we  preach,  from 
the  manufacture  of  a  prima-donna  into  a  queen  and 
goddess,  in  the  days  of  venerable  antiquity. 

"Among  the  female  performers  of  antiquity,  LAMIA 
is  certainly  the  most  celebrated  ;  how  much  her  fame 
may  have  been  aided  by  her  beauty  we  can  not  deter 
mine.  She  was  everywhere  received  with  honor,  and 
according  to  Plutarch,  equally  admired  for  her  wit, 
beauty,  and  musical  performance.  She  was  a  native 
of  Athens,  but  travelled  into  Egypt  to  hear  the  cele 
brated  flute-players  of  that  country.  During  her  resi 
dence  at  the  court  of  Alexandria,  Ptolemy  Soter  was 
defeated  in  a  naval  engagement  by  Demetrius,  and  all 
his  wives  and  domestics  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
conqueror.  Lamia  was  among  the  number;  but 
Demetrius  was  so  attracted  by  her  beauty  and  skill, 
that  he  raised  her  to  the  highest  rank,  and  from  her 
solicitations,  conferred  such  benefits  on  the  Athenians, 
that  they  gave  him  divine  honors  and  dedicated  a  tem 
ple  to  '  Venus  Lamia.'  " 


MADAME  Pico's  BENEFIT. — We  should  be  happy 
if  Europe  would  inform  us  why  this  remarkable  can 
tatrice  comes  to  us  "  new  as  a  tooth-pick,"  as  to  fame, 
and  whethe^  (the  same  lack  of  previous  trumpeting 
having  given  us  a  surprise  in  Malibran),  we  are  to 
have  the  credit  also  of  the  eccalobeion  of  Pico  !  Even 
without  the  "  deep-sea  plummet"  of  her  contralto 
(which  certainly  does  touch  bottom  for  which  most 


EPHEMERA. 


191 


voices  lack  fathoms  of  line)  she  has  a  compass  as  a 
mezzo  soprano,  which  would  alone  serve  for  remarka 
ble  success  in  her  profession.  She  is  a  most  correct 
musician  loo — (the  only  false  note  we  have  heard 
from  her,  having  been  occasioned  by  her  striking  her 
chest  too  violently  while  singing  defiance  to  Vallelliua) 
— and,  withal,  a  most  gifted  and  charming  woman, 
every  way  formed  to  be  an  idol  for  the  public.  We 
have  written  a  great  deal  about  Madame  Pico,  and, 
her  benefit  being  the  last  occasion  we  shall  find,  to  do 
more  than  chronicle  her  movements,  we  shall  send 
this  quill  to  our  friend  Kendall  of  the  Picayune  (as 
the  Highlanders  send  the  lighted  brand),  enveloped 
in  a  stanza  addressed  by  an  Italian  poet  to  Lady 
Coventry  : — 

"  Si  tutti  gli  alberi  del  mondo 

Fossero  penne, 

II  cielo  fosse  carta, 

II  mare  inchiostro 
Non  basterenno  a  destrivere 
La  miuiina  parte  della" — 

We  leave  the  rest  to  the  Picayune's  prophetic  divina 
tion. 

Adieu,  Pico,  1'in-cantatrice  !     A  clear  throat  and  a 
plethoric  pocket  to  you  ! 


MADAME  ARNOULT'S  CONCERT. — It  looked  very 
queer  (and  a  little  wicked  withal)  to  see  opera-glasses 
and  ladies  with  their  heads  uncovered,  in  the  pews  of 
the  Tabernacle  ;  and  we  are  not  sure  that  our  "  way 
we  should  go"  did  not  twitch  us  for  a  "  departure," 
when  we  found  ourselves  applauding  with  kid  gloves 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  altar  !  We  were  applaud 
ing  Pico  ;  and  the  next  thought  that  came  to  us  was, 
a  regret  that  such  voices  should  not  be  consecrated  to 
church  choirs ;  for  (granting  the  opera  to  be  a  profane 
amusement,  as  is  thought  by  the  worshippers  at  the 
Tabernacle),  "  it  is  a  pity,"  as  a  celebrated  divine  once 
said,  "that  the  devil  should  have  all  the  good  music." 
And,  apropos — was  not  this  capital  remark — (attributed, 
we  believe,  to  Wesley)— suggested  by  one,  recorded 
of  the  pope  Gregory  of  the  fifth  century  ?  Britain 
at  that  time  was,  to  Rome,  what  Africa  is  now  to  us 

a  savage  country  they  brought  slaves  from;  and 

the  introduction  of  Christianity  into  that  heathen  land 
is  said  to  have  been  prompted  by  the  pope's  admira 
tion  of  the  beauty  of  two  or  three  young  John  Bulls 
who  were  for  sale  in  the  market-place  of  Rome.  On 
inquiring  of  the  merchant  if  they  were  Christians, 
and  being  informed  they  were  pagans,  he  exclaimed, 
"  Alas,  what  a  pity  that  (he  author  of  darkness  should 
be  in  possession  of  men  of  such  fair  countenances  .'"  He 
commissioned  Pelagius  forthwith  to  send  missionaries 
to  the  handsome  British  pagans,  and  hence  the  church 
of  England — probably  the  only  church,  the  members 
of  which  owe  their  salvation  to  their  personal  beauty  ! 
(Pardon  this  historical  digression,  dear  readers!) 

Madame  ARNOULT  took  New  York  by  surprise — 
she  is  so  much  better  a  singer  than  was  supposed. 
With  less  effort,  and  in  a  smaller  room  than  the  nave 
of  the  Tabernacle,  she  would,  however,  appear  to  much 
more  advantage.  Her  voice,  to  our  ear,  lacked  fledg 
ing,  or  lining,  or  something  to  make  it  warmer  or 
more  downy — but  it  is  a  clear  and  most  cultivable 
soprano,  and  she  manages  it  with  wonderful  skill  for  a 
beginner  at  public  singing.  We  predict  great  popu 
larity  for  her.  Madame  Pico  sang,  with  her,  the 
duet  from  Semiramide,  and  it  was  enough  to  steep 
even  the  pulpit  cushion  in  a  this  world's  trance  of 
music. 


ARMLETS. — We  have  observed  that  there  is  a  late 
fashionable  promotion  of  the  jewels  of  the  arm  to  the 
more  lovely  round  above  the  elbow,  where,  it  must 


be  confessed,  a  bracelet  sits  much  more  enviably  im 
bedded.  We  rather  think  this  renewal  of  the  fashion 
of  armlets  is  a  clean  jump  from  the  rape  of  Helen  to 
1845,  for  the  latest  mention  we  can  find  of  it  is  in  the 
account  of  the  Trojan  nymphs,  who  laid  aside  their 
armlets  to  dance  in  the  choirs  on  Mount  Ida.  It 
takes  an  arm,  plump  and  not  too  plump,  to  wear  this 
clasp  with  a  grace,  but  where  the  arm  is  really  beauti 
ful,  no  ornament  could  be  more  filly  and  captivatingly 
located.  We  were  very  much  struck  with  the  effect 
upon  the  dazzling  arm  on  which  we  lately  noticed  it. 


VIEWS  OF  MORRIS'S  CONCERT. — There  are  few 
buttons  on  the  motley  coat  of  human  dependance,  to 
which  the  button-hole  is  not  serviceably  correspondent 
— the  button  (conferring  the  favor)  commonly  draw 
ing  the  same  garment  closer  by  aid  of  the  button-hole 
(receiving  the  favor).  There  is  one  very  striking  in 
stance  however,  of  constant  services  unreciprocated,  in 
what  editors  do  for  singers  and  actors.  Our  attention 
has  been  called  to  this  by  a  series  of  paragraphs — 
(part  silly,  part  malicious) — expressing  surprise  that 
Ole  Bull  and  others,  who  had  never  been  in  any  way 
benefited  by  Gen.  Morris,  should  have  been  asked  to 
contribute  their  services  gratuitously  to  his  benefit 
concert. 

It  is  needful,  of  course,  in  a  newspaper,  to  make 
some  mention  and  some  critical  estimate  of  all  public 
performers.  It  may  be  done  favorably  or  unfavor 
ably  ;  and  there  is  a  way  of  being  abundantly  paid  lor 
either.  "  BLACK  MAIL"  is  willingly  paid  where  com 
mendation  is  sold  in  shambles,  but  the  editor  is  letter 
paid,  still,  if,  with  skilful  roasting  and  dissection  of 
the  faults  of  public  performers,  he  cruelly  enriches 
his  paper  (like  a  pate,  defoie  gras  with  the  liver  of  the 
goose  roasted  alive),  and  so  sends  it,  palatably  spiced, 
to  the  umnquiring  appetite  of  the  public.  He  who 
has  a  hair  of  his  head  left  undamned,  to  creep  with 
shame  at  the  "  black  mail"  sale  of  his  approbation — 
and  he  who  has  common  human  kindness  to  prevent 
his  murdering  the  hopes  of  strangers  to  make  his 
paper  readable — both  these  are  of  classes  that  go  un 
paid,  and  commonly  unthanked,  for  services  most 
essential  to  others,  and  forbearance  most  costly  to 
themselves. 

The  editor's  business  is  to  make  his  paper  readable. 
The  most  difficult  task  he  has  to  do  is  to  be  readably 
good-natured.  The  easiest  writing  in  the  world  is 
criticism  amusingly  severe.  If  any  one  doubts,  for 
!  example,  that  with  the  same  pains  we  have  taken, 

I  glowingly  to  interpret  between  Ole  Bull  and  the  pub- 

I 1  lie,  we  could   have  ridiculed  him  into  a  comparative 
1  failure— sending   a   laugh    before   him   through    the 

country  that  would  have  armed  every  listener  with  an 
impenetrable  incredulity— if  any  one  doubts  our  power 
i   to  have  done  this,  as  easily  as  we  have  ushered  him 
into  hearts  we  made  ready  for  a  believing  reception 
1  of  his  music,  he  does  not  know  either  the  press  or  the 
!j  public— neither  the  arbitrary  license  of  the  press,  nor 
!  the  public's  weak  memory  for  everything  but  ridicule. 
l|  \Vkeie   Ole  Bull  now  stands,  the  press  is  compara 
tively  powerless.     He  is  stamped  with  success.     But, 
i|  when  he  stood  on  the  threshold  of  this  country's  favor 
\  —a  musician,  whose  peculiaiities  at  first  seemed  tricks, 
1   and  whom  few  heard  for  the  first  time  with  a  confident 
•I  appreciation— if,  then,  ridicule  had   met  him,  boldly 
1  and  unsparingly,  even  though  this  one  paper  had  alone 
opened  the  cry,  he  would  have  had  us  to  thank,  we 
believe,  for  the  tide  turned  back  on  which  lie  now  rides 
triumphantly  onward.     Certain  as  it  is  that  we  could 
not,  all  alone,  have  made  his  present  good  fortune,  it 
i  is  quite  as  certain  that  we  could,  all  alone,  \\avemarred 
\  it— and  that,  too,  to  the  profitable  spicing  of  our  some- 
!  what  praise-ridden  columns.     We  need  not. stop  to 


192 


EPHEMERA. 


tell  the  reader  that  we  are  describing  the  fiend  Siam- 
esed  to  Liberty — an  Irresponsible  Press  which  can  not 
be  chained  without  chaining  Liberty  too — but  we  wish 
to  show  that  there  is  some  merit  in  not  harnessing 
this  fiend  to  our  own  slow  vehicle  of  fortune.  There 
never  was  an  opportunity  so  ready  as  Ole  Bull's  ad 
vent  for  amusing  ridicule — but  we  were  the  first,  or 
among  the  first,  to  call  for  faith  in  him,  and  aid  in  his 
appreciation.  We  did  it  from  love  of  the  man  and 
belief  in  his  genius,  and  would  as  soon  have  been 
marked  on  the  brow  with  a  hot  iron  as  bargain  for  a 
syllable  of  it.  But — the  unforeseen  opportunity  pre 
senting  itself?  when,  apparently,  he  might  return  our 
paper's  service  by  a  favor  to  our  associate — he  was 
invited  without  scruple  to  do  so.  Suppose  he  had 
played  ten  minutes  on  the  violin  for  the  benefit  of  the 
proprietor  of  a  paper  devoted,  for  a  year,  invariably  to 
his  interests  ?  Would  it  have  been  the  "  act  of  chari 
ty"  for  which  a  paragraphist  says  that  "  Ole  Bull  was 
unreasonably  called  upon  ?"  The  high-spirited  Nor 
wegian  placed  his  regret,  that  he  could  not  be  here  to 
comply,  upon  no  such  footing. 

While  we  are  calling  things  by  their  real  names, 
we  may  as  well  change  the  label  of  another  matter — 
the  motive  of  the  benefit  to  Gen.  Morris.  As  the 
public  know,  our  estimable  associate,  by  twenty  years 
of  literary  labor,  amassed  a  moderate  fortune,  which, 
in  the  disasters  of  an  era  of  bankruptcy,  he  suddenly 
lost.  A  part  of  his  property  was  invested  in  the 
beautiful  country-seat  of  Undercliff  on  the  Hudson— 
the  residence  of  his  family  for  several  years.  His 
friends — with  a  provident  hope,  looking  beyond  the  ' 
clouds  that  enveloped  him — fastened,  to  the  transfer 
of  this  lovely  spot,  a  condition  by  which  he  might, 
if  able,  repurchase  it  at  a  certain  time,  and  at.  its  then 
reduced  valuation.  He  has  since  been  suffered  to 
tenant  it  for  a  trifling  rent.  He  has  improved  it,  em 
bellished  it,  increased  its  value.  "His  children  have 
grown  up  in  it.  But,  meantime,  the  limit  came  around 
— (now  only  a  short  time  off)— when  the  purchase 
must  be  made  or  the  home  lost.  His  old  friends  came 
to  inquire  into  the  probable  result  of  their  forethought 
for  him.  We  need  not  give  the  particulars  of  our 
business — General  Morris  was  partly  prepared  to  re 
deem  the  property.  The  lack  was  a  sum  that  might 
be  covered  by  a  benefit  concert — so  suggested  by  one 
of  the  parties.  It  was  urged  upon  him  "and  declined. 
He  was  told  that  Beranger  had  three  subscriptions 
(one  of  twenty  thousand  dollars)— that  Campbell 
had  several — that  Scott's  children  were  relieved  of 
his  debts  by  a  posthumous  subscription  of  two  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars — and  that  private  subscrip 
tions  for  literary  men  were  of  common  occurrence  in 
England. 

The  public  know  the  sequel.  He  refused,  till  the 
concert  was  agreed  upon  by  his  friends  without  him. 
The  Italians,  whom  our  paper  had  more  especially 
served,  sprang,  generously  and  with  acclamation,  to 
reciprocate  our  constant  advocacy  of  their  company's 
attraction.  The  musicians  resident  here  were  all 
friends  of  General  Morris,  for  he  alone,  more  than  all 
other  men  in  New  York  taken  together,  had  served  the 
dramatic  and  musical  profession.  They,  too,  joyous 
ly  sprang  to  the  chance  of  benefiting  him.  Never 
was  service  more  eagerly  rendered  than  that  by  the 
performers  last  night  at  the  Tabernacle— never  came 
good  purpose  before  the  public,  so  lamely  and  dis 
paragingly  construed. 

In  making  up  our  mind  to  allow  the  public  to  be 
intimate  with  us,  we  expect  now  and  then  to  expose 
the  lining  of  our  gaberdine.  We  conform  to  the  exi 
gences  of  the  latitude  we  live  in— but  upon  dishabille  ex 
planations,  we  hope  for  dishabille  constructions.  What 
we  have  written  here,  between  five  o'clock,  A.  M-,  and 
breakfast  (wholly  without  the  knowledge  of  General 
Morris),  goes  to  press  with  the  ink  undried,  and  we  ' 


have  no  security  against  errors  but  that  of  writing  as 
we  would  talk  to  our  confessor.  If  the  time  should 
ever  arise  when  really  good  intentions  may  be  trusted 
to  stand,  in  public  opinion  : — 

•''  With  that  credent  bulk 
That  no  unworthy  scandal  once  can  touch 
But  it  confounds  the  breather," 

we  may  cease  to  explain  "  why  our  stocking  is  un- 
gartered."  Meantime,  we  expect  to  die. 


THE  OPERA  BEREAVEMENT. — What  is  to  become 
of  this  widower  of  a  town  when  it  has  lost  its  fairly-es 
poused  Pico,  we  must  leave  to  the  survivor's  obituary 
to  record.  We  may  as  well  have  our  ears  boxed  and 
stowed  away  ! — Their  vocation  is  as  good  as  gone  ! 
No  more  Pico  ?  Faith,  it  will  go  hard  for  the  first 
week  or  two  !  But— by  the  way — as  those  "  lost  from 
us"  are  invariably  supposed  to  be  crowned  in  the  next 
place  they  go  to,  and  as,  of  course,  Pico  will  be 
crowned  in  the  presence  of  St.  Charles  and  the  brunet 
angels  of  New  Orleans,  we  must  take  upon  ourselves, 
as  her  New  York  "  gold  stick  in  waiting,"  to  summon 
one  at  least,  of  her  liege  subjects  to  his  duty.  (We 
happen,  fortunately,  to  possess  an  autograph  of 
George  the  Fourth,  signed  to  the  necessary  formula.) 
"  To  G W- K ,  Marquis  of  '  Picayune  :' 

'  RIGHT  TRUSTY  AND  RIGHT  WELL-BELOVED 
COUSIN. — We  greet  you  well.  Whereas,  the  1st  day 
of  March  next  (or  thereabouts)  is  appointed  for  our 
coronation. — These  are  to  will  and  command  you  (all 
excuses  set  apart)  to  make  your  personal  attendance 
on  us  at  the  time  above-mentioned,  furnished  and  ap 
pointed  as  to  your  rank  and  quality  appertaineth 

There  to  do  and  perform  all  such  services  as  shall  be 
required  and  belong  to  you. — Whereof  you  are  not  to 
fail. — And  so  we  bid  you  heartily  farewell. 

"Given  at.our  court  at  Palmo's,  the  21st  day  of 
January,  1845,  in  the  first  year  of  our  reign. 

"Pico  PRIMA  (donna).'" 


STAR  RETURNING  TO  ITS  MERIDIAN. — Pico  has 
changed  her  mind!  Jubilate!  She  has  declined  to 
go  to  New  Orleans  with  the  Borgheses,  and  will  re 
main  here  to  be  the  nucleus  for  a  new  operatic  crys- 
talization.  We  beg  New  York  and  Boston  to  shake 
hands  in  felicitation  !  And  now  that  it  is  settled  (as 
we  understand  it  was,  yesterday,  by  a  decisive  letter 
to  Signor  Borghese),  Jet  us  splinter  a  ray  or  two  of 
light  upon  the  diamond  that  has  so  wisely  refused  re 
setting.  New  Orleans  is  a  French  city,  with  a  French 
opera ;  and  Mademoiselle  Borghese  is  a  French  wo 
man,  with  lost  laurels  to  win  back  from  the  Italian 
Pico.  This  new  arena,  little  likely  to  have  been  an 
impartial  one,  is  a  great  way  off,  the  journey  danger 
ous  and  tedious,  and,  to  go  there,  Madame  Pico  must 
abruptly  leave  a  wave  of  fortune,  which  she  is  now 
riding  "  at  the  flood."  and  give  up  three  admiring  cities 
for  one  that  might  be  dubious  !  A  new  opera-house 
is  about  to  be  built  here,  of  which  she  will  be  the  first 
predominant  star;  her  concerts,  in  the  meantime,  in 
the  different  cities,  will  profitably  employ  her  ;  and, 
as  to  the  company,  there  is  a  substitute  lying  perdu 
for  Borghese,  and  a  tenor  might  soon  be  found  to  re 
place  Perozzi.  Out  of  these  facts,  the  public  can 
pick  the  good  reasons  Madame  Pico  has  for  abandon 
ing  her  journey  to  New  Orleans.  Let  us  do  our  best 
to  show  her  that  she  has  not  made  a  mistake  in  pre 
ferring  us 


TAKING  THE  WHITE  VEIL. — The  Undine  of  the 
Bowling-green  (Miss  Undine  W g,  if  named  after 


EPHEMERA. 


193 


the  gentleman  to  whose  liberality  she  owes  her  exist 
ence)  was  shown  last  evening,  with  her  radiant  beau 
ty  enveloped  in  slittering  white,  to  the  assembled 
friends  of  the  author  of  her  being.  To  alight  from 
the  poetry  of  the  matter: — Mr.  W g  invited,  yester 
day,  a  party  of  his  friends  to  see  an  illumination  of  the 
superb  fountain  with  which  he  has  embellished  that 
part  of  the  city.  The  rocky  structure  through  which 
it  leaps,  is  completely  encrusted  with  ice,  and  it  look 
ed  like — like  more  things  than  we  have  room  to  men 
tion.  The  colored  light  covered  the  fountain  first 
with  a  suffused  blush  of  the  tenderest  pink,  and  this 
deepened  to  crimson,  and  the  glow  upon  ice  and  water 
was  really  superb  beyond  any  effect  of  the  kind  we 
have  ever  witnessed.  It  made  even  a  Dry  Dock  om- 
nibus  (which  chanced  to  be  passing  at  the  moment), 
look  rosily  picturesque  and  fairy-like.  The  black  sky 
overhead  ;  the  delicate  tracery  of  the  naked  branches 
of  the  trees;  the  enclosure  of  architecture  with  lights  ] 
in  the  windows  (which  seemed  completely  to  shut  it  ! 
in  like  the  court  of  an  illuminated  palace),  were  all  ' 
striking  additions  to  the  effect.  We  would  inquire,  ! 
by  the  way,  whether  this  couleur  de  rose  could  not  be  '• 
adapted  to  the  brightening  of  the  ice  with  which  the 
fountains  of  the  mind  are  sometimes  crusted  over. 
Phlogistic  chymists  will  please  explain. 


IMPROVEMENTS  ON  THE  AMERICAN  LANGUAGE. — 
The  making  an  improvement  in  one's  mother's  prop 
erty  is,  of  course,  a  praiseworthy  filial  service,  and  we 
find  that  we  have  succeeded  in  enriching  our  "mother 
language"  by  successfully  breaking,  to  new  and  valu 
able  service,  a  pair  of  almost  useless  and  refractory 
terminations.  "  -Dom"  and  "  -tricity"  may  now  be 
hitched  by  a  single  hyphen  to  any  popular  word,  name, 
or  phrase,  and,  without  the  cumbrous  harness  of  a 
periphrasis,  may  turn  it  out  in  the  full  equipage  of  a 
collect:ve  noun!  Our  first  experiment  in  this  econo 
my  of  parts  of  speech  was  the  describing  a  charming 
class  of  society  by  the  single  word  JAPONICA-DOM. 
This  musical  substantive  could  hardly  be  displaced  by 
a  shorter  sentence  than  "  the  class  up  town  who  usu 
ally  wear  in  their  hair  the  expensive  erotic  commonly 
called  a  japonica."  The  second  experiment  was  the 
word  PICO-TRICITY — a  condensation  of  "  the  power, 
brilliancy,  and  electric  effect  of  the  singing  of  Mad 
ame  Rosina  Pico."  We  see  by  the  papers  that  these 
expediting  inventions  (for  which  we  liberally  refrained 
from  taking  out  a  patent)  are  freely  used  already  by 
our  brother  administrators  of  the  mother  language, 
and  we  have  only  respectfully  to  suggest  a  proper 
economy  and  fitness  in  their  application. 


EARLY-HOURS-DOM. — We  scarcely  need  explain,  we 
presume,  that  we  have  undertaken  the  wholesome 
mission  of  giving  interest,  as  far  as  in  us  lies,  to  the 
more  re  fined  occupancy  of  that  portion  of  the  day  com 
prised  between  twilight  and  go-to-bcd  time — becoming, 
so  to  speak,  the  apostle  of  fashionable  early-hours- 
dom.  Of  course  we  are  entirely  too  practical  to  dream 
of  "  reforming  out,"  by  mere  force  of  argument,  the 
four-hours'  unprofitable  yawn  and  the  night's  restitu 
tion-less  robbery  of  sleep.  Every  one  knows  that  the 
reasons  for  the  late  hours  of  European  fashion  are 
wholly  wanting  in  this  country — but  every  one  consents 
to  follow  the  fashion  ivithout  the  reasons.  The  only 
way  to  diminish  the  attraction  of  late  amusements 
is  to  anticipate  them  by  more  attractive  early  amuse 
ments.  It  will  be  remembered  that  we  commenced 
our  vigorous  support  of  the  opera  with  this  view  of 
the  use  of  it.  It  was  a  well-put  though  unsuspected 
blow  to  the  habit  of  late  hours,  for  many  gave  up  par 


ties  they  would  otherwise  have  gone  to,  from  having 
been  sufficiently  amused  at  the  opera;  and  others 
found  out,  practically,  that  to  dress  and  go  to  the  op 
era  from  seven  till  ten,  gave  all  the  relaxation  they  re 
quired,  and  their  natural  night's  sleep  into  the  bar 
gain  !  It  is  with  this  ultimate  view  of  making  a  fash 
ionable  Kate 

"  Conformable  as  other  household  Kates"— 

giving  us  a  substitute  that  shall  make  late  hours  more 
easily  dispensed  with — that  we  look  upon  the  plan  of 
this  new  opera-house  as  a  national  benefit.  If  built 
luxuriously,  lavishly  lighted,  made  to  serve  all  the  pur 
poses  of  a  sumptuous  festal  saloon,  and  give  exquisite 
music  besides,  it  will  be  a  preferable  resort  to  a  ball 
room  ;  and  we  believe  that  it  is  only  from  the  lack  of 
a  preferable  resort  in  evening  dress,  that  late  parties 
are  any  way  endurable.  Early  parties  on  the  off 
ninhts  of  the  opera,  would  soon  follow,  we  think — the 
habit  of  early  hours  of  gayety,  once  relished — and  so 
would  creep  out  this  servile  and  senseless  imitation  of 
foreign  fashion. 


UNTILLED  FIELD  OF  LITERATURE  IN  NKW  YORK. 
— The  one  country  we  have  lived  in,  without  loving 
a  native,  is  the  country  that,  on  the  whole,  gave  us 
the  most  to  admire — FRANCE.  We  embroidered  a 
year  and  a  half  of  our  memory  with  the  grace  and  wit 
of  the  world's  capital  of  taste,  and  we  have  left  a  heart 
(travellers'  pattern)  in  every  other  country  between 
Twenty-second  street  and  the  Black  sea;  but,  that 
we  do  not  even  suspect  the  color  of  a  French  heart 
ache  we  solemnly  vow — and  marvel.  We  admire  the 
French  quite  enough,  however  (perhaps  there  lies  the 
philosophy  of  it!)  to  leave  no  fuel  for  sentiment  to 
mourn  over  as  wastage,  and  now — (apropos  des  bottes) 
— why  have  we  no  vehicle  for  French  wit  in  New 
York — no  battery  for  the  friction  and  sparkle  of  French 
electricity?  How  can  the  French  live  without  a 
"  Charivari  ?"  Twenty  thousand  French  inhabitants 
and  no  savor  in  the  town,  as  if  the  gods  had  "dined 
below  stairs!"  Ten  thousand  French  women  (prob 
ably),  and  either  no  celebrity,  of  wit  or  beauty,  among 
them,  or  no  needful  newspaper-cloud  in  which  the 
thunder  and  lightning  of  such  pervading  electricities 
could  be  collected  ! 

We  wonder  whether  the  "  Courrier  des  Etats  Unis" 
(the  Anchises  French  paper  which  we  read,  as  the 
pious  ./Eneas  carried  his  father  on  his  back,  to  have 
something  to  cherish,  out  of  the  city  left  behind — 
something  French,  that  is  to  say) — we  wonder  wheth 
er,  on  their  alternate  days,  the  editors  of  that  sober 
tri-weekly  paper  could  not  give  us  something  spiced 
a,  la  Par'isicnne — and  whether  such  a  vehicle,  for  the 
French  wit  that  must  be  here,  benumbed  or  hidden, 
would  not  be  a  profitable  speculation  !  The  "  Cour 
rier"  is  the  best  of  useful  and  grave  papers,  and  en 
tirely  fulfils  its  destiny,  but  it  is  small  pleasure  to  the 
ten  thousand  people  in  New  York,  who  relish  French 
literature,  to  re-peruse  the  matter  of  the  daily  papers, 
rechauffe  in  a  foreign  language.  If  the  lack  of  Paris 
ian  material,  here,  were  an  apparent  objection,  what  a 
delightful  luxury  it  would  be  to  have  a  paper  made  up, 
at  Jirst,  entirely,  with  the  condensed  essence  of  the 
gay  papers  of  Paris  ?  A  feature  of  New  York  chari- 
vari-ty  might  be  gradually  worked  in — but,  meantime, 
a  well-selected  bouquet  of  the  prodigal  wit  and  fun  of 
the  capital  (made  comprehensible  by  a  correspond 
ence  kept  up  with  Paris,  which  should  explain  allu 
sions,  etc.)  would  be,  we  should  really  suppose,  most 
attractive  to  the  better  classes  of  our  society,  and,  to 
the  French  of  New  Orleans  and  other  more  remote 
cities,  an  indispensable  luxury. 

There  is  a  natural  homeopathy  for  everything  French 
in  this  city — much  stronger  than  for  the  same  thing* 


194 


EPHEMERA. 


a  VAnglaise.  We  would  wish,  too,  that  the  barrier 
of  a  different  language  were  gradually  broken  down, 
BO  that  some  of  the  delightful  peculiarities  of  Paris 
might  ooze  into  our  city  manners  through  a  conduit 
of  periodical  literature.  Heigho  ! — to  think  of  the 
brilliant  intellectual  lamps  blazing  like  noonday  in 
France,  while,  with  the  material  for  the  same  bright 
ness  about  us,  we  sit  by  the  glimmer  of  fire-light! 
Oh,  Jules  Janin  !  "  American  in  Paris  !" — come  over 
with  your  prodigal  brain  and  be  a  Parisian  in  Ameri 
ca!  Ordain  yourself  as  a  missionary  of  wit,  and  Ja- 
nin-ify  a  continent  by  a  year's  exile  beyond  the  Bou 
levards!  You'll  laugh  at  us  when  you  return,  but 
streams  chafe  the  channels  they  refresh,  and  we  will 
take  you  with  your  murmur! 

"  L'onda,  dal  mar  divisa, 
Bagna  la  valle  e  1'monte, 
Va  passegiara 
In  fiume, 
Va  prigionera 
In  fonte, 

Mormora  sempre  e  gem 
Fin  che  non  torna  al  mar." 

It  would  hardly  be  inferred — but  wo  really  sat 
down  to  write  the  following  paragraph,  and  not  the 
foregoing  one  : — 

THE  PRIMA-DONNAS  AT  FAULT. — The  "Courrier 
des  Etats  Unis"  has  now  and  then  an  ebullition  of  na 
tional  spirituality,  in  the  shape  of  a  half  column  of 
theatrical  gossip,  and  we  have  had  on  our  table,  for 
several  days,  a  cut-out  paragraph,  very  well  hit  off, 
touching  one  or  two  of  the  town's  pleasure-makers. 
The  editor  is,  of  course,  behind  the  curtain,  as  the 
natural  centre  of  the  foreign  circle  of  New  York,  and 
he  writes  with  knowledge.  He  gives  as  a  fact  that 
Borghese  cleared  $550  by  her  benefit,  but  he  dispara 
ges  the  performance  of  that  evening,  and  hauls  the 
ladies  seriously  over  the  coals  for  having  exhausted 
themselves  at  a  private  party  the  night  before  !  He 
detects  an  anachronism  in  Serniramide,  and  calls  Pico 
to  account  for  appearing  before  the  queen  (as  Arsace) 
with  his  mother's  crown  on,  when  the  good  lady  had 
as  yet  only  promised  it  to  him !  The  first  thing  in  the 
succeeding  duet,  says  the  "  Courrier,"  should  have 
been  a  remark  from  Semiramide  (who  has  promised 
him  the  crown  as  a  lover,  not  knowing  it  is  her  son) 
to  this  effect :  "  Vous  etes  un  peu  presse,  mon  bel 
amoureux!"  ou  bien,  "  De  quel  droit  portez-vous 
cette  couronne,  que  je  n'ai  fait  que  vous  offrir  ?"  The 
crown  given  him  by  the  high-priest,  out  of  the  pater 
nal  box,  was,  of  course,  only  symbolic,  as  the  queen 
was  still  on  the  throne. 

KORPONAY'S  FALL,  FROM  A  FAUX  PAS. — Another 
matter  touched  in  the  same  paragraph  is  the  non- 
rising  of  the  new  ballet-star  promised  for  that  evening. 
The  leader  of  the  constellation  chanced  to  be  taken 
ill  (below  the  horizon)  at  Philadelphia,  but  the  Cour 
rier  states  that  the  illness  was  owing  to  a  fall,  from 
faux  pas,  and  that  the  faux  pas  was  an  engagement 
by  ihe  tumbler  (Korponay)  to  go  to  Philadelphia 
once  a  week  for  twenty-four  dollars,  when  his  expen 
ses,  wife  and  all,  were  twenty-six/  The  Courrier  does 
not  state,  what  we  think  highly  probable,  that  Korpo- 
nay's  blood  has  come  through  too  many  generatio 
of  gentlemen  to  be  good  at  a  dancing-master's  bar 
gains. 

THE  NEW  DANSEUSE. — A  third  topic  of  this  same 
pregnant  paragraph  is  the  contention  between  two 
dancing-masters,  Charruaud  and  Mons.  Korponay,  for 
the  honor  of  having  given  the  finishing  grace  to  the 
"light  fantastic  toe"  of  Miss  BROOKS,  the  new  won 
der.  Monsieur  Charruaud  (Frenchman-like)  declares 
that  she  is  not  only  his  pupil,  but  by  no  means  the  best 
of  his  pupils  .'  Monsieur  Korponay  simply  advertises 
her  as  his;  and  the  star,  and  the  star's  mamma,  con 
fess  to  her  Korponay-tivity.  But — 


("  How  Alexander's  dust  may  stop  a  bung  !") 

What  blood  does  the  public  think  is  running  in  the 
veins  of  this  same  "  fantastic  toe?" — James  Brooks — 
the  "  Florio,"  who,  ten  years  ago,  was  the  poetical 
passion  of  this  country — was  the  father  of  this  dancing 
girl  !  What  would  that  sensitive  poet  have  written 
(prophetically)  on  the  first  appearance  of  his  daughter 
in  a  pas  seul  ! 


LONGFELLOW'S  WAIF. — A  friend,  who  is  a  very  fine 
critic,  gave  us,  not  long  since,  a  review  of  this  delight 
ful  new  book.  Perfectly  sure  that  anything  from  that 
source  was  a  treasure  for  our  paper,  we  looked  up 
from  a  half-reid  proof  to  run  our  eye  hastily  over  it, 
and  gave  it  to  the  printer — not,  however,  without 
mentally  differing  from  the  writer  as  to  the  drift  of 
the  last  sentence,  as  follows: — 

"  We  conclude  our  notes  on  the  'Waif  with  the 
observation  that,  although  full  of  beauties,  it  is  in 
fected  with  a  moral  taint — or  is  this  a  mere  freak  of 
our  own  fancy  ?  We  shall  be  pleased  if  it  be  so — but 
there  does  appear,  in  this  exquisite  little  volume,  a 
very  careful  avoidance  of  all  American  poets  who  may 
be  supposed  especially  to  interfere  with  the  claims  of 
Mr.  Longfellow.  These  men  Mr  Longfellow  can 
continuously  imitate  (is  that  the  word?)  and  yet  never 
even  incidentally  commend." 

Notwithstanding  the  haste  with  which  it  passed 
through  our  attention  (for  we  did  not  see  it  in  proof),  the 
question  of  admission  was  submitted  to  a  principle  in 
our  mind;  and,  in  admitting  it,  we  did  by  Longfellow  as 
we  would  have  him  do  by  us.  It  was  a  literary  charge, 
by  a  pen  that  never  records  an  opinion  without  some 
supposed  good  reason,  and  only  injurious  to  Long 
fellow  (to  our  belief)  while  circulating,  un-replied-to, 
\nconversation-dom.  In  the  second  while  we  reasoned 
upon  it,  we  went  to  Cambridge  and  saw  the  poet's 
face,  frank  and  scholar-like,  glowing  among  the  busts 
and  pictures  in  his  beautiful  library,  and  (with,  per 
haps  a  little  mischief  in  remembering  how  we  have 
always  been  the  football  and/iethe  nosegay  of  our  con- 
1  temporaries)  we  returned  to  our  printing-office  arguing 
!  thus  :  Our  critical  friend  believes  this,  though  we  do 
not;  Longfellow  is  asleep  on  velvet;  it  will  do  him 
good  to  rouse  him  ;  his  friends  will  come  out  and 
fight  his  battle  ;  the  charge  (which  to  us  would  be  a 
comparative  pat  on  the  back)  will  be  openly  disproved, 
and  the  acquittal  of  course  leaves  his  fame  brighter 
than  before — the  injurious  whisper  in  conversation- 
dom  killed  into  the  bargain! 

That  day's  Mirror  commenced  its 

"  Circle  in  the  water 
Which  only  seeketh  to  expand  itself 
Till,  by  much  spreading,  it  expand  to  naught." 

We  expected  the  return  mails  from  Boston  to  bring 
us  a  calmly  indignant  "Daily  Advertiser,"  a  coquet- 
tishly  reproachful  "  Transcript,"  a  paternally  severe 
"  Courier,"  and  an  Olympically-denunciatory  "Atlas." 
j  A  week  has  elapsed,  and  we  are  still  expecting.  Thun- 
j  der  is  sometimes  "out  to  pasture."  But,  meantime, 
I  a  friend  who  thinks  it  the  driver's  lookout  if  stones 
are  thrown  at  a  hackney-coach,  but  interferes  when  it 
is  a  private  carriage — (has  loved  us  these  ten  years, 
that  is  to  say,  and  never  objected  to  our  being  a  tar 
get,  but  thinks  a  fling  at  Longfellow  is  a  very  different 
matter) — this  friend  writes  us  a  letter.  He  thinks  as 
we  do,  exactly,  and  we  shall,  perhaps,  disarm  the 
above-named  body-guard  of  the  accused  poet  by  quo 
ting  the  summing-up  of  his  defence: — 

"It  has  been  asked,  perhaps,  why  Lowell  was  neg 
lected  in  this  collection?  Might  it  not  as  well  be 
asked  why  Bryant,  Dana,  and  Halleck,  were  neglect 
ed  ?  The  answer  is  obvious  to  any  one  who  candidly 


EPHEMERA. 


195 


considers  the  character  of  the  collection.  It  professed 
to  be,  according  to  the  proem,  from  the  humbler  poets ; 
and  it  was  intended  to  embrace  pieces  that  were  anon 
ymous,  or  which  were  not  easily  accessible  to  the  gen 
eral  reader — the  ivaifs  and  estrays  of  literature.  To 
put  anything  of  Lowell's,  for  example,  into  a  collec 
tion  of  waifs,  would  be  a  peculiar  liberty  with  pieces 
which  are  all  collected  and  christened." 

It  can   easily   be  seen   how  Longfellow,   and   his 
friends  for  him,  should  have  a  very  different  estimate 
from  ourself  as  to  the  value  of  an  eruption,  in  print,  of 
the  secret  humors   of  appreciation.      The   transient 
disfiguring  of  the  skin  seems  to  us  better  than  disease 
concealed  to  aggravation.     But,  apart  from  the  intrin-  j 
sic   policy   of  bringing   all   accusations  to  the  light, 
where  they  can  be  encountered,  we  think  that  the  pe 
culiar   temper  of  the  country  requires  it.     Our  na 
tional    character   is   utterly   destitute   of   veneration,  j 
There  is  a  hostility  to  all  privileges,  except  property  ; 
in  money— to  all  hedges  about  honors— to  all  reserves  : 
of  character  and  reputation— to  all  accumulations  of 
value  not  bankable.    There  is  but  one  field  considered 
fairly  open — money-making.     Fame-making,  charac-  j 
ter-making,  position-making,  power-making,  are  priv 
ileged  arenas  in  which  the  "  republican  many"  have 
no  share. 

The   distrust   with   which    all    distinction,   except  j 
wealth,  is  regarded,  makes  a  whispered   doubt  more  j 
dangerous  to  reputation  than  a  confessed  defect.    The  j 
dislike  to  inheritors  of  anything— birthrights  of  any 
thing — family  names  or  individual  genius — metamor 
phoses  the  first  suspicion  greedily  into  a  belief.     A 
clearing-up  of  a  disparaging  doubt  about  a  man  is  a 
public   disappointment.     "  That   fellow    is   all   right 
again,  hang  him!"  is  the  mental  ejaculation  of  ninety- 
nine  in  a  hundred  of  the  readers  of  a  good  defence  or 
a  justification. 

P.  S.  We  are  not  recording  this  view  of  tilings  by 
way  of  assuming  to  be,  ourself,  above  this  every-day 
level  of  the  public  mind — too  superfine  to  be  a  part  \ 
of  such  a  public.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  We  can  not  afford 
superfinery  of  any  kind.  We  are  trying  to  make  a  i 
living  by  being  foremost  in  riding  on  a  coming  turn  of 
the  tide  in  these  matters.  The  country  is  at  the  low 
est  ebb  of  democracy  consistent  with  its  intelligence. 
The  taste  for  refinements,  for  distinctions,  for  aristo 
cratic  entrenchments,  is  moving  with  the  additional 
momentum  of  a  recoil.  We  minister  to  this,  in  the 
way  of  business,  as  the  milliner  makes  a  crown-shaped 
head-dress  for  Mrs.  President  Tyler.  It  has  its  pen 
alty,  but  that  was  reckoned  at  starting.  We  knew, 
of  course,  that  we  could  not  sell  fashionable  opinions 
at  our  counter  without  being  assailed  as  assuming  to 
be  the  representative  of  fashion* — just  as  if  we  could 
not  even  name  a  tribute  of  libertinism  to  virtue  with 
out  being  sillily  called  a  libertine  by  the  Courier, 
Commercial,  and  Express.  However,  the're  is  some 
hope,  by  dint  of  lifetime  fault-culture,  that,  in  the  sod 
over  a  man's  grave,  there  will  be  no  slander-seed  left 
to  flower  posthumously  undetected. 


but  wishing  us  to  impress  upon  our  religious  readers, 
i  by  arguments  more  at  length,  the  sacredness  of  good 
j  music,  even  by  an  operatic  singer.  We  remember  a 
passage  in  Burnet's  Records,  which  shows  that  even 
[  these  operatic  singers,  if  enlisted  to  sing  in  the  choirs 
of  churches,  would  become  the  special  subjects  of 
prayer.  "  Also  ye  shall  pray  for  them  that  find  any 
light  in  this  church,  or  give  any  behests,  book,  bell, 
chalice  or  vestment,  surplices,  water-cloth  or  towel, 
lands,  rents,  lamp  or  light,  or  other  aid  or  service, 
whereby  God's  worship  is  better  served,  sustained  and 
maintained  in  reading  and  SINGING."  It  has  long  been 
our  opinion  that  to  heighten  the  character  of  church 
music  would  be  aiding  and  giving  interest  and  con- 
I  sequence  to  religious  service,  and  the  inviting  of  pro 
fessed  singers  to  the  choirs,  for  the  sabbaths  they  pass 
in  the  city,  would  make  them  particularly  (according 
to  Burnet)  special  subjects  of  prayer. 


The  four-feet  precipice  between  the  carriage  wheel 
and  the  side  walk,  and  the  back  slope  to  the  range  of 
racing  omnibuses  and  drunken  sleigh-riders,  prevent 
ladies  from  embarking  in  carriages  at  present,  and  this 
is  one  thing  that  reconciles  us  to  the  opera  people's 
having  chosen  to 

"  fold  up  their  tents  like  the  Arab 
And  silently  steal  away." 

Madame  Pico  has  found  a  rich  oasis  in  Boston  appre 
ciation,  and  we  trust  the  snow  will  have  melted  away 
before  the  Tabernacle  so  that  it  will  not  bean  inacces 
sible  desert  when  she  returns.  Her  concert  there  will 
be  like  a  dawn  after  a  month's  night  of  music. 


POPULARITY  OF  MADAME  Pico. — During  the  past 
week  we  received  a  letter  from  a  serious  writer  (a  lady), 
confessing  to  her  own  great  delight  in  Madame  Pico, 

•  Others  have  recorded  this  national  habit  of  attacking  the 
individual  instead  of  the  opinion.  Dr.  Reese,  in  his  "  Ad 
dress  in  behalf  of  the  Bible  in  Schools,"  thus  speaks  of  the 
manner  of  opposition  to  his  philanthropic  labors  : — 

"  I  have  learned  that  to  tremble  in  the  presence  of  popular 
clamor,  or  desert  the  post  of  duty  when  it  becomes  one  of 
danger,  is  worthy  neither  of  honor  nor  manhood  ;  else  I  would 
have  gladly  retired  from  the  conflict  to  which  I  found  my  first 
ojfficial  act  exposed  me,  and  the  hostile  weapons  of  which,  were 
aimed,  not  at  the  law  under  which  I  was  acting,  but  hurled  only 
againtt  my  humble  self." 


TWO  OR  THREE    NEW  FASHIONS  IN   FRANCE. In    a 

French  pamphlet  handed  in  to  our  office  a  few  days 
ago,  purporting  to  be  Monsieur  Grousset's  justification 
for  having  been  shot  down  in  Broadway  by  Monsieur 
Erneric,  Mr.  Grousset  describes  a  previous  affair  with 
the  same  gentleman,  lately,  in  France.  On  that  oc 
casion,  he  states,  Mr.  Emeric  went  to  the  field  attended 
by  nine  persons,  one  of  whom  was  a  lady  ! 

We  find,  also,  by  a  private  letter  from  a  friend  in 
!  Paris,  that  the  now  common  FEMALE  practice  of  SMO 
KING  CIGARS  is  considered  (by  connoisseurs  in  know- 
ing-dotn)  as  a  most  engaging  addition  to  the  attractions 
of  some  particular  styles  of  beauty  !  "The  play  of  the 
mouth  upon  the  cigar,  the  reddening  of  the  lips  by  the 

I  irritation   of  the  tobacco,  and   the  insouciant  air,  al- 
!  together,  which  it  gives  to  the  smoker,  adds  to  the 
'  peculiar  quality  of  a  dashing  and  coquettish  woman,  as 

much  as  it  would  detract  from  that  of  a  retiring  and 
'  timid  one."  The  eyes  (he  adds)  gleam  with  a  peculiar 
softness,  through  the  smoke.  Our  correspondent  had 
(just  returned  from  a  call  on  a  charming  American 
lady,  whom  he  found  with  a  cigar  in  her  rosy  mouth  ! 
WELLINGTON  BOOTS  have  been  sported  during  the 
late  bad  weather  for  walking,  by  some  of  the  fashion 
able  ladies  of  Pai  is.  They  are  made  of  patent  leather, 
reaching  to  the  knee,  with  a  small  tassel  in  front  (at 
least  so  exhibited  in  shop-windows)  and  the  leg  of  the 
boot  rounded  and  shaped  in  firm  leather,  like  the 
fashion  of  boots  twenty  years  ago.  The  high  heel 
(keeping  the  sole  of  the  foot  from  the  wet  pavement), 
is  "raved  about,"  in  Paris — the  ladies  wondering  how 
such  a  sensible  thing  as  a  heel  should  have  been  so 
long  disused  by  the  sex  most  in  need  of  its  protection. 
The  relief  of  the  ankles  from  contact  with  the  cold  or 
wet  edge  of  the  dress  in  wet  weather  is  dwelt  upon  in 
the  description,  as  is  also  the  increased  beauty  of  the 
foot  from  the  heightening  of  the  arch  of  the  instep  by 

II  the  high  heel- 


196 


EPHEMERA. 


FASHIONS  FOR  COUNTRY  BELLES. — The  following 
appeal  to  our  gallantry  pulls  very  hard  : — 

»  MR.  EDITOR:  One  of  the  greatest  treats  you 
could  give  your  country  lady  readers,  would  be  to 
furnish  them  from  time  to  time,  with  brief  hints  as  to 
the  actual  style  of  fashions  in  the  metropolis.  We 
have,  all  along,  depended  for  information  on  this  im 
portant  subject,  upon  the  monthly  magazines,  all  of 
which  profess  to  give  the  fashions  as  worn,  but  we  find 
out  to  our  dismay,  that  they  pick  up  their  fashions 
from  the  Paris  and  London  prints  at  random — some 
of  them  adopted  by  our  city  ladies,  some  not !  It  thus 
happens  that  we  country  people,  who  like  to  be  in  the 
fashion,  are  often  subjected  to  great  expense  and  mor 
tification — relying  too  implicitly  upon  the  magazine 
reports.  We  cause  a  bonnet  or  a  dress  to  be  made 
strictly  in  accordance  with  the  style  prescribed  in  the 
fashion  plate  of  the  magazine,  and  when  we  hie  away 
to  the  city  with  our  new  finery,  we  discover  that  our 
costume  is  so  outre  that  every  one  laughs  at  us!  Now, 
should  there  not  be  some  remedy  for  this  evil  ? 

"  We  ladies  hope  you  will  do  something  for  us  in 
the  way  of  remedying  this.  You  can  make  up  a  para 
graph,  every  now  and  then,  on  the  subject  without 
more  trouble  than  it  costs  you  in  writing  a  critique  on 
a  much  less  important  matter.  Let  us  know  all  about 
the  real  changes  in  the  'outer  woman'  in  Broadway 
and  in  drawing-rooms.  Tell  us  all  about  the  New 
York  shawls,  and  New  York  handkerchiefs,  and  New 
York  gloves,  etc.  And,  when  the  fine  weather  again 
appears,  tell  us  about  the  riding -dresses  and  riding- 
caps  your  friends  in  the  city  wear,  and  do  not  fail  to 
give  us  an  exact  account  of  the  kind  of  sun-defenders 
in  vogue,  whether  they  be  parasols,  shades,  hoods,  or 
anything  else. 

"  I  subscribe  myself,  your  well-wisher, 

"  KATE  SALISBURY. 
"  Belle  Grange,  Jan.  29." 

We  have  omitted  the  bulk  of  Miss  Kate's  letter, 
giving  rather  too  long  an  account  of  two  or  three  ex 
pensive  disasters  from  being  misguided  by  magazine 
as  to  the  fashions — but  it  is  easily  to  be  seen  that  it  is 
a  matter  that  concerns  outlay  which  "  comes  home  to 
business  and  bosom."  We  shall  take  it  into  con 
sideration.  Our  present  impression  is,  that  we  shall 
set  apart  half  a  column,  weekly,  bi-weekly,  or  tri 
weekly,  devoted  to  "  the  fashions  by  an  eye-witness." 
This,  however,  immediately  suggests  a  dilemma : 
There  are  two  schools  of  taste  among  the  ladies  ! 
Some  women  dress  for  men's  eyes,  and  this  style  is 
both  striking  and  economical.  Other  women  (most 
women  indeed),  dress  for  ladies'  approval  only,  and 
this  style  is  studiously  expensive,  sacrifices  becoming- 
ness  to  novelty,  and  is  altogether  beyond  male  appre 
ciation. —  Which  style  should  we  shape  our  report  for  ? 


CANADIAN  Gossip. — The  chief  of  the  Scotch  clan, 
McNab,  has  lately  emigrated  to  Canada  with  a  hun 
dred  clansman.  On  arriving  at  Toronto,  he  called  on 
his  newly  illustrious  namesake,  Sir  Allan,  and  left  his 
card  as  "  The  McNab."  Sir  Allan  returned  his  visit, 
leaving  as  his  card,  "  The  other  McNab."  The  un 
usual  relish  of  this  accidental  bit  of  fun,  has  elevated 
the  definite  article  into  a  kind  of  provincial  title,  and, 
in  common  conversation,  the  leading  individual  of  a 
family  name  is  regularly  ^e-ified.  Among  the  officers 
at  Montreal  there  was  lately  a  son  of  the  late  cele 
brated  "  Jack  Mytton,"  the  most  game-y  sportsman 
in  England.  Meeting  Sir  Allan  McNab  at  a  mess- 
dinner,  young  Mytton  sent  wine  to  him  with  the  mes 
sage  :  "  The  Mytton"  would  be  happy  to  take  wine 
with  "  The  Other  McNab."  We  should  not  wonder 
f  this  funny  use  of  the  definite  article  became  the 


|  germ  of  the  first  American  title.      The  Tyler !      The 

\  Mrs.  Tyler ! 

This  same  young  Mytton,  by  the  way,  inherited  his 
father's  adventurous  temper,  and  though  the  first 
favorite  of  Montreal  society,  he  alone,  of  all  tlie  offi 
cers,  could  find  no  lady  willing  to  sleigh-ride  with  him. 
They  openly  declared  their  fear  of  his  pranks  of  driving. 
One  fine  day,  however,  when  all  the  town  was  on  run 
ners,  Mytton  was  seen  with  a  dashing  turn-out,  and  a 
lady  deeply  veiled,  sitting  beside  him,  to  whose  com 
fort  he  was  continually  ministering,  and  to  whom  he 
was  talking  with  the  most  merry  glee.  It  was,  to  all 
appearance,  a  charming  and  charmed  auditor,  at  least. 
The  next  day,  there  was  great  inquiry  as  to  who  was 
driving  with  Mr.  Mytton.  The  mystery  was  not 
solved  for  a  week.  It  came  out  at  last,  that  in  a 
certain  milliner's  shop  in  Montreal  had  stood  a  wooden 
"lay  figure"  for  the  exhibition  of  caps  and  articles 
of  dress.  The  despairing  youth  had  bought  this,  had 
it  expensively  and  fashionably  dressed,  and  still  keeps 
it  at  his  lodgings  (under  the  name  of  "  Ma'm'selle 
Pis-Aller")  for  his  companion  in  sleigh-ridina! 


WHO  ARE  THE  UPPER  TEN  THOUSAND  ? 

(In  reply  to  a  question  of  Fanny  Forester's.) 

*  *  *  Your  postscript,  asking  "Enlightenment  as 
to  the  upper  ten  thousand"  can  not  be  answered  with 
a  candle-end  of  attention.  From  the  "  sixes  and 
sevens"  of  our  brain,  we  must  draw  a  whole  "dip," 
new  and  expensive,  to  throw  light  on  that  matter- 
expensive,  inasmuch  as  the  same  length  of  editorial 
candle  would  light  us  through  a  paragraph.  If  ador- 
|  able  "Cousin  'Bel"  chance  to  be  leaning  over  your 
i  chair,  therefore,  beg  her  to  lift  the  cuHain  of  her 
auburn  tress-aract  from  your  shoulder,  and  allow  the 
American  public  to  look  over  while  you  read. 

The  upper  ten  thousand,  all  told,  would  probably 
number  one  hundred  thousand,  or  more  :  Not  in  Eng 
land,  where  the  upperdorn  is  a  matter  of  ascertained 
certainty,  but  in  a  republic,  where  every  man  has  his 
own  idea  of  what  kind  are  uppermost,  and  where,  of 
course,  there  are  as  many  "  ten  thousands"  as  there 
are  different  claims  to  position.  Probably  few  things 
would  be  funnier  than  for  an  angel  suddenly  to  re 
quest  the  upper  ten  thousand  of  New  York  to  walk  up 
the  let-down  steps  of  a  cloud,  and  record  their  names 
and  residences,  for  the  convenience  of  the  up-town 
ministering  spirits !  A  hundred  thousand,  we  are  sure, 
would  be  the  least  number  of  autographs  left  in  the 
heavenly  directory  ! 

But,  till  we  arrive  at  the  "red-book"  degree  of  defi 
nite  aristocracy,  a  newspaper  addressed  to  the  "  upper 
ten  thousand"  embraces  a  sufficient  bailiwick  for  the 
most  ambitious  circulation.  There  are  all  manner  of 
standards  for  "the  best  people."  The  ten  thousand 
who  live  in  the  biggest  houses  would  define  New  York 
upperdom  with  satisfactory  clearness,  to  some.  The 
ten  thousand  "  safest"  men  would  satisfy  others.  The 
educated  ten  thousand — the  religious  ten  thousand — 
the  ten  thousand  who  had  grandfathers— the  ten 
thousand  who  go  to  Saratoga  and  Newport — the 
liberal  ten  thousand — the  ten  thousand  who  ride  in 
carriages — the  ten  thousand  who  spend  over  a  certain 
sum — the  ten  thousand  "  above  Bleecker" — the  ten 
thousand  "ever  heard  of" — are  aristocracies  as  others 
estimate  them.  And  till  the  really  upper  ten  thousand 
are  indubitably  defined,  there  are  ninety  thousand, 
more  or  less,  who  are  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  most  desi 
rable  illusion. 

No!  no! — republican  benevolence — the  "greatest 
happiness  of  the  greatest  number" — would  stop  the 
march  of  civilization  as  to  aristocracy,  where  it  is. 
Its  progress  is  through  a  reversed  cornucopia,  and  the 


EPHEMERA 


197 


extreme  end  is  too  small  for  the  comfort  of  the  "  na 
tion."  Meantime,  however,  the  standard  of  good 
manners  is  rather  loosely  kept,  and  though  the  ten 
41  ten-thousands"  are  all  seen  to  be  tolerable,  there  is 
a  small  class  who  go  wholly  unappreciated — those 
who  are  unconscious  of  their  own  degree  from  nature, 
and  are  only  recognisable  by  the  highest  standards. 
We  speak  of  those  who  have  "  no  manner" — simply 
because  they  would  be  less  refined  if  they  had.  There 
are  enchanting  women  in  New  York — we  ourself 
know  a  half-dozen — who  are  wholly  unaware  them 
selves,  wholly  unsuspected  by  others,  of  carrying  a 
mark  from  nature  that  in  Europe  would  supersede  all 
questions  of  origin  and  circumstances. — English  aris 
tocratic  society  is  sprinkled  throughout  with  these 
sealed  packets  of  nobility  from  God— one  of  whom  I 
remember  inquiring  out  with  great  interest,  a  single 
lady  of  thirty-six  apparently,  but  looking  like  a  dis 
tilled  drop  of  the  "  blood  of  all  the  Howards."  simple 
as  a  tulip  on  (he  stem,  and  said,  though  obscurely  con 
nected,  to  have  refused  a  score  of  the  best  matches 
of  England.  These  "no  manners"  that  are  better 
than  "good  manners"  walk  a  republic  quite  undetected 
as  aristocracy;  but,  as  the  persons  so  born  are  always 
beloved  (losing  only  the  admiration  that  is  due  to 
them)  their  benighted  state  scarce  calls  for  a  mis 
sionary  ! 

We  should  not  be  surprised  if  there  were  a  pair 
from  this  Nature's  Upper-dom — 

"  Two  trusty  turtles,  truefastest  of  all  true," 
— in  your  own  village,  dear  Fanny  Forester  ! 


THE  WEST  IN  A  PETTICOAT. 

(By  way  of  declining  a  communication  in  hope  of  a 
better  one.) 

We  have  been  for  years  looking  at  the  western 
horizon  of  American  literature,  for  a  star  to  rise  that 
should  smack  of  the  big  rivers,  steamboats,  alligators, 
and  western  manners.  We  have  the  DOW.X  KAST — 
embodied  in  Jack  Downing  and  his  imitators.  There 
was  wanting  a  literary  embodiment  of  the  OUT  WEST 
— not,  a  mind  shining  at  it,  by  ridiculing  it  from  a 
distance,  but  a  mind  shining  from  it,  by  showing  its 
peculiar  qualities  unconsciously.  The  rough-hewn 
physiognomy  of  the  west,  though  showing  as  yet  but 
in  rude  and  unattractive  outline,  is  the  profile  of  a  fine 
giant,  and  will  chisel  down  to  noble  features  hereafter; 
but,  meantime,  there  will  be  a  literary  foreshadowing 
of  its  maturity — abrupt,  confiding,  dashing  writers, 
regardless  of  all  trammels  and  fearless  of  ridicule — 
and  we  think  we  have  heard  from  one  of  them. 

The  letter  from  which  we  shall  quote  presently,  is 
entirely  in  earnest,  and  signed  with  the  Jady's  real 
name.  We  at  first  threw  the  accompanying  com 
munication  aside,  as  very  original  and  amusing,  but 
unfit  for  print — except  with  comments  which  we  had 
no  time  to  make.  Taking  it  up  again  this  morning, 
we  think  we  see  a  way  to  compass  the  lady-writer's 
object,  and  we  commence  by  giving  her  a  fictitious 
name  to  make  famous  (instead  of  her  own),  and  by  in 
teresting  our  readers  in  her  with  showing  her  charac 
ter  of  mind  as  her  letter  shows  her  to  us.  She  is 
quick,  energetic,  confident  of  herself,  full  of  humor, 
and  a  good  observer,  and  the  "  half-horse  half-alliga 
tor''  impulses  with  which  she  writes  so  unconscious 
ly,  may  be  trimmed  into  an  admirable  and  entirely 
original  style  by  care  and  labor. 

Miss   "  Kate   Juniper,"*   (so   we  name  her),   thus 

•  The  word  "  Juniper''  is  derived  from  the  Latin  words 
"junior  and  pai-ere" — descriptive  of  a  fruit  which  makes  its 
appearance  prematurely.  We  trust  Miss  Kate  Juniper  will  sec 
the  propriety  of  using  this  name  till  she  is  ripe  enough  to  re 
sume  her  own. 


dashes,    western-fashion,    in    what    she    has   to   say 
to  us  :  — 

"  1  hate  formal  introductions.    I  would  speak  to  you 
now,  and  I  will  see  you,  when  I  may,   in  the  Palace 
of  Truth.     I  am  in  Godey's  Lady's  Book  with  decent 
compensation,  but  I  want  to  be  published  faster  than 
they  can  do  it.     I  want  to  write  for  the  Mirror  icithout 
pay,  for  the  sake  of  'getting  my  name  up.'     I  shall 
ultimately  'put  money  in  rny  purse'  by  this  course. 
I   have  now  three  manuscript  volumes,  which   good 
judges  tell  me  are  equal  to  Miss  Bremer's.     I  send  you 
a  specimen.     I  have  a  series  of  these  sketches,  enti 
tled  '  The  Spirits  of  the  Room.'     I  can  sell  them  to 
Godey,  but  he  will   be  for  ever  bringing  them  out.     I 
!  propose  to  give  them  to  you,  if  you  like  them,  in  the 
!  true  spirit  of  bargain  and  sale,  though  not  in  the  let- 
i  ter.     1  will  give  you  as  many  as  will  serve  my  purpose 
;  of  getting    my   name    known;    and   then,   if  success 
comes,  you  will  hold  me  by  the  chain  of  gratitude,  as 
you  now  do  by  that  of  reverence  and  affection. 

"  Will  ypu  write  me  immediately  and  tell  me  your 
i  thoughts  of  this  thing  ?     Truly  your  friend." 

We  can  only  give  a  taste  of  her  literary  quality  by 
'  an  extract  from  her  communication,  the  remainder 
'  wanting  finish,  and  this  portion  sufficing  to  introduce 
I  her  to  our  readers.  We  give  it  precisely  as  written 
I  and  punctuated.  She  is  describing  an  interview  with 
I  a  travelling  lecturer  on  magnetism,  and  gives  her  own 
experience  in  neurological  sight-seeing  : — 

"Mark  the  sequel.  I  had,  on  going  into  the  room, 
lost  my  handkerchief.  A  gentleman  famed  for  his 
wisdom,  his  powder  of  seeing  as  far  into  the  future 
without  the  gift  of  second  sight,  as  others  can  with  it, 
lent  me  his, protem.  1  heard  the  wonderful  statements 
of  the  'New  School  in  Psychology'  relative  to  sym 
pathy  established  by  means  of  magnetized  or  neurolo- 
|  gized  handkerchiefs,  letters,  etc.  I  determined  to 
keep  the  handkerchief  and  see  if  there  were  enough 
of  the  soul  aura  of  my  wise-acre  friend  imprisoned  in 
it,  to  affect  me.  I  did  so  ;  I  returned  to  my  home  in 
the  hotel — to  riiy  lonely  room  ;  evening  shut  in  ;  the 
waiter  did  not  bring  me  a  light;  my  anthracite  burned 
blue  and  dimly  enough  ;  1  bound  the  magic  handker 
chief  about  my  brow  and  invoked  the  sight  of  my 
friend  to  aid  my  own.  What  I  saw  shall  be  told  in 
the  next  chapter. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"I  gazed  into  the  dimness  and  vacancy  that  sur 
rounded  me — J  conjured  the  guardian  spirit  of  the 
room  to  come  before  me,  and  communicate  some  of 
the  secrets  of  his  wards.  How  many  hearts,  thought 
I,  have  beat  with  joy  and  sorrow,  with  hope,  and  with 
anguish  unutterable  in  this  room.  But  no  guardian 
spirit  appeared,  and  1  began  to  think  that  the  tee-total 
pledge  of  this  hotel  had  really  banished  all  sorts  of 
spirits,  neurology  to  the  contrary  notwithstanding.  I 
i  closed  my  eyes,  laid  my  hand  on  the  bewiirhing 
|  point  in  my  forehead,  and  lo !  my  eyes  were  opened, 
not  literally  but  neurologically.  At  first  a  figure  was 
revealed  dimly  and  indistinctly— gradually  its  out  lines 
grew  more  defined,  and  a  graceful  young  man  stood 
before  me.  He  was  enveloped  in  the  (olds  of  an  am 
ple  cloak,  a  jewelled  hand  held  it  in  front,  and  he 
stood  as  if  waiting  to  be  known  and  noted.  While 
gazing  on  him  I  found  myself  endowed  with  new  and 
marvellous  powers — every  line  of  his  face  had  its 
language,  and  told  me  a  broad  history.  His  attitude, 
his  hand,  the  manner  in  which  the  folds  of  his  cloak 
fell  about  him,  constituted  a  library  that  I  was  skilled 
to  read,  if  I  would.  Here  was  the  signatura  rerun. 
I  looked  and  looked — it  was  like  looking  into  a  libra 
ry  and  determining  what  you  shall  read,  and  what  you 
i  shall  leave  unread.  Some  one  has  said  that  '  ihe 
j  half  is  greater  than  the  whole.'  This  may  be  a  physi 
cal,  yet  not  a  metaphysical  paradox.  Here  I  saw  tha 


198 


EPHEMERA. 


last  occupant  of  my  room  standing  before  me.  I 
said  I  will  first  look  at  one  week  of  his  life.  In  a 
moment  I  beheld  him  pacing  fitfully  the  room — 
his  thoughts  came  before  me — they  were  such  as 
these,"  &c.,  &c. 

Miss  Juniper  goes  on  with  an  account  of  half  a 
dozen  different  characters,  who  (by  a  very  natural 
vein  of  revery)  she  imagines  may  have  occupied  the 
room  before  her.  The  specimen  we  have  given  sim 
ply  shows  the  free  dash  of  her  pen,  and  we  think  we 
see  in  it  the  capability  of  better  things. 


FEMALE  STOCK  BROKERS,  ETC. — A  letter  from 
Paris  to  the  London  Times  describes  the  stock  ex 
change  of  Paris  (the  Bourse)  as  thronged  by  female 
speculators — not  less  than  a  hundred  in  attendance  on 
any  one  day.  To  do  this,  too,  they  are  obliged  to 
stand  in  the  open  square  in  front  of  the  building,  as 
they  have  been  excluded  from  the  interior  by  a  spe 
cial  regulation  !  Every  five  minutes  during  the  sale 
of  stocks,  two  or  three  bareheaded  agents  rush  down 
the  steps  of  the  Bourse  to  announce  to  the  fair  spec 
ulators  the  state  of  the  market;  and  they  buy  and  sell 
accordingly. 

Fancy  a  few  of  the  customs  of  the  "  most  polite  na 
tion"  introduced  into  New  York  !  What  would  "Mrs. 
Grundy"  say  of  a  hundred  ladies  standing  about  on 
the  sidewalk  in  Wall  street,  speculating  in  stocks,  and 
excluded  by  a  vote  of  the  stock-brokers  from  the  floor 
of  the  Exchange!  When  will  the  New  York  ladies 
begin  to  smoke  in  their  carriages,  as  they  do  in  Par- 


This  book  begins  with  an  emblematic  device  re 
sembling,  at  first  view,  the  knightly  decoration  called 
by  our  English  neighbors  a  star.  On  further  exami 
nation,  a  garter  seems  to  be  included  in  the  figure; 
but  upon  still  closer  view,  we  discover,  within  the 
rays  which  form  the  outer  border,  first  an  eternal 
serpent — then  the  deeper  mystery  of  two  triangles — 
one  of  light,  the  other  of  darkness  and  shadow.  We 
should  not  have  been  thus  particular  in  describing  a 
new  decoration,  but  we  conceive  that  the  figure  is 
very  significant  of  the  tone  and  design  of  the  book. 
It  belongs  to  what  is  called  the  transcendental  school 
— a  school  which  we  believe  to  have  mixed  up  much 
of  what  is  noble  and  true  with  much  of  what  is  merely 
|  imaginary  and  fantastic.  Truth,  freedom,  love,  light 
'  — these  are  high  and  holy  objects;  and  though  they 
may  be  sought,  sometimes,  by  modes  which  we  may 
think  susceptible  of  improvement,  we  honor  those 
who  propose  to  themselves  such  objects,  according  to 
their  aims  and  not  according  to  their  ability  of  ac 
complishment.  The  character  and  rights  of  woman 
form  naturally  the  principal  subject  of  Miss  Fuller's 
book  ;  and  we  hope  it  may  have  an  influence  in  con 
vincing,  if  not  "man,"  at  least  some  men,  that  woman 
was  born  for  better  things  than  to  "  cook  him  some 
thing  good." 


THE  ENGLISH  PREMIER. — We  see  a  text  for  the 
least-taste-in-life  of  a  sermon,  in  the  following  touch- 
up  of  Sir  Robert  Peel  by  the  London  Examiner: — 

"  WANTED,  A  PREMIER'S  ASSISTANT. — Our  friend 
Punch,  who  has  written  some  excellent  lessons  for 


is?     When   will   they   wear  Wellington   boots   with     ministers,  'suited  to  the  meanest  capacity,' in  words 


high  heels?  When  will  they  frequent  the  billiard- 
rooms  and  public  eating-houses  ?  When  will  those  who 
are  not  rich  enough  to  keep  house,  use  "home"  only 
as  birds  do  their  nests,  to  sleep  in — breakfasting,  di 
ning,  and  amusing  themselves,  at  all  other  hours,  out 
of  doors,  or  in  cafes  and  restaurants?  .W^hen  will  the 
more  fashionable  ladies  receive  morning  calls  in  the 
prettiest  room  in  the  house — their  bed-room — them 
selves  in  bed,  with  coquettish  caps  and  the  most  soig 
nee  demi-toilet  any  way  contrivable?  Funny  place, 
France  !  Yet  in  no  country  that  we  were  ever  in, 
seemed  woman  so  insincerely  worshipped — so  mocked 
with  the  shadow  of  power  over  men.  We  should 
think  it  as  great  a  curiosity  to  see  a  well-bred  French 
man  love-sick  (when  he  supposed  himself  alone)  as  to 
see  an  angel  tipsy,  or  a  marble  bust  in  tears.  This 
condition  of  the  "  love  of  the  country,"  and  the  dissi 
pation  of  female  habits,  are  mutual  consequences — so 
to  speak.  Men  are  constituted  by  nature  to  love 
women,  and  in  proportion  as  women  become  man-ified 
they  feel  toward  them  as  men  do  to  each  other — self 
ish  and  unimpressible.  We  remember  once  asking  a 
French  nobleman  who  was  very  fond  of  London,  what 
was  the  most  marked  point  of  difference  which  he  (as 
a  professed  love-maker)  found  between  French  and 
English  women.  The  reply  was  an  unfeeling  one, 
but  it  will  be  a  guide  to  an  estimate  of  the  effect  of 
the  different  national  manners  on  female  character. 
"The  expense  of  a  love  affair,"  said  he,  "  falls  on  the 
man  in  France,  and  on  the  woman  in  England.  Eng 
lish  women  make  you  uncomfortable  by  the  quantity 
of  presents  they  give  you,  and  French  women  quite 
as  uncomfortable  by  the  quantity  they  exact  from 
you."  We  only  quote  this  remark  as  made  by  a  very 
great  beau  and  a  very  keen  observer — the  fact  that  a 
high-bred  man  weighed  women  at  all  in  such  abomina 
ble  scales  being  a  good  argument  (at  least)  against  in 
viting  the  ladies  to  Wall  street  and  the  billiard-rooms! 
And  now  let  us  say  a  word  of  what  made  the  letter 
in  the  Times  more  suggestive  than  it  otherwise  would 
have  been — Miss  Fuller's  book  on  "  WOMAN  IN  THE 

J^FNETEENTH  CENTURY," 


from  one  syllable  to  three,  by  easy  upward  ascent, 
should  take  Sir  Robert  Peel's  education  in  hand,  and 
teach  him  how  to  write  a  decent  note. 

"  Notwithstanding  the  proverb  to  the  contrary,  a  man 
may  do  a  handsome  thing  in  a  very  awkward  way. 

"It  was  quite  becoming  and  right  to  give  a  pension 
of  c£20  a  year  to  Miss  Brown,  but  what  a  note  about 
it  is  this,  with  its  parenthetical  dislocations,  and  its 
atrocious  style  as  stiff  as  buckram  : — 

"  '  Whitehall,  Dec.  24. 

"  '  MADAM  :  There  is  a  fund  applicable,  as  vacancies 
may  occur,  to  the  grant  of  annual  pensions  of  very 
limited  amount,  which  usage  has  placed  at  the  dispo 
sal  of  the  lady  of  the  first  minister.  On  this  fund 
there  is  a  surplus  of  c£20  per  annum. 

"  '  Lady  Peel  has  heard  of  your  honorable  and  suc 
cessful  exertions  to  mitigate,  by  literary  acquirements, 
the  effects  of  the  misfortune  by  which  you  have  been 
visited;  and  should  the  grant  of  this  pension  for  your 
life  be  acceptable  to  you,  Lady  Peel  will  have  great 
satisfaction  in  such  an  appropriation  of  it. 

"  '  I  am,  &c.  ROBERT  PEEL.' 

"If  Punch  had  been  over  Sir  Robert  Peel  when  he 
wrote  this,  he  would  have  hit  him  several  sharp  raps 
on  the  knuckles  with  his  baton,  we  are  quite  certain. 
The  model  of  the  note  may  be  in  Dilworth,  very 
probably,  or  even  in  the  Complete  Letter-Writer,  by 
the  retired  butler;  but,  nevertheless,  it  is  not  a  true 
standard  of  taste. 

"  Not  to  mention  the  clumsy  parenthetical  clauses 
so  much  better  omitted,  or  the  long-tailed  words  so 
out  of  place  in  a  note  about  a  matter  of  c£20  a  year. 
Sir  Robert  Peel  has  to  learn  that  none  but  he-millin 
ers  and  haberdashers  talk  of  their  "  ladies."  Sir  Rob 
ert  Peel,  as  a  gentleman  and  a  prime  minister,  needs 
not  be  ashamed  of  writing  of  his  wife.  He  may  rest 
quite  assured  that  the  world  will  know  that  his  wife  is 
a  lady  without  his  studiously  telling  it  so. 

"  Foreigners  will  ask  what  is  the  distinction  be 
tween  a  gentleman's  lady  and  his  wife ;  whether  they  are 
convertible  terms;  whether  there  are  minister's  wives 
who  are  not  ladies  ;  or  whether  there  are  ladies  who 


EPHEMERA. 


199 


are  not  wives;  and  why  the  equivocal  word  is  prefer 
red  to  the  distinct  one;  and  why  the  wife  is  treated  if 
it  were  the  less  honorable. 

"  Formerly  men  used  to  have  wives,  not  ladies;  but 
in  the  announcement  of  birlhs  it  has  seemed  finer  to 
Mr.  Spruggins  and  Mr.  Wiggins  to  say  that  his  lady 
has  been  delivered  than  his  wife,  the  latter  sounding 
homely  and  low. 

"But  Sir  Robert  Peel  should  not  be  led  away  by 
these  examples.     He  is  of  importance  enough  in  the  : 
world  to  afford  to  mention  his  wife  in  plain,  honest,  I 
homely  old  English. 

"Any  one  who  is  disposed  to  give  lessons  in  letter- 
writing  can  not  do  better  than  collect  Sir  Robert 
Peel's  notes  as  warning  examples.  From  the  Velve 
teens  to  Miss  Brown's  c€20  a  year,  they  have  all  the 
same  atrocious  offences  of  style  and  taste.  It  is  an 
other  variety  of  the  Yellow  Plush  school. 

"  It  distresses  us  to  see  it.  We  should  like  to  see 
MissBrown's  <£20  a  year  rendered  into  plain,  gentle 
manly  English. 

"  As  prizes  are  the  fashion,  perhaps  some  one  will 
give  a  prize  for  the  best  translation  of  Sir  Robert 
Peel's  notes  into  the  language  of  ease,  simplicity,  and 
with  them,  good  taste." 

Sir  Robert's  crockery  note  proves,  not  that  his  pre 
miership  still  shows  the  lint  of  the  spinning-jenny,  but  [ 
that  he  employed  one  of  his  clerks  (suitably  impressed  j 
with  his  duty  to  Lady  Peel)  to  write  the  letter.     We 
wish  to   call   attention,  however,  to  the  superior  sim-  \ 
plicity  of  the  taste  contended  for  by  the  critic,  and  to 
the  evidence  it  gives  that  extremes  meet  in  the  usages  ! 
of  good  breeding  as  in  other  things — the  highest  re 
finement  fairly  lapping  over  upon  what  nature  started 
with.     The  application  of  this  is  almost  universal,  but 
perhaps  we  had  better  particularize  at  once,  and  con 
fess  to  as  much  annoyance  as  we  have  a  right  to  ex 
press  (in  "  a  free  country")  at  the  affected  use  of  the 
word  lady  in   the  United   States,  and  the  superfine 
shrinking   from   the   honest   words  wife  and  woman.  M 
Those  who   say   "this  is   my  lady,  sir!"  instead  of{ 
"this  is  my  wife,  sir!"  or  those  who  say  "she   is  a  P 
very   pretty  lady"  instead  of  "she  is  a  very  pretty  |; 
woman,"  should  at  least  know  what  the  words  mean, 
and  what  they  convey  to  others. 

In  common  usage,  to  speak  of  one's  wife  as  one's 
lady,  smacks  of  low-breeding,  because  it  expresses  a 
kind  of  announcement  of  her  rank,  as  if  her  rank 
would  not  otherwise  be  understood.  It  is  sometimes 
used  from  a  dread  of  plain-spoken-ness,  by  men  who 
doubt  their  own  manners — but,  as  it  always  betrays 
the  doubt,  it  is  in  bad  taste.  The  etymology  of  the 
plainer  words  is  a  better  argument  in  their  favor,  how 
ever.  In  the  Saxon  language  from  which  they  are 
derived,  wceepman  signifies  that  one  of  the  conjugal 
pair  who  employed  the  weapons  necessary  for  the  de 
fence  of  the  family,  and  icif-man  signified,  the  one 
who  was  employed  at  the  woof,  clothing  the  family  by 
her  industry.  (The  terms  of  endearment,  of  course, 
were  "  my  fighter,"  and  "  my  weaver  !")  instead  of 
this  honestly  derived  word  (wife),  meaning  the  one 
who  has  the  care  of  the  family,  the  word  lady  is  used, 
which  (also  by  derivation  from  the  Saxon)  signifies 
one.  who  is  raised  to  the  rank  of  her  conjugal  mate  ! 
But,  in  this  country,  where  the  males  invariably  bur 
row  in  trade,  while  the  females  as  invariably  soar  out 
of  their  reach  in  the  sunshine  of  cultivation,  few  wo 
men  are  raised  to  the  rank  of  their  husbands.  It  is  an 
injustice  to  almost  any  American  woman  to  say  as 
much — by  calling  her  a  lady. 

It  is  one  part,  though  ever  so  small  a  part,  of  patri 
otism,  to  toil  for  improving  the  manners  of  the  coun 
try.  If  we  can  avoid  the  long  round  of  affectations, 
and  make  a  short  cut  to  good  taste  by  at  once  sub 
mitting  every  question  of  manners  to  the  three  ulti 
mate  standards  of  high-breeding — simplicity,  disinter 


estedness,  and  modesty,  it  might  save  us  the  century 
or  two  of  bad  taste  through  which  older  countries 
have  found  their  way  to  refinement.  Amen ! 


LETTER  TO  FANNY  FORESTER. 

DKAR  FANNY  : 'Would  your  dark  eyes  vouchsafe 
to  wonder  how  I  come  to  write  to  you  ?  Thus  it 
!  befell  :_ 

You  live  in  the  country  and  know  what  log-haul- 
I  ing  is  like — over  the  stumps  in  the  woods.  You  have, 
many  a  time,  mentally  consigned,  to  condign  axe  and 
fire,  the  senseless  trunk  that,  all  its  life,  had  found 
motion  enough  to  make  way  for  every  silly  breeze 
that  flirted  over  it,  but  lay  in  unyielding  immoveable- 
ness  when  poor  oxen  and  horses  were  tortured  to  make 
it  stir!  If  you  knew  what  a  condition  Broadway  is  in 
— what  horses  have  to  suffer  to  draw  omnibuses — and 
how  many  pitiless  human  trunks  are  willing  doggedly 
to  sit  still  to  be  drawn  home  to  the  fire  by  brute  agony — 
you  would  see  how,  while  walking  in  Broadway,  I  was 
reminded  of  log-hauling — then  of  the  country — and 
then,  of  course,  of  Fanny  Forester. 

Before  setting  the  news  to  trickle  from  my  full 
pen  let  me  quote  from  a  book  (one  that  is  my  present 
passion),  a  fine  thought  or  two  on  the  cruelty  to  ani 
mals  that  has,  this  day,  in  Broadway,  made  me — no 
better  than  Uncle  Toby  in  Flanders  ! 

"  Shame  upon  creation's  lord,  the  fierce  unsanguined  dpspot  : 
What  !   art  thou  not  content  thy  sin  hath  dragged  down 

suffering  and  death 
Upon  the  poor  dumb  servants  of  thy  comfort,  and  yet  must 

thou  rack  them  with  thy  spite  ? 
For  very  shame  be  merciful,  be  kind  unto  the  creatures  thou 

hast  ruined  ; 

Earth  and  her  million  tribes  are  cursed  for  thy  sake  ; 
Liveth  there  but  one  among  the  million  that  shall  not  bear 

witness  against  thee, 
A  pensioner  of  land  or  air  or  sea,  that  hath  not  whereof  it 

will  accuse  thee  ? 
From  the  elephant  toiling  at  a  launch,  to  the  shrew-mouse 

in  the  harvest-field, 
From  the  whale  which  the  harpooner  hath  stricken,  to  the 

minnow  caught  upon  a  pin, 
From  the  albatross  wearied  in  its  flight,  to  the  wren  in  her 

covered  nest, 
From  the  death-moth  and  the  lace-winged  dragon-fly,  to  the 

lady-bird  and  the  gnat, 
The  verdict  of  all  things  is  unanimous,  finding  their  master 

cruel : 

The  dog,  thy  humble  friend,  thy  trusting,  honest  friend, 
The  horse,  thy  uncomplaining  slave,  drudging  from  mom 

to  even, 
The  lamb,  and  the  timorous  hare,  and  the  laboring  ox  at 

plough, 

And  all  things  that  minister  alike  to  thy  life  and  thy  com 
fort  and  thy  pride. 

Testify  with  one  sad  voice  that  man  is  a  cruel  master. 
The  galled  ox  can  not  complain,  nor  supplicate  a  moment's 

respite  ; 
The  spent  horse  hideth  his  distress,  till  he  panted  out  his 

spirit  at  the  goal ; 
Behold,  he  is  faint  with  hunger  ;  the  big  tear  standeth  in 

His  sk'u/isVore  with  stripes,  and  he  tottereth  beneath  his 

burden  : 
His  limbs  are  stiff  with  age,  his  sinews  have  lost  their 

And^n'  is  stamped  upon  his  face,  while  he  wrestleth 

unequally  with  toil  ; 
Yet  once  more  mutely  and  meekly  endureth  he  the  crush- 

ing  blow  ; 
That  struggle  hath  cracked  his  heart-strings— the  generous 

brute  is  dead  !" 

I  doubt  whether  fifty  years  of  jumping  toothache 
would  not  be  a  lesser  evil,  hereafter,  than  the  retribu 
tion  charged  this  day  against  each  passenger  from 
Wall  street  to  Bleecker.  And,  as  if  to  aggravate  the 
needlessness  of  the  sin,  the  sidewalk  was  like  the  side 
walks  in  June — dry,  sunny,  and  besprinkled  with  ador 
able  shoppers.  With  the  sides  of  the  street  thus 


200 


EPHEMERA. 


clenn  and  bright,  the  middle  with  a  succession  of  pits, 
each  one  of  which  required  the  utmost  strength  of  a 
pair  of  horses  to  toil  out  of — the  wheels  continually 
cutting  in  to  the  axletrees,  each  sinking  of  the  wheels 
bringing  down  the  whip  on  the  guilty  horses,  and, 
with  all  the  lashing,  cursing,  toiling  and  breaking  of 
harness,  people  (with  legs  to  carry  them)  remaining 
heartlessly  inside  the  omnibuses.  Oh,  for  one  hour's 
change  of  places — horses  inside  arid  passengers  in 
harness  ! 

But  why  break  your  country  heart  for  sins  in 
Broadway  ?  Think  rather  of  the  virtues  and  the 
fashions.  Large  parasols  (feminized,  from  male  um 
brellas,  only  by  petticoats  of  fringe  and  the  change- 
ableness  of  the  silk)  are  now  carried  between  heaven 
and  bright  eyes,  to  the  successful  banishment  of  the 
former.  Ladies  sit  in  the  shops  smoking  camphor 
cigars  while  their  daughters  buy  ribands.  French 
lap-dogs,  with  maids  to  lead  them,  are  losing  singu 
larity,  as  pairs  of  spectacles.  People  in  the  second 
story  are  at  the  level  of  very  fine  weather.  Literature 
is  at  a  dead  stand-still.  The  "  father  of  evil''  has  not 
yet  told  us  what  the  next  excitement  is  to  grow  out 
of;  and  meantime  (to-night)  we  are  to  have  an  Eng 
lish  song  from  Madam  Pico  at  the  Tabernacle. 

So  you  have  been  ill  and  are  mortal  after  all  ! 
Well !  I  presume — whatever  stays  to  keep  the  violets 
company — "Fanny  Forester"  goes  to  He;iven;  so  you 
must  have  your  reminders,  like  the  rest  of  us,  that 
the  parting  guest  is  to  be  looked  after.  What  a  to- 
morrow-dom  life  is!  Eve's  fault  or  Adam's — to-day 
was  left  in  Eden  !  we  live  only  for  what  is  to  come.  I 
am,  for  one,  quite  sick  of  hoping  ;  and  if  I  could  put 
a  sack  of  money  at  my  back  to  keep  my  heels  from 
tripping,  I  would  f;ice  about  and  see  nothing  but  the 
to-day  of  the  children  behind  me.  (Bless  me,  how 
grave  ]  am  getting  to  be  !) 

Write  to  me,  dear  Fanny!  As  I  go  to  market  on 
this  river  of  ink,  write  me  such  a  letter  as  will  ride 
without  damage  in  the  two-penny  basket  that  brings 
this  to  you. 

And  now  adieu — or  rather  au  soin  de  Dieu — for  I 
trust  that  the  first  lark  that  goes  up  with  the  spring 
news  will  bid  the  angels  not  to  expect  you,  yet  awhile. 
Take  care  of  your  health.  Yours  always. 


MADAMK  Pico's  CONCERT. — We  should  guess  that 
between  two  and  three  thousand  persons  were  listeners 
in  the  vast  hall  of  the  Tabernacle  at  the  concert.  The 
five  hundred  regular  opera-goers,  who  were  apparent 
ly  all  there,  were  scattered  among  a  mass  of  graver 
countenances,  and  Madame  Pico  saw  combined  her 
two  bailiwicks  of  fashion  and  seriousness.  She  seems 
to  be  equally  popular  with  both,  and  her  "good-fel 
low"  physiognomy  never  showed  its  honest  beauty  to 
more  advantage.  She  wore  a  Greek  cap  of  gold  braid 
on  the  right-side  organ  of  conscientiousness,  and  prob 
ably  magnetized  very  powerfully  the  large  gold  tassel 
that  fell  from  it  over  her  cheek.  The  English  song 
was  the  qui-vive-\ly  of  the  evening,  however,  and 
English,  from  a  tongue  cradled  in  a  gondola,  is  cer 
tainly  very  peculiar!  But,  preserv  us,  Rossini-Bel 
lini  !  After  hearing  exclusively  Italian  music  from  a 
songstress,  the  descent  to  Balfe  is  rather  intolerable. 
A  lark  starting  for  its  accustomed  zenith  with  "chicken 
fixings"  would  represent  our  soul  as  it  undertook  to 
soar  last  night  with  Balfeathered  Pico! — What  should 
make  that  same  song  popular  is  beyond  our  divining. 
Most  of  its  movement  works  directly  in  the  joint  be 
tween  the  comfortable  parts  of  the  voice,  and  nobody 
ever  tilled  through  its  see-saw  transitions,  in  our  hear 
ing,  without  apparent  distress. 

Madame  Arnoult  made  a  very  strong  impression  on 
the  audience  last  night.  She  sang  with  more  dew  in 


her  throat  than  when  we  heard  her  before,  and  we 
fancy  that  the  hard  enamel  of  her  tones,  at  thai  time, 
was  from  the  bracing  up  against  timidity,  and  not  from 
the  quality  of  the  organ.  She  has  only  to  draw  a 
check  for  what  popularity  she  wants,  we  presume. 


TOWN-HUNGER  FOR  POETS. — The  appetite  for  live 
bards  (like  other  scarce  meats,  commonly  liked  best 
when  pretty  well  gone)  is  probably  peculiar  to  old 
countries.  We  have  stumbled  lately  on  the  follow 
ing  letter  touching  Petrarch,  written  in  1368,  by  the 
Seigneury  of  Florence,  to  Pope  Urban  V.  : — 

"  The  celebrity  and  talent  of  our  fellow-citizen.  M. 
Francesco  Petrarca,  inspire  us  with  a  great  desire  to 
attract  him  back  to  reside  in  Florence,  for  the  honor 
of  the  city  and  for  his  own  tranquillity;  for  he  has 
greatly  harassed  himself  by  bodily  fatigues  and  scien 
tific  pursuits  in  various  countries.  But  as  he  has 
here  no  patrimony  nor  means  of  support,  and  little 
fancy  for  a  secular  life,  be  pleased  to  grant  him  the 
favor  of  the  first  canonry  vacant  in  Florence  ;  and  this 
notwithstanding  any  previous  promise,  so  that  no  one 
may  be  appointed  canon  in  preference  to  him.  And 
you  will  ascertain  from  Pitti  in  what  manner  this  ap 
pointment  may  be  obtained  for  him  in  the  most  ample 
manner." 

How  long  it  will  be  before  Newburyport  will  send 
to  the  governor  of  Arkansas  for  ALBERT  PIKE — before 
New  Haven  will  send  to  Mayor  Harper  for  Mr.  HAL- 
LECK — before  Portland  will  send  to  President  Quincy 
for  LONGFELLOW — before  other  great  cities  will  send 
for  the  now  peripatetic  ashes  of  their  future  honorary 
urns,  and  confer  on  them  "  appointments  in  the  most 
ample  manner" — we  are  not  prophet  enough  to  know 
— nor  do  we  know  what  the  locofocos  would  sny  to 
such  appointments.  We  suggest,  however,  that  the 
poets  should  combine  to  vote  for  Mayor  Harper  on 
condition  that  he  inquire  what  poets  New  York  needs 
to  have  back  "  for  the  honor  of  the  city  and  their  own 
tranquillity." 


JAPONICA-DOM  IN  ITALY — We  have  often  thought 
that  it  would  amuse,  and  possibly  instruct,  New- 
Yorkers,  to  know  exactly  what  class  of  Europeans 
have,  as  nearly  as  possible,  their  own  pretensions  to 
aristocracy,  and  where  such  persons  "stand,"  in  the 
way  of  go-to-lhe-devil-dom,  from  the  titled  classes. 
There  is  scarce  a  man  of  fortune  or  fashion  in  New 
York  who  is  not  what  they  call  in  Europe  a  roturier 
— a  man,  that  is  to  say,  whose  posilion  is  made  al 
together  by  his  money.  The  treatment  which  a 
roturier  gets,  therefore,  from  ihose  above  him,  presents 
a  fair  opportunity  for  contrasting  his  value  (measured 
by  this  scale)  with  that  of  a  rich,  but  grandfotherless 
New-Yorker.  Besides  other  profit  in  the  comparison, 
it  is  as  well,  perhaps,  to  form  a  guess  as  to  what  sort 
of  a  sore  the  upper  ten  thousand  will  make,  when  they 
come  to  a  head  in  Manhattan. 

A  letter  to  the  Foreign  Quarterly  Review  from  a  cor 
respondent  in  Italy,  gives  an  account  of  the  celebra 
tion  of  a  scientific  anniversary  which  draws  together 
the  accessible  celebrities  of  Europe,  and  which  was 
held  this  year  in  Milan.  Incidentally  the  writer 
speaks  of  Milanese  society — thus  : — 

"Yes!  the  congress,  whatever  its  other  claims  to 
consideration  may  have  been,  was  deficient  in  «  quar- 
terings,'  and  was  therefore,  no  company  for  Milanese 
noblesse.  Nowhere,  in  Europe,  is  the  effete  barbar 
ism  of  '  castes'  more  in  vigor  than  at  Milan.  The 
result  of  course,  and  of  necessity,  is,  that  the  exclu 
sive  there  are  the  least  advanced  in  social  and  moral 
ivilization  of  all  the  great  cities  of  Italy.  Will  it  be 


EPHEMERA. 


201 


believed  that  these  noble  blockheads  have  a  Casino 
for  themselves  .ml  their  females,  to  whose  festivities 
the  more  distinguished  of  their  non-noble  fellow-citi 
zens  are  invited — after  what  manner  does  the  civilized 
nineteenth  century  Englishman  think?  Thus:  A 
gallery  has  been  constructed,  looking  from  above  into 
the  ball-room.  Inhere  such  more  distinguished  roturiers 
(men  of  low  descent),  with  their  families,  as  the  privi 
leged  caste  may  condescend  to  invite — not  to  share — but  to 
witness  their  festivities,  being  duly  fenced  in  with  an 
iron  grating,  may  gaze  through  the  bars  at  the  paradise 
that  they  can  never  enter.  It  is  at  least  something  ! 
They  may  there  see  tuhal  it  is  to  be  •  noble  /'  The 
happy  ones,  thus  permitted  to  feast  their  eyes,  may, 
at  least,  boast  to  their  less  fortunate  fellow-citizens, 
of  the  condescension  with  which  they  have  been 
honored,  and  thus  propagated,  in  some  degree  the 
blessings  of  exclusiveness  among  the  ranks  of  the 
swinish  multitude!  In  their  happy  gallery,  at  the 
top  of  the  noble  ball-room,  they  may  at  least  inhale  the 
refuse  breath  streaming  up  from  noble  lungs — delicious 
gales  from  Ara by  tJie  blest.  Surely  this  is  something. 
The  wealthy  citizens  of  Milan  feel  that  it  is  ;  and  they 
value  the  so-condescendingly-granted  privilege  ac 
cordingly. 

"Yes!  the  roturier  citizens  of  Milan — incredible 
as  it  may  seem  to  those  whose  more  civilized  social 
system  has  given  them  the  feelings  of  men  in  the  place 
of  those  of  slaves — do  gratefully  and  gladly  accept 
tliese  invitations.  Yes  '  for  one  of  the  curses  most 
surely  attendant  on  the  undue  separation  of  a  privi 
leged  caste,  is  the  degradation  of  both  parties — the  real 
abasement  of  the  pariah,  as  well  as  the  fancied  exalta 
tion  of  the  noble." 

Our  readers'  imaginations  will  easily  transfer  this 
state  of  things  to  New  York  (fancying  one  class  of 
rich  men  inviting  another  class  of  men,  quite  as  rich, 
but  with  not  the  same  sort  of  grandfathers,  to  look  at 
a  ball  through  an  iron  gr<iting!)  but,  leaving  our  friends 
to  pick  out  the  "  customers"  for  the  two  sides  of  the 
grate,  we  turn  to  another  difference  still,  between  the 
nether -graters  and  the  mechanics.  There  is  even  a 
more  impassable  barrier  between  these,  and  it  is  almost 
as  impassable  in  England  and  France  as  in  the  more 
monarchical  portions  of  Europe.  A  letter  from  abroad 
in  the  Ledger  of  yesterday,  states  this  phase  of  social 
distinction  very  clearly  : — 

"  The  present  state  of  society  in  France  presents, 
therefore,  a  new  and  almost  incurable  evil — the  entire 
separation  of  tiie  capitalists,  the  merchants  and  manu 
facturers,  from  the  laboring  portion  of  the  community  ; 
and  what  is  worse,  a  hostile  attitude  of  these  social 
elements  to  each  other.  In  Germany,  and  partly  even 
in  England,  the  interests  of  the  manufacturers  and 
capitalists  are  parallel  with  those  of  the  laborers,  and 
kept  so  by  the  pressure  of  a  wealthy  overbearing  aris 
tocracy  in  Great  Britain  ;  while  on  the  continent  the 
industrious  pursuits  are  not  yet  sufficiently  developed 
to  effect  the  separation.  Whenever  the  laborers  (the 
pariahs)  of  England  make  common  cause  with  their 
employers,  or  rather,  whenever  their  demands  coincide 
with  those  of  their  masters,  the  aristocracy  is  gene 
rally  obliged  to  yield  :  but  whenever,  as  in  the  case 
of  the  chartists,  the  laborers  or  inferior  orders  of  the 
industrious  section  of  society  demand  anything  for 
itself  which  does  not  agree  with  the  views  of  their  em 
ployers,  they  are  perfectly  powerless — a  mere  play-ball, 
tossed  to  and  fro  between  the  landlords  and  the  cotton- 
lords. 

"In  France,  as  I  have  observed,  the  separation  of 
the  higher  bourgeoisie  from  those  who  help  them  by 
their  labor  to  amass  wealth,  is  complete;  but  so  power 
less  is  the  latter  section  that  it  is  not  only  not  repre 
sented  in  the  chambers,  but  not  even  thought  or  spo 
ken  of,  except  when  it  is  thought  necessary  to  teach 
it  a  lesson  by  putting  it  down  and  teaching  it  obedi-  , 


ence.     The  misery  of  the  laboring  classes  has  not  yet 
found  an  orator.'" 

We  have  given,  here-above,  an  attractive  nucleus 
for  table-talk  and  speculation,  and  we  leave  it  to  our 
friends. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  AMERICA. — An  hour's 
lecture  on  this  subject  by  Mr.  Poe  is  but  a  "  foot  of 
Hercules,"  and  though  one  can  see  what  would  be 
the  proportions  of  the  whole,  if  treated  with  the  same 
scope  and  artistic  minuteness,  it  is  a  pity  to  see  only 
the  fragment.  What  we  heard  last  night  convinced 
us,  however,  that  one  of  the  most  readable  and  sale 
able  of  books  would  be  a  dozen  of  such  lectures  by 
Mr.  Poe,  and  we  give  him  a  publisher's  counsel  to 
print  them. 

After  some  general  remarks  on  poetry  and  the  uses 
of  impartial  criticism,  Mr.  Poe  gently  waked  up  the 
American  poetesses.  He  began  with  Mrs.  Sigourney, 
whom  he  considered  the  best  known,  and  who,  he 
seemed  to  think,  owed  her  famousness  to  the  same 
cause  as  "old  boss  Richards" — the  being  ••  kept  before 
the  people.''  He  spoke  well  of  her  poetry  abstractly, 
but  intimated  that  it  was  strongly  be-Hemans'd,  and 
that  without  the  Hemanshood  and  the  newspaper 
iteration,  Mrs.  Sigouruey  would  not  be  the  first 
American  poetess.  He  next  came  to  Mrs.  Welby  as 
No.  2,  and  gave  her  wholesome  muse  some  very  stiff 
laudation.  Mrs.  Osgood  came  next,  and  for  her  he 
prophesied  a  rosy  future  of  increasing  power  and  re 
nown.  He  spoke  well  of  Mrs.  Seba  Smith,  and  he 
spent  some  time  in  showing  that  the  two  Miss  David 
sons,  with  all  their  merit,  were  afloat  "  on  bladders  in 
a  sea  of  glory."  The  pricking  of  these  bladders,  by- 
the-way,  and  the  letting  out  of  Miss  Sedgwick's 
breath,  and  Professor  Morse's,  and  Mr.  Southey's, 
was  most  artistically  well  done. 

Of  the  inspired  males  Mr.  Poe  only  took  up  the 
copperplate  five  —  Bryant,  Halleck,  Longfellow, 
Sprague,  and  Dana.  These,  as  having  their  por 
traits  engraved  in  the  frontispiece  of  Griswold's 
"Poets  and  Poetry  of  America,"  were  taken  to  rep 
resent  the  country's  poetry,  and  dropped  into  the 
melting-pot  accordingly.  Mr.  Bryant  came  first  as 
the  allowed  best  poet;  but  Mr.  Poe,  after  giving  him 
high  praise,  expressed  a  contempt  for  "  public  opin 
ion,"  and  for  the  opinion  of  all  majorities,  in  matters 
of  taste,  and  intimated  that  Mr.  Bryant's  universality 
of  approval  lay  in  his  keeping  within  very  narrow  lim 
its,  where  it  was  easy  to  have  no  faults.  Halleck,  Mr. 
Poe  praised  exceedingly,  repeating  with  great  beauty 
of  elocution  his  Marco  Bozzaris.  Longfellow,  Mr. 
Poe  said,  had  more  genius  than  any  other  of  the  five, 
but  his  fatal  alacrity  at  imitation  made  him  borrow, 
when  he  had  better  at  home.  Sprague,  but  for 
one  drop  of  genuine  poetry  in  a  fugitive  piece,  was 
described  by  Poe  as  Pope-and-water.  Dana  found 
very  little  favor.  Mr.  Poe  thought  his  metre  harsh 
and  awkward,  his  narrative  ill-managed,  and  his  con 
ceptions  eggs  from  other  people's  nests.  With  the 
copperplate  five,  the  criticisms  abruptly  broke  off,  Mr. 
Poe  concluding  his  lecture  with  the  recitation  of  three 
pieces  of  poetry  which  he  thought  had  been  mista 
kenly  put  away,  by  the  housekeeper  of  the  temple  of 
fame,  among  the  "empty  bottles.  Two  of  them  were 
by  authors  we  did  not  know,  and  the  third  was  by  an 
author  whom  we  have  been  exhorted  to  know  under 
the  Greek  name  of  Seauton  ("gnothi  seauton") — 
ourself !  (Perhaps  we  may  be  excused  for  mentioning 
that  the  overlooked  bottle  of  us  contained  "unseen 
spirits,"  and  that  the  brigadier,  who  gave  us  twenty 
dollars  for  it,  thought  it  by  no  means  "small  beer!") 

Mr.  Poe  had  an  audience  of  critics  and  poets — 
between  two  and  three  hundred  of  victims  and  victim- 
jzers and  he  was  heard  with  breathless  attention.  He 


202 


EPHEMERA. 


becomes  a  desk,  his  beautiful  head  showing  like  a 
statuary  embodiment  of  discrimination;  his  accent 
drops  like  a  knife  through  water,  and  his  style  is  so 
much  purer  and  clearer  than  the  pulpit  commonly 
gets  or  requires,  that  the  effect  of  what  he  says,  beside 
other  things,  pampers  the  ear.  Poe's  late  poem  of 
"  The  Raven,"  embroidered  him  at  once  on  the  quilt 
of  the  poets ;  but  as  the  first  bold  traverse  thread  run 
across  the  parallelisms  of  American  criticism,  he 
wants  but  a  business  bodkin  to  work  this  subordinate 
talent  to  great  show  and  profit.  We  admire  him  none 
the  less  for  dissenting  from  some  of  his  opinions. 


ASYLUM  FOR  INDIGENT  WOMEN. — A  benevolent 
friend  surprised  us,  on  Saturday,  into  one  of  the  most 
agreeable  visits  we  ever  made — a  visit  to  an  institution 
of  whose  existence  we  were  not  even  aware.  We 
presume  that  others  have  shared  our  ignorance,  and 
that  the  name  we  have  written  above  will  convey  to 
most  readers  an  idea  either  vague  or  entirely  novel. 
Poetry  alone  would  express  truly  the  impression  left 
on  our  mind  by  this  visit,  but  we  will  confine  ourself 
to  a  brief  description  in  prose. 

Our  friend  informed  us,  on  the  way,  that  an  entrance 
fee  of  fifty  dollars  was  required,  and  that  the  claims  of 
the  proposed  inmate  (as  to  respectability  and  such  cir 
cumstances  as  would  affect  the  social  comfort  of  the 
establishment)  were  decided  upon  by  the  board  of 
management.  Once  there,  she  has  a  home  for  life, 
with  perfect  command  of  egress,  absence  for  visits, 
and  calls  from  friends,  books,  medical  attendance,  oc 
cupation,  &c.  Each  inmate  commonly  adds  some 
furniture  to  the  simple  provision  of  the  room. 

We  entered  a  large  building,  with  two  spacious 
wings,  standing  on  Twentieth  street,  near  the  East 
river.  Opposite  the  entrance,  the  door  opened  into  a 
cheerful  chapel,  and  we  turned  to  the  left  into  a 
drawing-room,  which  had  all  the  appearance  of  an 
apartment  in  the  most  comfortable  private  residence. 
We  descended  thence  through  warm  corridors,  to  the 
refectory  in  the  basement,  and  here  the  ladies  (be 
tween  fifty  and  sixty  of  them)  chanced  to  be  taking 
their  tea.  We  really  never  saw  a  pleasanter  picture 
of  comfort.  The  several  tables  were  scattered  irreg 
ularly  around  the  room,  and  each  little  party  had  sep 
arate  teapot  and  table  furniture,  the  arrangements 
reminding  one  of  a  cafe,  in  a  world  grown  old.  The 
gay  chatting,  the  passing  of  cups  and  plates,  the  nod 
ding  of  clean  caps,  and  the  really  unusual  liveliness 
of  the  different  parties,  took  us  entirely  by  surprise — 
took  away,  in  fact,  all  idea  of  an  asylum  for  sickness 
or  poverty.  What  with  the  fragrant  atmosphere  of 
souchong,  and  the  happy  faces,  it  would  have  been  a 
needlessly  fastidious  person  who  would  not  have  sat 
down  willingly  as  a  guest  at  the  meal. 

We  looked  into  the  kitchen  and  household  arrange 
ments  for  a  few  minutes,  finding  everything  the  model 
of  wholesome  neatness,  and  then,  as  the  ladies  had 
returned  to  their  rooms,  we  made  a  few  visits  to 
them,  chez  elles,  introduced  by  the  attendant.  Here 
again,  the  variety  of  furniture,  the  comfortable  rock 
ing-chairs,  the  curtains,  and  pictures,  and  ornamental 
trifles,  removed  all  idea  of  hospital  or  asylum-life,  and 
gave  us  the  feeling  of  visiters  in  private  families. 
The  ladies  were  visiting  from  room  to  room,  and  those 
we  conversed  with  assured  us  that  they  had  every 
thing  for  their  comfort,  and  were  as  happy  as  they  well 
could  be — though  they  laughed  very  heartily  when  we 
expressed  some  envy  of  the  barrier  between  them  and 
the  vexed  world  we  must  return  to,  and  at  our  wish 
that  we  could  "qualify"  and  stay  with  them.  We 
have  rarely  had  merrier  conversation  in  a  call,  and  we 
think  that  this  asylum  for  age  holds  at  least  one  or 
two  very  agreeable  women. 


But  what  charity  can  the  angel  of  mercy  so  smile 
upon,  as  this  waiting  upon  life  to  its  gloomy  retiring- 
door,  lighting  the  dark  steps  downward,  and  sending 
home  the  weary  guest  with  a  farewell,  softened  and 
cheerful !  God  bless  the  founder  of  this  beautiful 
charity  !  Who  can  hear  of  it  and  not  wish  to  aid  it  ? 
Who  has  read  thus  far,  our  truthful  picture,  and  does 
not  mentally  resolve  to  be  one  (though  by  ever  so 
small  a  gift)  among  its  blest  benefactors. 

We  begged  a  copy  of  the  last  report,  and  we  find 
that  the  society,  which  supports  the  asylum,  has  some 
eighty  pensioners  out  of  the  house,  and  that  there  is 
some  fear  entertained,  from  the  low  state  of  the  funds, 
as  to  the  ability  to  continue  these  latter  charities. 
We  can  not  conceive  the  treasury  of  such  an  institu 
tion  in  want.  We  are  not  authorized  to  make  any 
appeal  to  the  public,  but  those  who  are  inclined  to 
give  can  easily  find  out  the  way. 


SACRED  CONCERT. — We  have  once  or  twice,  when 
writing  of  musical  performers,  given  partial  expres 
sion  to  a  feeling  that  has  since  been  very  strongly 
confirmed — the  expediency  of  addressing  music,  in 
this  country,  to  the  more  serious  instead  of  the  gayer 
classes,  for  its  best  support  and  cultivation.  The 
high  moral  tone,  this  side  the  water,  of  all  those  strata 
of  society  to  which  refined  amusement  looks  for  sup 
port,  gives  music  rather  an  American  rebuke  than  an 
American  welcome — coming  as  a  pleasure  in  which 
dissipated  fashionables  are  alone  interested.  Italian 
opera,  properly  labelled  and  separated  from  its  need 
less  association  with  ballet,  would  rise  to  the  unof 
fending  moral  level  of  piano-music,  sight-seeing,  con 
cert-going,  or  what  the  serious  commonly  call  inno 
cent  amusements. 

Till  lately  it  has  been  generally  understood  that  the 
only  hope  for  patronage  of  fine  music,  in  New  York, 
was  the  exclusive  class  which  answers  to  the  court 
circles  of  Europe ;  and,  so  addressed,  the  opera  has 
very  naturally  languished. 

The  truth  is,  that  the  great  mass  of  the  wealthy 
and  respectable  population  of  New  York  is  at  a  level 
of  strict  morality,  or  of  religious  feelings  rising  still 
higher,  and  any  amusement  that  goes  by  a  doubtful 
name  among  moralists,  is  at  once  excluded.  But 
music  need  never  suffer  by  this  exclusion,  and  as  the 
favor  of  these  stricter  classes,  once  secured,  would  be 
of  inexhaustible  profit  to  musicians,  it  would  be  worth 
while  for  some  master-spirit  among  them  to  undertake 
the  proper  adaptation  of  music  to  moral  favor. 

Why  should  the  best  singers  be  considered  almost, 
profane — was  the  question  that  naturally  enough  oc 
curred  to  us  the  other  night  on  hearing  the  Taberna 
cle  fill,  to  its  vast  capacity,  with  the  voice  of  Madame 
Pico  giving  entrancing  utterance  to  Scripture!  Here 
were  a  thousand  lovers  of  music  sitting  breathless  to 
gether,  with  their  most  hallowed  feelings  embarked 
upon  a  voice  usually  devoted  to  profane  uses.  Many 
whose  tears  flow  only  at  hallowed  prompting,  listened 
with  moist  eyes  to  the  new-clad  notes  of  familiar  sa 
cred  music — perhaps  half-sighing  with  self-reproach 
that  the  enchantment  of  an  opera-singer  should  have 
reached  such  sacred  fountains  of  emotion.  Why 
should  not  the  best  musical  talent,  as  well  as  the 
more  indifferent,  be  made  tributary  to  religion?  Why 
should  not  sacred  operas  be  written  for  our  country 
exclusively  ?  Why  should  not  the  highly  dramatic 
scenes  and  events  of  Scripture  be  represented  on  the 
stage,  and  seen  with  reverence  by  the  classes  who 
have  already  seen  them  in  their  imaginations,  during 
perusal  of  the  inspired  volume.  And  why  should  not 
the  events  of  human  life,  as  portrayed  in  unobjection 
able  operas,  be  alternated  with  these,  and  addressed  to 
the  moral  approbation  of  our  refined  serious  classes? 


EPHEMERA. 


203 


We  believe  that  this  (and  not  this  alone  of  things  com 
monly  delivered  over  to  the  evil  spirit  among  us) 
would  be  willingly  taken  charge  of  by  the  angel  of 
good  influences. 

We  can  not  give  a  critical  notice  of  the  performances 
at  the  sacred  concert,  as  we  were  unable  to  remain 
after  the  conclusion  of  the  first  part,  but  we  heard  a 
single  remark  which  seems  to  us  worth  quoting.  At 
the  conclusion  of  Madame  Pico's  first  air,  a  gentle 
man,  standing  near  us,  observed  that  it  was  very  odd 
a  foreigner  should  sing  with  perfect  articulation,  while 
he  could  scarce  understand  a  word  from  those  who 
sang  in  their  native  tongue  !  The  instrumental  mu 
sic  was  admirable,  and  the  scenic  effect  of  the  female 
choir  (all  dressed  in  white,  and  getting  up  with  a 
spontaneous  resurrection  for  the  chorus)  was  at  least 
impressive. 

P.  S.  Just  as  we  are  going  to  press  we  have  re 
ceived  a  critique  of  the  concert,  speaking  very  glow 
ingly  of  Madame  Pico,  and  the 

"  moist  melodious  hymn 
From  her  white  throat  dim," 

"as  Aristophanes  hath  it,"  of  the  "deep  clear  tones 
of  BROUGH,  so  long  lost  to  us,"  and  "  Miss  Norihall 
and  Mr.  Meyer,"  as  having  "given  full  satisfaction." 


THE  FAMINE  AT  WASHINGTON. — The  city  is  alive 
with  laughable  stories  of  the  distress  for  bed  and  prov 
ender  during  the  late  descent  upon  the  scene  of  the 
inauguration. 

"  As  the  scorched  locusts  from  the  fields  retire 
While  fast  behind  them  runs  the  blaze  of  fire," 

the  belles  and  beaux,  politicians  and  travellers,  are 
crowding  back  to  the  regions  of  steady  population, 
aghast  at  the  risks  of  famine  run  in  the  capital  of  a 
land  of  proverbial  abundance.  The  stories  are  mostly 
such  as  would  easily  be  imagined  taking  place  in  any 
country,  under  the  circumstances,  but  we  heard  of  one 
worth  recording — a  Yankee  variation  of  an  expedient 
tried  some  years  ago  by  an  Englishman  at  Saratoga. 
John  Bull,  in  that  instance  (it  may  be  remembered), 
after  calling  in  vain  to  the  flying  attendants  at  the 
crowded  table,  splashed  a  handful  of  silver  into  his 
plate  and  handed  it  to  a  waiter  with  a  request  for  "  a 
clean  plate  and  some  soup."  A  Massachusetts  judge, 
probably  remembering  this,  drew  a  gold  piece  from 
his  pocket  last  week  while  sitting  hungry  at  the  strip 
ped  table  at  Washington,  and  tapping  his  tumbler 
with  it  till  he  attracted  attention,  laid  it  beside  his 
plate  and  pointed  to  it  while  he  mentioned  what  he 
wanted.  He  was  miraculously  supplied  of  course, 
but,  when  he  had  nothing  more  to  ask,  he  Qplitely 
thanked  the  waiter  and — returned  the  gold  piece  to 
his  own  pocket ! 


THE  GERMAN  CONCERT. — The  great  wilderness 
of  Pews-y-ism— the  boundless  Tabernacle — was  filled 
to  its  remotest  "  seat  for  one"  on  Saturday  evening, 
and  a  more  successful  concert  could  scarcely  have 
been  given.  The  nation  cradled  away  from  salt  air, 
showed  their  naturally  fresh  enthusiasm  for  the  per 
formances,  and  it  seemed  to  have  an  effect  upon 
Madame  Pico,  for  her  friends  thought  she  never  had 
sung  so  enchantingly,  as  in  the  second  of  the  pieces 
set  down  for  her — "  la  casta  Diva"  She  was  ap 
plauded  to  the  utmost  tension  of  Mr.  Male's  roof  and 
rafters.  The  German  chorus  by  a  score  of  amateurs 
was  admirably  given,  and  Schaftenburg's  piano-music 
was  done  to  the  utmost  probable  of  excellence. 


"  MINE  HOST." — Some  time  ago,  in  some  specula 
tions  on  American  peculiarities,  we  commented  on  the 
hotel-life  so  much  more  popular  in  this  country  than 
elsewhere,  and  the  necessity,  bred  by  the  manners 
and  habits  of  our  people,  that  hotel-keepers  should  be 
well-bred  men,  of  high  character  and  agreeable  man 
ners.  The  trusts  reposed  in  them  by  their  guests, 
and  the  courtesy  they  are  called  on  to  exercise,  make 
it  almost  inevitable  that  such  men  should  alone  be 
encouraged  to  assume  the  direction  of  hotels.  This 
tendency  of  fitness  has  lately  put  the  Howard  house 
into  the  hands  of  one  of  our  most  courteous,  capable, 
and  agreeable  friends,  Capt.  Roe,  and  the  public  will 
find  that  central  hotel  all  that  they  can  require. 


THE  GEODE. — We  remember  being  pitched  for  a 
week  into  Query-dom,  while  attending  college  lec 
tures,  by  Prof.  Silliman's  astounding  story  of  the 
mine  in  (we  think)  Meriden,  Connecticut — a  single 
cave  in  which  had  been  found  a  specimen  of  almost 
every  known  precious  stone.  It  was  a  kind  of  omnibus 
geode,  and  with  a  boy's  imagination,  we  speculated 
endlessly  on  how  so  many  rare  gems  could  have 
chanced  to  have  come  together  in  this  world  of  loose 
distribution.  We  have  come,  now,  however,  to  the 
astounding  knowledge  of  a  geode  of  poetesses — the 
centre  of  which  is  Fanny  Forester — and  though  there 
are  astonishing  resemblances  between  the  material 
and  spirilual  world,  we  were  not  prepared  for  this  ! 
Fanny  herself,  as  a  prose  writer  and  poetess,  has  now 
an  assured  fame.  But,  on  St.  Valentine's  day,  we 
received  an  original  Valentine  from  one  of  her  in 
timate  friends,  which  was  as  beautiful  poetry  as  fame 
wants  in  her  trumpet,  and  two  or  three  weeks  ago  we 
published  a  most  delicious  poem  from  another  friend 
of  Fanny  Forester's,  and  here  comes  a  fourth  gem 
which  seems  to  hint  (and  this  is  too  sad  a  possibility 
to  trifle  upon)  that  gifted  Fanny  Forester  is  beckoned 
to,  from  a  better  world.  God  send  her  health  with 
this  coming  spring — thousands  will  pray  fervently. 
Here  follows  a  prayer  for  it,  expressed  in  touching 
erse  by  one  who  seems  a  familiar  friend  : — 

"  TO  '  FANNY  FORESTER.' 


3RENCE   NOBLK. 


Saw  you  ever  a  purer  light 

More  still  and  fair  than  the  harvest  moon 
When  day  has  died  in  a  shadowless  night  ? 

And  the  air  is  still  as  a  summer's  noon? 
No? — Ah,  sweet  one,  your  eyelids  shrine 
A  light  far  purer,  and  more  divine. 

1  Heard  you  ever  the  silvery  gush 

Of  a  brook,  far  down  in  its  rocky  dell ; 

And  stilled  your  breath  with  a  tremulous  hush, 
As  its  mystic  murmurs  rose  and  fell  ? 

'Tis  thus  I  list  to  the  liquid  flow 

Of  your  silvery  accents,  soft  and  low. 

'  Yet,  sweet  '  Fanny,'  the  light  that  gleams 

'Neath  the  sweeping  fringe  of  your  radiant  eyes, 
Too  purely  chaste,  and  too  heavenly  seems 

To  dwell  in  the  glare  of  our  earthly  skies  ; 
And,  too  soft  and  low  your  tones  have  birth. 
To  linger  long  mid  the  din  of  earth 

1  The  sweet  brow  shrined  in  your  clustering  hair 

Has  gathered  a  shadow  wan,  and  deep, 
And  the  veins  a  darker  violet  wear, 

Which  over  your  hollow  temples  creep  ; 
And  your  fairy  foot  falls  faint  and  slow, 
As  the  feathery  flakes  of  the  drifting  snow. 

'  'Tis  said  the  eods  send  swift  decay 

To  the  bright  ones  they  love,  of  mortal  birth  ; 
And  your  angel  '  Dora'  passed  away 

In  her  youth's  sweet  spring-time,  from  the  earth, 
Yet  stay,  sweet '  Fanny ."  your  pinions  fold, 
'  Till  the  hearts  that  love  you  now,  are  cold." 


204 


EPHEMERA. 


YANKEE-PARISIAN  ARISTOCRACY. — Our  agreeable 
neighbor  of  the  "  Etats-Unis"  gives  a  letter  from 
Paris  which  states  that  "  another  rich  American  is 
about  taking  the  place  of  the  retiring  Col.  THORN. 
Mr.  MACNAMARA  has  opened  a  superb  house  in  the 
rue  de  la  Madeleine,  and  is  sending  out  invitations 
par  milliers.  In  the  commencement  of  a  fashionable 
career  as  an  entertainer,  a  thousand  invitations  will 
hardly  bring  persons  enough  to  form  a  quadrille. 
Mr.  TUDOR,  another  American,  is  just  now  in  that  stage 
where  he  has  commenced  weeding  his  saloons  !" 

The  same  agreeable  letter  states  that  two  sisters  of 
the  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton,  Lady  Seymour  (the  Queen 
of  Beauty  at  Eglinton),  and  Lady  Dufferin  (the  Mrs. 
Blackwood  whose  songs  are  well  known  in  this  coun 
try),  have  been  playing  at  the  English  embassy  in 
private  theatricals.  The  characters  were  nearly  all 
personated  by  lords  and  ladies,  yet  one  Baltimore 
belle  sustained  the  part  of  "  Mary  Copp"  in  the  play 
of  Charles  the  Second— Miss  MACTAVISH.  The 
two  sisters  of  Mrs.  Norton  and  the  "  Undying  One" 
herself,  were  by  much  the  three  most  beautiful  wo 
men  we  saw  abroad — magnificent  graces  between 
whom  it  was  hard  to  choose  the  most  beautiful. 


NEWELL'S  PATENT  LOCK. — Mr.  Newell's  wonder 
ful  lock  (one  of  which  costs  as  much  as  a  pianoforte) 
is  not  wholly  original.  On  the  world's  first  washing- 
day,  Monday  No.  1,  a  human  mind  was  created  on 
precisely  the  same  principle.  Without  going  into 
the  details  either  of  this  lock  or  a  human  mind  (in 
either  of  which  we  should  lose  ourself  of  course)  we 
will  simply  give  the  principle  of  Nature's  patent  and 
Mr.  Newell's,  viz  :  that  the  lock  is  constructed  not 
only  to  be  un-openable  to  all  keys  but  the  right  one, 
but  to  become  just  what  that  right  one  makes  it.  Newell's 
lock  is  a  chaos  of  slides,  wards,  and  joints,  till  the  key 
turns  in  it ;  and  it  then  suddenly  springs  into  order, 
simplicity,  and  beauty  of  construction.  Another 
resemblance  to  Nature's  plastic  lock,  is  this  feature 
of  Newell's,  that  by  the  slightest  change  in  the  key 
(provided  for  by  bits  inserted  at  will)  the  whole  interior 
responds  differently ;  so  that  a  bank  director,  like  a 
mind  director,  may  change  his  key  every  day  in  the 
year,  and  (preserving  only  the  harmony  between  lock 
and  key)  will  find  the  lock  every  day  responsive  to  the 
change.  Fair  dealing  required,  we  think,  that  the 
proper  credit  should  have  been  given  to  the  original 
inventor,  and  that  the  patent  should  bo  called  "  New 
ell's,  after  Nature." 

Having  shown  the  way  the  invention  struck  us, 
however," we  copy  by  request  what  was  said  of  it  by 
the  Journal  of  Commerce: — 

"  Mr.  Newell  denominates  this  new  masterpiece  of 
ingenuity,  theParautoptic  Toiken  Permutation  Lock. 
Parautoptic,  being  a  Greek  word,  signifying  preven 
tive  of  an  internal  inspection,  and  toiken  meaning 
walled,  hence  the  name.  This  lock  has  been  named 
after  its  peculiar  properties.  Phosphoric  or  other 
lisjht  may  be  introduced  into  it  in  vain  in  order  to 
view  its  interior  construction.  The  tumblers  being 
separated  from  the  essential  actional  parts  of  the  lock, 
which  constitute  its  safety,  by  a  perpendicular  wall  of 
solid  steel  forming  two  distinct  and  separate  chambers 
in  the  same,  thus  counteracting  all  burglarious  designs. 
The  front  chamber  will,  on  close  inspection,  either  by 
phosphoric  light  or  reflection,  exhibit  nothing  but  solid 
walls  of  steel  or  iron.  This  lock  is  susceptible  of  an 
infinity  of  changes  from  thousands  to  millions,  ena 
bling  the  possessor  to  change  or  vary  it  at  pleasure, 
simply  by  transposing  or  altering  the  bits  in  the  key, 
before  using  it  to  lock  the  door,  in  a  manner 
which  is  truly  surprising.  It  therefore  follows  that 
a  person  may  make  himself  a  different  lock  every 


j  moment  of  his  life,  if  such  be  his  disposition,  thereby 
frustrating  the  skill  of  the  maker,  and  placing  him  on 
a  footing  with  the  merest  novice.  We  are,  therefore, 
fully  persuaded  of  its  being  the  ultimatum  of  lock- 
making,  and  sincerely  congratulate  the  inventor  of 
this  admirable  contrivance,  in  thus  being  able  to 
counteract  so  effectually  the  various  plans  and  schemes 
of  burglars  and  pick-locks,  and  we  feel  warranted  in 
stating  that  after  due  inspection,  all  those  connected 
with  banking  institutions,  and  the  public  generally, 
will  adopt  it  at  once  as  preferable  to  all  others,  for  the 
safe-keeping  and  protection  of  their  property." 


THE   NEW  YORK  "RocHER  DE  CANCALE."— To 
dine  tete-a-tete  with  a  friend,  in  Paris,  or  to  give  a  din 
ner  party,  you  must  go  to  the  above-named  renowned 
restaurant,  where  have  dined,  probably,  all  the  gentle 
men   now   existing.     Private  room,   faultless  dinner, 
:   apt  and  prompt  service,  and  reasonable  charges,  con- 
j   stitute  the  charm,  and  all  this  we  are  to  have  (or  so 
h  says  that  communicative  "little  bird  in  the  air")   at 
i  the  corner  of  Reade  st.,  in  the  new  Maison  Lafarge. 
|  That   "  unrecognised   angel,"  Signer  Bardotte,  is  to 
!  be  the  chef  des  details,  and,  in  partnership  with  him, 
a  gentleman  well  fatigued  with  travel  and  experience 
is  to  act  as  partner.     Of  course  we  would  much  rather 
!   record  the  establishment,  at  the  same  corner,  of  an 
asylum  for  unavoidable  accomplishments,   but  since 
!  luxury  will  cut  its  swarth,  we  like  to  see  the  rake  with 
1  a  clean  handle. 


THE  MISSES  RICE  AND  THE  BEARS. — The  Port- 
||  land  Advertiser  states  that  in  a  secluded  part  of  Ox 
ford  county,  called  "The  Andover  Surplus,"  there 
reside  two  female  farmers,  who  occupy  a  few  acres, 
and  "do  their  own  chores,"  hiring  male  help  only  for 
haying  and  harvesting.  Out  in  the  woods  lately  with 
the  ox-team,  cutting  and  drawing  winter's  wood,  one 
of  the  Misses  Rice  was  attracted  by  the  barking  of  the 
dog  at  a  hollow  tree.  One  of  the  young  ladies  was 
absent  for  the  moment,  and  the  other  chopped  a  hole 
in  the  tree  and  came  to  a  lear-skin .'  Nothing 
daunted  at  the  sight,  she  gave  a  poke,  and  out  scram 
bled  bruin,  whom  she  knocked  down  and  despatched. 
A  second  bear  immediately  made  his  appearance,  and 
she  despatched  him  !  A  third  bear  then  crept  from 
the  tree,  and  the  same  axe  finished  him !  This, 
Miss  Rice  considered  a  good  morning's  work,  for 
there  is  a  two-dollar  bounty  on  bears,  and  the  skins 
and  grease  are  worth  five  dollars,  at  least.  We  should 
like  to  see  Miss  Rice,  of  the  "  Andover  Surplus  !" 


INCONSTANCY  MADE  ROMANTIC. — "  The  Countess 
Faustina"  (the  new  book  now  in  everybody's  hands) 
is  the  first  novel  we  remember  to  have  read,  the  whole 
burthen  of  which  is  a  glorification  of  inconstancy  in 
love  !  The  heroine  is  charmingly  drawn — the  model 
of  divine  women — but  after  quite  innocently  using  up 
all  that  was  most  loveable  in  two  men  and  deserting 
them,  she  gets  tired  of  a  third,  and  goes  into  a  con 
vent  to  finish  the  story  !  The  lovers  are  all  described 
as  worthy  of  a  deathless  passion,  and  the  love  on  both 
sides,  while  it  lasts,  is  of  the  loftiest  lift  and  devotion, 
but  the  countess  has  the  little  peculiarity  of  liking  no 
love  except  love  in  progress,  and  she  deserts,  of  course, 
at  the  first  premonishing  of  the  halt  of  tranquillity. 
The  following  passage,  descriptive  of  her  enlightening 
her  last  love  as  to  the  coming  break-off,  will  show  how 
neatly  she  wrapped  up  the  bitter  pill  : — 

'"Be  silent,'  she  exclaimed,  when  I  was  about  to 
answer  her,  *  be  silent !  Does  not  the  water-lily 


EPHEMERA. 


205 


know  its  time,  rises  to  blossom  from  the  water,  and|| 
then  returns  back  into  its  depths,  satisfied,  tranquil, 
with  a  treasure  of  sweet  recollections?  Flowers! 
know  when  their  time  is  passed,  and  man  tries,  all  he 
can,  not  to  be  aware  of  it.  This  year  with  you, 
Mario,  was  the  height  of  my  blossoming !' 

"  '  You  love  me  no  longer,'  I  exclaimed  bitterly. 

"  '  Fool !'  she  replied,  with  that  ecstatic  smile  which 
I  never  saw  on  any  brow  but   hers,   'have   you   not  j 
touched  the  tabernacle  of  my  heart?     Is  not  my  son  j 
yours?     No,    Mario!     I    love    you;    J    have   loved 
nothing  so  much  ;   I  shall  never  love  anything  after  \ 
you — but,  above  you,  God  !     My  soul  has  squandered  i 
itself  in  such  transports  of  love  and  inspiration  with  ' 
yours,  that  all  it  can  ever  meet  in  this  region  will  be  ; 
but  a   repetition,  and   perhaps  an   insipid   one.     We 
have  so  broken  up  my  heart  in  searching  for  its  treas 
ure,   that   the    gold    mines   are    probably  exhausted, 
before  the  sad  certainty  comes  upon  us.' 

•'•  Faustina!'  I  know  not  in  what  tone  I  said  this, 
but  she  sank  trembling  into  my  arms,  and  said  very, 
very  softly, 

"'Oil,  if  you  are  angry,  I  shall  not  have  the  cour 
age  to  open  my  heart  to  you  !' 

"  I  knew  I  ought  not  to  alarm  her,  and  I  embraced   j 
her  tenderly,  and  inquired  what  she  thought  of  doing. 

"She  replied,  'I  will  close  the  mine!  If  there  is 
any  valuable  metal  within,  it  may  rest  quietly  in  the 
depths.  And  above  I  will  plant  flowers.' 

'"But  what  can — what  would  you  do?'  I  inquired 
with  terrible  anxiety. 

"'Belong  entirely  to  God,  and  enter  a  convent." 
she  replied,"  &c.,  &c. 

Six  months  of  convent-life  sufficed  to  finish  the 
Countess  Faustina,  who  "discovered  too  late"  (says 
the  narrator)  "  that,  during  our  life,  we  can  but  look, 
like  Moses,  toward  the  promised  Canaan"  (of  a  man 
worth  being  constant  to)  "but  never  reach  it!"  It 
strikes  us  this  is  a  naughtyish  book — at  least,  if,  as  we 
read  in  Spenser : — 

"  there  is  no  greater  shame 
Than  lightness  or  inconstancy  in  love." 

The  book  is  a  mark  of  the  times,  however.  It 
makes  no  mention  of  Fourierism,  but  we  doubt 
whether  its  sentiments  would  have  been  ventured 
upon  in  print,  if  Fourier  principles  had  not  insensibly 
opened  the  gates.  It  is  no  sign  that  principles  are  not 
spreading,  because  everybody  writes  against  them, 
and  because  few  will  acknowledge  them.  We  see  by 
various  symptoms  in  literature,  that  the  mere  peep 
into  free-and-easy-dorn  given  by  the  discussion  of 
Fourier  tenets,  has  left  a  leaning  that  way.  There  is 
no  particular  Fourierism,  that  we  know  of,  in  the  two 
following  pieces  of  poetry,  but  they  fell  from  that 
same  leaning,  we  rather  fancy.  We  copy  the  first 
from  our  sober  and  exemplary  neighbor,  "  rJPhe  Al 
bion"  : — 

"  No  !  the  heaven-enfranchised  poet 

Must  have  no  exclusive  home, 
But  (young  ladies,  you  should  know  it) 

Wives  in  scores  his  hair  to  comb. 
When  the  dears  were  first  invented, 

One  a-piece  Fate  only  gave  us, 
Wiser  far  two  kings  demented — 

Solomon— and  Hal  Octavus. 

"  Doctors'  Commons  judge  severely, 

My  belief  to  reason  stands ; 
Any  dolt  can  prove  it  clearly, 

With  ten  fingers  on  his  hands. 
Smiles  and  glances,  sighs  and  kisses 

From  one  wife  are  sweet— what  then  ? 
That  amount  of  wedlock's  blisse 

Take,  and  multiply  by  ten. 

"  Laughing  Jane  and  sparkling  Jessy 
Shall  the  morning's  meal  prepare, 
Brilliant  Blanche  and  bright-eyed  Bessy 
Mid-day's  lunch  shall  spread  and  share ; 


Ann  and  Fan  shall  grace  my  dinner, 

Rose  and  Laura  pour  my  tea  ; 
Sue  brew  grog,  while  Kate,  sweet  sinner, 

Lights  the  bedroom  wax  for  me. 

"Monk  !  within  thy  lonely  cell, 

What  wouldst  give  to  greet  a  bride  ? 
Monckton  bids  thee  forth  to  dwell 

With  a  dozen  by  thy  side. 
Poet !  in  your  crown  one  wife 

Shines  a  jewel,  past  a  doubt, 
But  in  ten  times  married  life, 

Mind  your  jewels  don't  full  out!'' 

The  next  instance  comes  from  the  very  heart  of 
holier-than-thou-dom — the  exemplary  state  of  Maine. 
The  St.  Louis  Reveille  declares  it  to  be  a  "well-au 
thenticated  fact  which  occurred  at  Holton,  in  Maine.1' 

•'  In  old  New  England,  long  ago, 
When  all  creation  travelled  slow, 
And  naught  but  trackless  deserts  lay, 
Before  the  early  settlers'  way, 
A  youth  and  damsel,  bold  and  fair, 
—        Had  cause  to  take  a  journey  where 

Through  night  and  day,  and  day  and  night, 

No  house  would  greet  their  wearied  sight ; 

And,  thinking  Hymen's  altar  should 

Precede  their  journey  through  the  wood, 

They  straightway  to  a  justice  went, 

By  love  and  circumstances  sent  ! 

The  justice — good  old  honest  pate — 

Said  it  was  quite  unfortunate, 

But  at  that  time  he  could  not  bind 

These  two  young  folks  of  willing  mind, 

For  his  commission — sad  to  say — 

Had  just  expired — but  yesterday  ! 

Yet,  after  all,  he  u-ould  not  say 

That  single  they  should  go  away  : 

And  so  he  bade  them  join  their  hands 

In  holy  wedlock's  happy  bands, 

And  'just  a  little'  he  would  marry — 

Enough,  perhaps,  to  safely  carry — 

As  they  were  in  connubial  mooa — 

'  Enough  to  do  them  through  the  wood ."  " 


MISSIONARY  EYELIDS. — At  No.  75,  Fulton  street, 
a  large  emporium  has  lately  been  opened  for  the  sale 
of  the  plant  propagated  from  the  cut-off  eyelids  of  the 
first  Christian  missionary  to  China — in  other  words, 
for  the  sale  of  tea!  One  of  the  partners  of  this  es 
tablishment  (the  Pekin  tea  company)  has  written  a 
charming  little  pamphlet,  called  a  "  Guide  to  Tea- 
Drinkers,"  in  which  he  gives  the  following  true  origin 
of  the  wakeful  properties  of  tea: — 

"  Darma,  the  son  of  an  Indian  king,  is  said  to  have 
landed  in  China  in  the  year  510  of  the  Christian  era. 
He  employed  all  his  care  and  time  to  spread  through 
the  country  a  knowledge  of  God  and  religion,  and,  to 
stimulate  others  by  his  example,  imposed  on  himself 
privations  of  every  kind,  living  in  the  open  air,  in  fast 
ing  and  prayer.  On  one  occasion,  being  worn  out 
with  fatigue,  he  fell  asleep  against  his  will,  and  that  he 
might  thereafter  observe  his  oath,  which  he  had  thus 
violated,  he  cut  off"  his  eyelids,  and  threw  them  on  the 
ground.  The  next  day  passing  the  same  way,  he 
found  them  changed  to  a  shrub  (tea)  which  the  earth 
never  before  produced.  Having  eaten  some  of  its 
leaves  he  felt  his  spirits  much  exhilarated,  and  his 
strength  restored.  He  recommended  this  aliment  to 
his  disciples  and  followers.  The  reputation  of  tea  in 
creased,  and  from  that  time  it  continued  to  be  gener 
ally  used." 

The  pamphlet  goes  on  to  state  the  properties  of  the 
different  kinds  of  tea,  describing  Pekoe  as  the  best  of 
teas  (qu? — hence  the  prevailing  of  the  Pico  (ease  over 
Borghese's),  and  declares  it  to  be  peculiarly  agreeable 
(Pekoe  te-j)  to  poets  and  ladies — as  follows  : — 

"The  warmth  conveyed  to  the  stomach  of  man  by 
tea-drinking  at  his  various  meals,  becomes  essential  to 
him,  nor  would  the  crystal  steam  of  the  poet  suffice 
for  the  healthy  powers  of  digestion  in  the  artificial 
state  of  existence  in  which  we  are  placed.  A  learned 


206 


EPHEMERA. 


writer  declares  that  tea  is  particularly  adapted  for  the 
ordinary  beverage  of  young  women,  and  the  individual 
who,  until  the  day  of  her  marriage,  has  never  tasted 
wine  or  any  fermented  liquor,  is  the  one  who  is 
most  likely  to  fulfil  the  great  end  of  her  existence — 
the  handing  down  to  posterity  a  strong  and  well-or 
ganized  offspring." 

A  visit  to  this  emporium  is  well  worth  curiosity's 
while,  and  tea  can  there  be  bought  in  large  or  small 
quantities,  and  in  prices  much  below  those  of  grocers. 


WOMKN  IN  THEIR  JUNE. — The  early  decay  of  fe 
male  beauty,  consequent  on  neglect  of  physical  edu 
cation  and  the  corroding  dryness  of  our  climate,  has 
given  an  American  value  to  the  immature  April  and 
May  of  female  seasons,  and  a  corresponding  depreci 
ation  to  the  riper  June.  The  article  which  we  copy 


woman  may  be  '  in  her  loneness — in  her  loneness — 
and  the  fairer  for  that  loneness.'  You  may  think  it 
is  bespeaking  favor  and  patience  with  a  vengeance." 


REFINED  CHARITIES. — Our  readers  were  made 
aware,  a  few  days  since,  that  we  had  received  very 
great  pleasure  from  a  visit  to  an  institution  hitherto 
unknown  to  us — the  "  Asylum  for  Aged  and  Indigent 
Ladies."  That  so  beautiful  a  charity,  conducted 
with  so  happy  a  method,  should  never  have  come  to 
our  knowledge,  struck  us  as  probably  a  singular 
chance  in  our  own  hearsay — but  we  find  that  others, 
as  likely  to  be  interested  in  it  as  ourself,  were  equally 
in  the  dark,  and  one  lady  (quite  the  most  active  Dor 
cas  of  our  acquaintance)  took  our  account  to  be  an 
ingenious  device  to  suggest  such  an  institution  !  That 
a  large  two-winged  building,  with  a  sculptured  tablet 


below,  from  the  Brooklyn  Star,  expresses,  we  believe,   I  se.1  in  front,  stating   its  purpose,  and  so    filled  that  it 


the  opinion  of  the  best  judges  of  these  exotics  from 
a  better  world,  and  emboldens  us  to  express  a  long- 
entertained  belief  that  the  most  loveable  age  of  un 
married  woman's  life  commences,  at  the  earliest,  at 
twenty-Jive,  and  lasts  as  long  after  as  she  shows  no  dim 
inution  of  sensibility,  and  no  ravages  of  time.  Women 
improve  so  much  longer  than  men  (improve  by  the 
loving  and  suffering  that  spoils  men),  that  we  wonder 
they  have  never  found  an  historic  anatomist  of  their 
later  stages.  We  suggest  it  to  pens  at  a  loss.  Here 
follow  our  contemporary's  opinions  : — 

•'  My  dear  sir,  if  you  ever  marry,  marry  an  old 
maid — a  good  old  maid — who  is  serious,  and  simple, 
and  true.  I  hate  these  double-minded  misses,  who 
are  all  the  time  hunting  after  a  husband.  I  tell  you 
that  when  a  woman  gets  to  be  twenty-eight,  she 
settles  into  a  calm — rather  she  "  anchors  in  deep  wa 
ters,  and  safe  from  shore."  There  never  was  a  set,  or 
class,  or  community  of  persons,  so  belied  as  these 
ancient  ladies.  Look  upon  it  as  no  reproach  to  a 
woman  that  she  is  not  married  at  thirty  or  thirty-five. 
Above  all,  fall  not  into  the  vulgar  notion  of  romances, 
and  shallow  wits — unlearned  in  women's  hearts,  be 
cause  they  never  had  the  love  of  a  true  woman — that 
these  are  continually  lying  in  wait  to  catch  bachelors' 
hearts.  For  one  woman  who  has  floated  into  the 
calm  of  her  years,  who  is  anxious  to  fix  you,  I  will 
find  you  fifty  maidens  in  their  teens,  and  just  out,  who 
lay  a  thousand  snares  to  entrap  you,  and  with  more 
cold-blooded  intent — for  whether  is  worse,  that  one  of 
singleness  of  purpose  should  seek  to  lean  on  you  for 
life,  or  that  one  should  seek  you  as  a  lover,  to  excite 
jealousy  in  others,  or  as  a  last  resort. 

"  Marry  a  healthy,  well-bred  woman,  between 
twenty-eight  and  thirty-five,  who  is  inclined  to  love 
you,  and  never  bewilder  your  brains  with  suspicions 
about  whether  she  has  intentions  on  you  or  not.  This 
is  the  rock  of  vanity  upon  which  many  a  man  has 
wrecked  his  best  feelings  and  truest  inclinations.  Our 
falseness,  and  the  falseness  of  society,  and  more  than 
all,  the  false  and  hollow  tone  of  language  upon  this 
subject,  leave  very  little  courage  for  a  straightforward 
and  independent  course  in  the  matter.  What  matter 
if  a  woman  likes  you,  and  shows  that  she  does,  hon 
estly,  and  wishes  to  marry  you  ? — the  more  reason  for 
self-congratulation  but  not  for  vanity.  What  matter 
if  she  be  young  or  not,  so  she  be  loveable?  I  won't 
say  what  matter  if  she  be  plain  or  not — for  everybody 
knows  that  that  is  no  matter  where  love  is,  though  it 
may  have  some  business  in  determining  the  senti 
ment.  I  don't  know  what  has  led  me  into  this  course 
of  remark.  The  last  thing  I  should  have  expected 
on  sitting  down  to  write,  is,  that  I  should  have  fallen 
into  a  lecture  on  matrimony.  I  am  not  an  old  maid 
myself,  yet ;  but  I  have  a  clearer  eye  to  their  virtues 


might  be  taken  up  to  heaven  by  its  "knit  corners,' 
like  the  sheet  full  of  living  things  let  down  to  the 
apostle  on  the  housetop — that  such  a  building,  with 
such  a  purpose,  should  exist  unsuspected  in  one  of 
the  streets  of  New  irork,  is  somewhat  a  marvel.  But 
we  were  not  prepared  for  TWO  such  surprises!  We 
have  since  discovered  another  charity  that  was  wholly 
unknown  to  us,  as  delicate,  if  not  as  poetically  beau 
tiful,  and  we  begin  to  think  that  the  old  saying  is 
true — ministering  spirits  do  walk  the  earth,  unrecog 
nised  in  their  tender  ministrations,  and 

"  The  tears  that  we  forget  to  note,  the  angels  wipe  away." 

Our  second  discovery  is  of  an  institution  called  the 
DEPOSITORY — intended  for  the  benefit  of 
reverse  of  fortune, 


LADIKS' 

those  persons  ivho  have  experienced 


and  who  can  not  come  before  the  public,  while,  at  the 
same  time,  they  may,  from  necessity,  wish  to  dispose  of 
useful  and  ornamental  work,  if  it  could  be  done  pri 
vately,  and  to  advantage"  The  institution  supports 
a  store  for  the  sale  of  needlework,  &c.,  and  any  one 
of  its  twenty-five  managers  may  receive  an  application 
and  give  a  "  permit"  to  the  lady  in  want— this  one 
manager  alone  the  possessor  of  the  secret  of  the  lady's 
wants  and  mode  of  supplying  them.  Work,  drawings, 
&c.,  are  thus  purchased  by  the  society's  funds,  and 
sold  by  the  hired  saleswoman  of  the  society,  and  a 
veil  is  thus  hung  between  delicacy  and  the  rude  con 
tact  of  open  want — a  veil  which  prevents  more  pain, 
probably,  than  the  food  which  prevents  only  bodily 
suffering. 

This  beautiful  charity  has  now  been  in  existence 
twelve  years,  and  by  its  tenth  report  (we  have  no  later 
one)  we  find  that  fourteen  hundred  dollars  were  paid 
out  for  work  in  the  twelve  months  preceding.  This 
sum  is  not  large,  and  it  shows  that  the  subscriptions  to 
the  funds  of  the  society  are  less  liberal  than  could  be 
desired.  We  should  think  that  the  bare  knowledge 
of  the  existence  of  such  societies  as  this  and  the  one 
beforementioned,  would  start  streams  of  gift-laden 
sympathy  toward  them,  and  we  think  they  but  need 
wider  publicity.  We  are  not  authorized  to  mention 
in  print  the  names  of  the  treasurer  or  directresses, 
but  the  report  lies  on  our  table,  and  we  shall  be  happy 
to  give  the  information  to  any  individual  applying  at 
our  office. 


We  copy  the  following  astounding  intelligence 
from  a  Montreal  paper : — 

"  ANNEXATION  OF  THE  STATE  OF  MAINE. — After 
all  that  has  been  said  of  Texas  and  Oregon,  and  the 
desire  entertained  by  the  people  of  the  United  States 
to  enlarge  their  territory  by  the  acquisition  of  im- 
nense  tracts,  it  will  surprise  many,  and  add  much 


than    I   have  had,  and  begin  to  feel  how  dignified  a  !  the  protocols  that  will  be  issued,  to  learn  that  the  state 


EPHEMERA. 


207 


of  Maine,  disgusted  ivith  slavery  and  repudiation,  and 
feeling  a  community  of  interests  uith  those  of  north  of 
forty-jive  degrees,  has  petitioned  her  majesty  Queen 
Victoria  to  readmit  her  to  the  old  family  circle  of  John 
Bull,  where  property  is  respected,  and  where  there  is 
neither  vote  by  ballot,  Lynch  law,  slavery,  nor  repudia 
tion. 

"  It  is  generally  surmised  that  his  honor,  Judge 
Preble  is  charged  with  khis  delicate  mission,  and  that 
the  petition  will  be  sent  through  his  excellency  Lord 
Metcalfe,  by  the  next  steamer,  though  the  ostensible 
ground  of  his  honor's  visit  to  Montreal  is  the  railroad 
to  Portland  ;  and  it  is  evident  that  if  the  admission  is 
agreed  on,  and  is  prompt  and  immediate,  all  the  stock 
will  be  at  once  subscribed  by  the  home  government, 
and  presented  to  the  new  confederation. 

"  Part  of  New  Hampshire,  Vermont,  and  that  por 
tion  of  New  York  bordering  on  the  St.  Lawrence, 
will,  it  is  thought,  follow  this  laudable  example. 

"  N.  B.  No  STATE  THAT  HAS  REPUDIATED  NEED 
APPLY." 

We  were  born  in  Portland,  and  by  annexation,  as 
above,  are  likely  to  turn  out  a  "  a  Britisher  from  the 
provinces!"  President  Polk  is  to  lose  us — Queen 
Victoria  is  to  have  us!  Lucky  we  were  presented  to 
her  majesty  while  we  were  a  republican  court-eligible 
— before  we  sank,  that  is  to  say,  from  a  "  distinguished 
foreigner"  into  a  provincial  editor!  We  should  never 
have  had  formal  certainty  of  having  lodged  exclu 
sively  for  the  space  of  a  minute,  in  the  queen's  eye, 
had  Maine  annexed  herself  before  we  were  brought  to 
the  notice  of  "  Gold  Stick  in  Waiting."  So  much, 
at  least,  it  was  better  to  have  been  temporarily  a 
Yankee  ! 

There  is  one  other  difference  to  be  considered, 
while  we  are  measuring  the  matter  at  the  top — we 
cease  to  be  a  competitor  for  the  presidency  !  Our 
glorious  fifteen  millionth  of  capability  for  "No.  1" 
drops  from  us  as  treason  to  Victoria !  We  are  re 
duced  to  the  prospect  of  dying  the  inferior  of  Louis 
Philippe  (!)  without  the  benefit  of  a  doubt.  We  be 
come  also,  doubtless,  the  inferior  of  all  the  titled  gen 
tlemen  catalogued  in  the  "  red  book,"  many  of  whom, 
till  Maine  was  annexed,  welcomed  us  to  walk  into 
their  houses,  without  mentally  seeing  us  pass  under 
the  yoke  over  the  door.  We  are  to  unlearn  "  Yan 
kee  Doodle,"  and  learn  "God  save  the  Queen."  We 
are  to  call  this  half-savage  country  "  The  States," 
and  keep  the  birthdays  of  the  queen's  annuals.  We 
are  to  glory  in  standing  armies,  national  debt,  and 
London  fog  and  porter,  and  begin  to  hesitate  in  our 
speech,  and  wear  short  whiskers.  The  change  in 
our  prayer-book  is  not  much.  We  are  to  do  our  ci 
phering  in  pounds,  and  that  will  plague  us  !  We  are 
to  be  interested  in  Canada  politics  and  Lord  Met- 
calfe's  erysipelas.  We  are  to  belong  to  a  country 
where  births  are  published,  as  the  first  sign* that  peo 
ple  know  all  about  you,  and  that  you  must  stay  put. 
(This  last  strikes  us  as  the  worst  part  of  it.)  We  are 
to  pass  for  an  Englishman  on  our  travels,  in  the  states 
and  elsewhere,  and  that  is  agreeable,  because  our 
suavity  will  be  unexpected.  The  larger  features  of 
our  metamorphosis  we  omit  for  future  consideration 

but,  as  far  as  these  personal  ones  go,  we  fear  we 

had  a  better  chance  as  a  Yankee !  We  were  what  we 
could  make  ourselves— we  are  to  be  what  others  make 
us.  Queen  Victoria,  on  the  whole,  will  oblige  us  by 
not  laying  her  hands  on  our  Maine  ! 


poetic  feeling,  and  will  do  for  the  heart,  what  the 
single  japonica  does  to  the  dress — give  the  finishing 
expression,  no  way  else  so  felicitously  effective. 
Those  who  make  love  before  this  book  gets  into  use, 
will  work  like  savages  with  arrows  before  the  discove 
ry  of  gunpowder.  Those  whose  best  thoughts  die 
in  birth,  for  lack  of  recognition  and  ready-made  cloth 
ing,  will  wonder  how  they  were  ever  comfortable 
without  it.  Our  Cumberland  correspondent  spent  a 
whole  letter,  wondering  why  we,  who  were  constantly 
quoting  the  book,  had  never  written  a  critique  upon 
it.  Our  reason  for  not  doing  so — or  rather  for  first 
making  our  readers  thoroughly  alive  to  its  beauty  by 
extract — is  indirectly  given  in  the  book  itself,  in  the 
chapter  called  "  Indirect  Influences."  See  how  ex 
quisitely  it  is  done  : — 

Behold  those  broken  arches,  that  oriel  all  unglazed, 

That  crippled  line  of  columns  creeping  in  the  sun, 

The    delicate    shaft    stricken    midway,    and    the    flyine 

buttress, 

Idly  stretching  forth  to  hold  up  tufted  ivy  : 
Thinkest  thou  the  thousand  eyes  that  shine  with  rapture  on 

a  ruin, 
Would  have  looked  with  half  their  wonder  on  the  perfect 

pile? 
And  wherefore  not — but  that  light  hints,  suggesting  unseen 

beauties, 

Fill  the  complacent  gazer  with  self-grown  conceits  ? 
And   so,   the  rapid  sketch  winneth    more  praise   to   the 

painter, 

Than  the  consummate  work  elaborated  on  his  easel : 
And  so,  the  Helvetic  lion  caverned  in  the  living  rock- 
Hath  more  of  majesty  and  force,  than  if  upon  a.  marble 

pedestal. 

"  Tell  me,  daughter  of  taste,  what  hath  charmed  thine  ear  in 

music? 

Is  it  the  labored  theme,  the  curious  fugue  or  cento — 
Nay— rather  the  sparkles  of  intelligence  flashing  from  some 

strange  note, 

Or  the  soft  melody  of  sounds  far  sweeter  for  simplicity  ? 
Tell  me,  thou  son  of  science,  what  hath  filled  thy  mind  in 

reading  ? 

Is  it  the  volume  of  detail  where  all  is  orderly  set  down 
And  they  that  read  may  run,  nor  need  to  stop  and  think  ; 
The  book  carefully  accurate,  that  counteth  thee  no  betUT 

than  a  fool, 

Gorging  the  passive  mind  with  annotated  notes?— 
Nay— rather  the  half-suggested  thoughts,  the  riddles  thou 

mayst  solve, 
The   fair  ideas,  coyly  peeping  like   young  loves  out  of 

roses, 

The  quaint  arabesque   conceptions,  half-cherub  and   half- 
flower, 
The  light  analogy,  or  deep  allusion,  trusted  to  thy  learn- 

The '  confidence  implied  in  thy  skill  to  unravel  meaning 

mysteries ! 

For  ideas  are  ofttimes  shy  of  the  close  furniture  of  words, 
And  thought,  wherein  only  is  power,  may  be  best  conveyed  by 

The  flash  that  lighteth  up  a  valley,  amid  the  dark  midnight 
of  a  storm, 

Coineth  the  mind  with  that  scene  sharper  than  fifty  sum 
mers." 

The  book  of  which  this  exquisite  passage  is  a  part, 
is  called  "proverbial  philosophy."  It  is  by  Martin 
Farquhar  Tupper,  of  Christ  church,  Oxford,  and  an 
American  edition  of  it  has  lain  in  the  bookstores  for 
two  years,  wholly  unsaleable  !  It  can  afford  to  "  bide 
its  time,"  and  mean-time,  we  shall  enrich  our  readers 
with  it,  bit  by  bit. 


A  FUTURE  PASSION,  IN  THE  EGO. — We  have  had  a 
book  for  some  time,  that  is  destined  to  be  an  Ameri 
can  passion.  Once  rend,  it  infatuates — for  it  expres 


A'RGUMENT  FOR   SEDAN  CHAIRS. 

••  MR.  EDITOR  :   You  stand  accredited  as  the  ready 
friend   of  luxurious  elegance,  the  happy  mingler  of 
those   foreign  ingredients,   the   utile  with   the   duln. 
!  My  dear  sir,  why  have  you  never  said  a  word  in  favor 
-.„.  ..  „.,..-,-     of  the   SEDAN-CHAIRS  ?     The  very  name  carries  one 
brief  and    beautiful    figure   every    possible  '<[  back  to  the  days  of  Pope  and  Add.son  ;  to  the  routs. 


208 


EPHEMERA. 


and  masquerades  and  Ranelagh  of  London,  in  the 
'reign  of  wits.'  Even  Cowper  celebrates  it: — 

"  '  Possess  ye  therefore,  ye  who,  borne  about 
In  chariot  and  sedans,  know  no  fatigue 
But  that  of  idleness.' 

•'  It  is  an  Italian  stggietta;  and  thus  defined  by  an 
old  writer :  '  a  kind  of  chaire  used  in  Italy  to  carrie 
men  and  women  up  and  downe.'  It  seems  to  have 
emigrated  to  London  from  Sedan,  the  birthplace  of 
Turenne.  Dryden  used  it  for  the  lectica  of  the  Ro 
mans  : — 

"  '  Some  beg  for  absent  persons,  feign  them  sick, 
Close  mewed  in  their  sedans  for  want  of  air. 
And  for  their  wives  present  an  empty  chair.' 

"  Were  you  ever  in  one'?  Then  you  will  agree  that 
it  is  as  necessary  in  Broadway  as  a  gondola  in  Venice. 
Think  of  Pope's  '  two  pages  and  a  chair.'  Our 
thousand  and  one  idlers,  who  are  too  ragged  to  beg, 
and  too  poor  to  keep  a  cab,  might  flourish  their  poles 
to  some  purpose  in  front  of  St.  Paul's — a  better  class 
of  chairmen  than  some  we  wot  of. — They  need  not 
have  so  heavy  a  load,  nor  so  great  a  peril,  as  those 
who,  according  to  Swift,  helped  in  the  Trojan  horse: — 

"  '  Troy  chairmen  bore  the  wooden  steed, 

Pregnant  with  Greeks,  impatient  to  be  freed, 
Tho.=e  bully  Greeks,  who,  as  the  moderns  do, 
Instead  of  paying  chairmen,  run  them  through.' 

"  The  new  police  woulJ  defend  the  glass  from  any 
roystering  blood,  who,  as  Prior  sings  : — 

"  '  Breaks  watchmen's  heads  and  chairmen's  glasses 
And  thence  proceeds  to  nicking  sashes.' 

Opposition  may  be  expected:  there  was  such  at  the 
cab-epocha.  But  who  can  even  name  a  cab,  without 
ignominy.  Think  of  a  trundling  box— a  packing-case 
on  wheels — surmounted  by  a  top-heavy  Milesian, 
enthroned  on  a  remnant  of  Chatham-street-great-coat, 
forcing  you  along  sidewise  by  a  series  of  thumps,  and 
then,  with  a  paroxysm  that  tries  every  ball  and  socket, 
dumping  you  on  the  trottoir!  Our  semi-tropical 
climate  demands  a  protection  from  the  sun  :  some 
thing  emulating  the  oriental  palanquin  ;  a  parasol 
which  shall  preclude  fatigue  and  dust,  as  well  as  sun 
light — which  shall  transport  the  delicate  woman  with 
the  gentlest  conceivable  carriage,  and  into  the  very 
hall  of  the  stately  mansion.  What,  prithee,  can 
answer  these  conditions  but  the  sedan-chair?  I  al 
ready  see  you  in  one,  peering  through  the  sky-blue 
curtain,  as  you  swim  through  your  evening  survey. 
The  corporation  will  at  once  adjust  a  bill  of  rates  ; 
the  thing  is  done.  "  LUNARIUS." 

We  have  been  but  in  one  city  where  sedans  were 
in  use — Dublin.  What  struck  us,  in  using  them  (and 
that  is  what  the  reader  cares  most  to  know,  we  pre 
sume)  was  the  being  shut  up  where  it  was  warm  and 
dry,  and  let  out  where  it  was  warm  and  dry.  The 
sedan  is  a  small  close  carriage — an  easy  chair  en 
closed  by  windows — carried  on  poles  by  two  men. 
They  come  into  your  drawing-room  if, you  wish,  shut 
you  up  in  a  carriage  by  the  fireside,  and  carry  you, 
without  the  slightest  jar  or  contact  with  out-of-doors, 
into  the  house  where  you  are  to  dine  or  dance — no 
wet  sidewalk  and  no  gust  of  cold  wind,  snow,  or  rain  ! 
They  are  cheaper  than  carriages  because  men  are 
easier  kept  than  horses,  and  as  a  sedan-chairman  can 
also  follow  some  other  trade  in  the  daytime,  we 
should  think  it  would  be  good  economy  to  introduce 
them  to  New  York.  Many  a  delicate  woman  might 
then  go  to  parties  or  theatres  with  a  quarter  of  the 
present  risk — to  lungs  or  head-dress  ! 


PRINCE'S   GARDENS. — We   have   received    an   im 
mense  catalogue  of  the  fruit-trees,    plants,   flowers, 


vines,  and  berries,  comprised  in  this  ark  of  vegetation 
at  Flushing,  and  we  should  think  from  the  account 
of  Prince's  gardens,  and  the  prodigal  variety  of  this 
catalogue,  that  the  establishment  would  be  better 
worth  visiting  than  any  object  of  curiosity  in  the 
neighborhood.  It  is  now  in  the  hands  of  the  third 
generation  of  descendants  from  the  original  founder — 
no  slight  marvel  of  constancy  of  pursuit  in  this 
country  ! 

But  we  have  found  a  singular  pleasure  in  this  cata 
logue — no  less  than  a  perfect  feast  upon  the  names  and 
descriptions  of  the  fruits  and  flowers  !  It  reads  like  a 
directory  of  some  city  of  fairies,  with  a  description  of 
the  fairy-citizens  written  out  against  their  names. 
We  can  fancy  a  delightful  visiting-list  of  people  an 
swering  to  these  descriptions  of  fruits  and  flowers. 
Here  are  a  few  of  the  characters  : — 

Different  APPLKS  are  described  as — "  flesh  stained 
with  red,  perfumed;"  "snow-white  flesh,  musky 
sweet;"  "  fair,  beautiful,  pleasant  flavor,  sprightly  ;" 
"tender,  juicy,  keeps  well;"  "remains  juicy  till 
late;"  "red  flesh,  a  curiosity,"  etc.,  etc.  Different 
pears  are  described  as — "  rich,  sugary,  delicious 
aroma  ;"  "  most  splendid,  extra  delicious,  none  more 
estimable,  grows  vigorously,  bears  soon  ;"  "  beautiful, 
aromatic,  bears  young,  greatly  esteemed  ;"  "  rich, 
musky  ;"  "  excellent,  slow  to  yield  fruit ;"  "  thin  skin, 
sweet,  very  good;"  "new  native  variety,  estimable, 
handsome;"  "very  large,  skin  shining,  flesh  crisp, 
agreeable  flavor,  excellent,"  &c.  Different  peaches 
are  described  as — "oval,  splendid,  luscious;"  '•estitna- 
ble,  foliage  curled,  peculiar;"  "waxen  appearance, 
globular,  delicious  flavor,"  &c.  Different  scrapes  are 
described  as — "  large,  estimable,  vigorous;"  "sweet, 
firm,  thick  skin,  hangs  long,  monstrous  clusters ;" 
"  monstrous  fox  variety;''  "  Willis's  larire  black  ;"  (?) 
"sprightly,  pure  for  wine,"  etc.  Different  roses  are 
called  by  name  and  described — "formidable  red;" 
"glory  of  the  reds;"  ''insurmountable  beauty;" 
"new  Dutch  virgin's  blush;"  "sombre  agreeable;" 
"  Watson's  blush;1'  "red  prolific;"  "pale  rose,  deep 
centre;"  "deep  rose,  very  robust;"  "bluish  violet, 
superb,  singular;"  "bright  pink,  flaked  with  scarlet;" 
"pubescent  yellow  flowering;"  "white  quilled;" 
"extra  magnificent;"  "  splendid,  full,  double-shaded 
blush,  monstrous  size,"  etc.,  etc. 

Such  names  and  definitions,  of  anything,  were 
enough  to  bring  one  to  Flushing,  and  Mr.  Prince 
may  look  out  for  us  very  early  in  May,  catalogue  in 
hand,  to  see  beauties  he  has  described  so  glowingly  ! 
We  trust  the  list  of  adjectives  we  have  put  so  venture 
somely  close  together  in  our  cool  columns  will  not 
explode  in  type,  with  spontaneous  combustion! 


LETTERS  OF  INTRODUCTION. — The  following  query 
may  be  answered  briefly  enough  by  quoting  only  Eu 
ropean  usage,  but  the  propriety  of  an  American  varia 
tion  occurs  to  us,  and  we  will  write  a  line  on  the  sub 
ject — first  giving  the  suggestive  note  : — 

"  SIR  :  My  friend  N.,  usually  a  well-informed, 
though  rather  an  obstinate  individual,  is  about  to 
travel,  and  asked  me  for  a  letter  of  introduction  to  a 
friend  abroad.  The  letter  is  written,  and  is  submit 
ted  to  his  perusal,  after  which  he  hands  it  back  to  be 
sealed,  insisting  that  the  rule  is  inflexible  that  all  let 
ters  should  be  sealed.  I  refuse  to  affix  the  wax, 
holding  that  a  letter  of  introduction  should  be  open. 

"  We  leave  the  question  to  your  decision.  As  my 
friend  N.  can  not  sail  until  the  question  is  decided,  an 
early  decision  will  oblige  him  and  your  humble  ser 
vant,  "  B." 

With  very  ceremonious  people,  and  cereinonious 
notes  of  introduction,  it  is  usual  to  affix  a  seal  upon 
the  outside  of  the  letter,  leaving  it  to  be  read  and 


EPHEMERA. 


209 


fastened  by  the  bearer,  before  delivery.  If  the  let 
ter  extends  beyond  the  mere  stating  of  who  the 
bearer  is,  and  the  desire  that  he  should  be  kindly  re 
ceived,  or  if  it  treats  of  other  matters,  it  is  given 
sealed.  Either  mode  is  perfectly  allowable,  for  if  the 
bearer  objects  to  a  sealed  letter,  he  can  ask  the  con 
tents  when  he  receives  it.  It  is  more  common,  how 
ever,  to  give,  it  unsealed. 

Briefly,  now,  to  the  point  we  are  coming  to  :  let 
ters  of  introduction,  in  this  country,  should  be  ad 
dressed  to  the  women  and  not  to  the  men,  and  should 
go  more  into  details  of  what  the  bearer  is  and  what  is 
his  errand  of  travel,  and  therefore  should  be  sealed. 
We  have  long  been  aware  of  a  prevailing  impression 
that  Americans  treat  letters  of  introduction  with  a 
very  uncivilized  inattention,  and  so  (hey  do — because  the 
etiquetical  and  hospitable  cares  of  American  families 
are  in  charge  of  the  wife,  and  the  husband  is  very  likely 
to  stick  the  letter  into  a  pigeon-hole  of  his  desk,  and 


character  of  the  « ten  thousand  other  workies'  whom 
I  Mr.  Willis  '  could  name.'  Some  think  that  he 
!  means  to  be  witty,  and  alludes  ironically  to  the  "up- 
I  per  ten."  This  is  a  great  mystery. 

"  The  constituent  elements  of  '  japonica-dom' and 
i  'dandy-dom'  may  be  seen  daily  in  Broadway,  between 
j  the  hours  of  twelve  and  three.     All  the  beauty  above 
!  Bleecker  street  wanders  at  that  time  down  as  far  as 
j  the  Park,  hazarding  even  the   contamination  of  the 
I  vulgar  crowd,  in  the  hope  of  securing  an  appetite  for 
j  dinner.     The  liveried  lacqueys,  who  oscillate  upon  a 
j  black  board  behind  the  carriages  of  our  republican 
nabobs,  sport  their  gayest  trappings:  I  had  the  pleas- 
I  ure  of  seeing  one  yesterday  in  a  drab  '  cut-away'  with 
gold  lace  and  yellow  facings,  and  white  silk  stockings 
with  purple  velvet  smalls!     What  is  this  great  coun 
try  coming  to  ?     We  Gothamites  do  sometimes  make 
ourselves  ridiculous,  by  aping  what  as  a  people  we 
profess  to  despise.     It  is   rumored  that  a  deputntiot 


forget  all  about  it.  The  wife  in  America  does  all  the  L  of  English  'small-potato'  baronets  may  be  expected 
ornamental.  To  see  a  rich  man  come  down  the  steps  |j  in  this  city  next  summer;  and  that  the  object  of  their 
of  his  own  house  (almost  anywhere  "  up  town")  you  !i  transatlantic  mission  is,  to  establish  an  aristocratic 
would  take  him  to  be  a  tradesman  who  had  been  in  to  ji  nucleus  among  our  'upper  ten  thousand."1  A  'her- 
collect  a  bill.  To  see  the  wife  follow,  you  would  at  ij  aid's  college' has  already  been  set  on  foot;  and  I  have 


once  acknowledge  that  she  looked  as  though  she  lived 
in  the  house,  and  fancy  that  she  was  probably  an 
noyed  to  see  that  man  pass  out  by  the  front  door  ! 
From  making  himself  a  slate  to  keep  his  wife  a  god 
dess,  the  American  loses  all  idea  of  the  propriety  of 
looking  like  a  mate  for  his  wife,  and  he  unconsciously 
ceases  to  take  any  care  of  the  civilities  to  which  his 
own  manners  give  so  little  value,  and  neglects  all 
persons  who  have  not  had  the  tact  to  be  presented 
first  to  the  ornamental  moiety.  It  should  be  an 
American  usage,  therefore,  growing  out  of  the  inferi 
ority  of  the  husband's  breeding  to  the  wife's,  that  let 
ters  of  introduction  should  be  addressed  to  the  woman. 
Of  course,  as  she  has  no  opportunity  to  inquire 
into  the  bearer's  position  or  habits,  these  should  be 
more  minutely  set  down,  and  the  letter  should  be 
sealed. 


"  FINDINGS." — We  see  advertised  continually  cer-  j 
tain  commodities  called  "findings,"  which  we  under 
stand  are  what  hatters  and  shoemakers  require  be 
sides  peltry  and  leather.  There  are  findings  for 
newspapers,  too  —  what  the  editors  require  besides 
leaders  and  news — and  it  may  gratify  our  subscribers 
to  know,  that  out  of  the  weary  slip-slop  which  we 
commonly  scribble  after  making  up  the  Mirror's  lead 
ers  and  news,  our  contemporaries  supply  themselves 
with  the  greater  part  of  their  ornamental  "  findings." 
Like  every  other  editor,  we  are  in  the  habit  of  giving 
a  line  or  two  occasionally,  in  the  body  of  our  paper, 


heard  that  it  enjoys  considerable  patronage.  It  is 
proposed  to  build  wings  on  either  side  of  '  the  up-town 
opera-house' — the  one  to  be  assigned  to  this  '  herald's 
college,'  and  the  other  to  the  'university  of  fashion,' 
of  which  Mr.  Willis  is  to  be  president.  Some  say 
that  Colonel  Webb  has  applied  for  the  vice-presiden 
cy,  but  I  can  not  vouch  for  this. 

"The  chief  feature  of  the  Broadway  Journal  is  a 

defence  by  Mr.  Poe  of  his  attack  upon  Longfellow, 

&c.     It  is  as  stupid  as  might  be  expected  from  a  man 

!  who  used  to  'do  up'  such  very  small  prosodial  criti- 

cisms  for  Graham's  Magazine.     Mr.  Poe  comes  down 

;  rather  severely  on  Willis — he  therefore  has  probably 

discontinued  his  services  at  the  Mirror  office." 

One  mistake  in  the  above  :  Mr.  Poe  left  us  some 
\  time  before  writing  in  the  Broadway  Journal,  and  to 
]  edit  that  journal ;  and  he  never  offended  us  by  a  c"riti- 
i  cism,  nor  could  he,  except  by  personalities,  in  which 
I  he  never  indulges. 


SCHILLER  AND  GOETHE. — Mr.  Calvert  of  Balti 
more  has  given  us,  as  translator,  a  most  agreeable 
collection  of  gossippy  letters — the  undress  of  two 
great  minds,  of  the  age  just  closed  behind  us.  What 
we  most  wish  to  comment  on,  however  (the  book 
speaks  for  itself),  is  Mr.  Calvert's  own— the  preface, 
in  which  he  indignantly  and  most  properly  rebukes 
the  last  orator  of  the  "  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society,"  for 
a  short-sighted  and  illiberal  attack  on  the  memory  of 
Goethe.  We  found  it  difficult,  at  the  time,  to  restrain 


to  the  wares  of  our  most  liberal  advertisers,  and  it  ap-   J  an  outbreak  of  disgust,  but  the  oration  was  not  pub- 

1  lished  for  some  time,  and  we  were  unwilling  to  take 
ground  upon  a  newspaper  report  of  it.  Meantime, 
our  natural  alacrity  at  forgeti ing  disagreeable  things 
dropped  it  out  of  memory.  We  are  not  sorry  that  a 
condemnation  of  it  is  now  recorded  in  a  book  that 
must  live. 

Mr.  Calvert  puts  the  truth  thus  forcibly  :  "  How 
little  outward  testimony  survives  about  Shakspere  ; 
but  whoso  can  read  his  poetry,  may  get  a  knowledge 
of  the  man  surer  and  more  absolute  than  could  have 
been  gotten  even  from  the  fullest  contemporaneous  opin 
ions.  As  the  tree  is  known  by  its  fruit,  we  know  that 


pears  that  even  this  wastage  of  business  notices 
considered  spice  enough  for  other  papers  to  be  sea 
soned  with.     The  Boston  Transcript  spices  its  little 
sheet  very  often  with  these  parings  of  our  daily  apple. 
Here  is  part  of  a  letter  which  contains  a  touch  : — 

"The  leading  articles  in  the  Mirror  and  Commer 
cial  Advertiser  for  the  last  day  or  two  have  been  de 
voted  to  the  all-engrossing  topic,  the  spring  style  of 
hats.  After  admitting  that  '  knowingness  could  no 
further  go'  than  Beebe  &  Costar  went,  Willis  winds 
up  thus :  '  For  ourself  and  ten  thousand  other  workies 
whom  we  could  name,  the  sadder  model  of  Orlando 
Fish — timid,  proper,  and  thoughtful — is  perhaps  more 
appropriate.'  This  passage  has  produced  a  great 
sensation  in  dandy-dom.  The  Fish  party  are  in  rap 
tures,  and  could  hug  Willis  to  their  very  bosoms; 
'  the  opposition'  is  in  a  fury.  Nobody  can  tell  what 
the  result  may  be.  Willis  dare  not  venture  out,  it  is 
thought  without  a  body-guard  of  Fishites.  There 
are,  moreover,  many  surmises  with  regard  to  the 
14 


the  parent  of  the  Shaksperian  progeny  must  have 
been  a  man  in  whom,  in  close  alliance  with  a  kingly 
intellect,  dwelt,  as  well  the  virtues  that  ennoble,  as 
the  graces  that  beautify  and  the  affections  that  sweeten 
life.  Into  whatever  errors  an  ardent  temperament 
may  have  drawn  him,  they  dim  not  the  lucent  image 
of  him,  fixed  in  our  minds  by  study  of  his  works; 
nay,  we  presume  not  to  wish  them  uncommitted,  lest 


210 


EPHEMERA. 


an  attempt  to  better  such  a  bounteous  gift  from  God, 
should  mar,  but  by  a  tittle,  the  original  proportions  of 
one,  the  sum  of  whose  life  has  been  to  the  world  an  un- 
measurable  benefaction.  When  a  bad  man's  brain 
shall  give  birth  to  an  Iphiginea,  a  Clara,  a  Mignon, 
you  may  pluck  pomegranates  from  Plymouth  rock, 
and  reap  corn  on  the  sands  of  Sahara. 

"On  a  formal  public  occasion  (the  Phi  Beta  Kap 
pa  oration  at  Cambridge  in  1844),  a  blind  and 
most  rude  assault  has  been  made  on  one  of  the 
mightiest  of  the  dead,  whose  soul  lives  on  earth,  and 
will  for  ages  live  in  the  exaltation  of  the  loftiest 
minds.  Out  of  stale  German  gossip,  out  of  shallow 
waitings  of  prosaic  critics,  shallower  clamors  of  pseudo- 
patriots,  uncharitable  magnification  of  common  failings, 
were  compounded  calumny  against  one  of  the  fore 
most  men  of  the  world,  and  the  most  honored  man  of 
a  people  rich  in  virtue  and  genius." 

Quite  aside  from  the  defence  of  Goethe,  we  think 
there  is  an  obvious  presentment  here  of  the  continual 
manner  of  treating  all  kinds  of  eminence  and  celeb 
rity,  here,  in  our  own  country,  and  at  this  present  hour. 
As  the  proverb  says  : — 

"  Thankfully  take  refuge  in  obscurity, 
For,  if  thou  claimest  merit,  thy  sin  shall  be  proclaimed 

upon  the  housetops  ! 

Consider  them  of  old,  the  great,  the  good,  the  learned  ; 
Did  those  speed  in  favor  ?  were  they  loved  and  admired  ? 
Was  every  prophet  had  in  honor  ?  and  every  deserving  one 

remembered  to  his  praise  ? 
It  were  weariness  to  count  up  noble  names  neglected  in 

their  lives, 
The  scorned,  defamed,  insulted,  but  the  excellent  of  the 

earth. 
For  good  men  are  the  health  of  the  world,  valued  only 

when  it  perisheth. 

Living  genius  is  seen  among  infirmities  wherefrom  the  com 
moner  are  free, 
And  there  be  many  cares,  and  man  knoweth  little  of  his 

brother  ! 
Feebly  we  appreciate  a  motive,  and  slowly  keep  pace  with 

a  feeling. 

Yet,  once  more,  griever  at  neglect,  hear  me  to  thy  comfort : 
Neglect?  0  LIBEL  ON  A  WORLD,  WHERE  HALF  TH^T  WORLD 

IS  WOMAN  ! 

No  man  yet  deserved,  who  found  not  some  to  love  him  ! 
0,  woman  !  self- forgetting  woman  !  poetry  of 'human  life  ! 
Many  a  word  of  comfort,  many  a  deed  of  magnanimity, 
Many  a  stream  of  milk  and  honey  pour  ye  freely  on  the 
earth  !" 


STEWART'S  STABLE  ECONOMY. — We  covet  three 
things  in  the  Arab's  condition — his  loose  trousers,  his 
country  without  fences,  and  his  freedom  to  live  with 
his  horse.  That  we  have  once  had  the  centaur  variety 
in  the  human  race,  men-quadrupeds,  and  have  once 
known  horseflesh  as  "  flesh  of  our  flesh,"  the  natural 
longing  to  prance,  when  we  first  get  into  the  open  air 
after  long  confinement,  is  but  one  of  many  evidences. 
In  a  mere  notice  of  a  book,  however,  we  have  no 
leisure  to  trace  back  a  problem  of  physiology.  We 
merely  wish  to  convey  to  such  of  our  enviable  readers 
as  can  resume  the  centaur  (by  loving  and  living  with  a 
horse  in  the  country),  the  treasure  they  have  in  a  book 
which  shows  them  how  to  make  their  life  (the  horse 
half  of  it)  a  luxury  instead  of  an  endurance,  and  to  give 
our  own  five  years'  enjoyment  in  breaking,  petting,  and 
improving  horses,  by  aid  of  this  same  book,  as  expe 
rienced  commendation.  We  had  the  English  edition 
of  Stewart's  books  on  horses,  but  the  Appletons  have 
republished  the  "Stable  Economy,"  with  "notes 
adapting  it  to  American  food  and  climate,"  by  Mr. 
Allen,  the  able  editor  of  the  Agriculturist,  and  it  is 
now  an  invaluable  vade-mecum,  for  all  men  who  have 
the  luxury  of  a  stable. 

We  can  not  help  repeating  that  a  visitable  stable, 
with  friends  in  it  in  the  shape  of  horses — with  horses 
in  it  one  has  himself  broken  and  trained— a  stable  to 
which  the  ladies  like  to  go  after  breakfast,  and  where 


a  gentleman  can  throw  on  his  own  saddle  and  bridle, 
and  gallop  oft',  without  needing  first  to  find  his  groom- 
that  this  is  the  next  best  luxury  our  country  affords, 
after  ladies'  society.  (Horses,  that  is  to  say,  before 
politics  or  stocks,  under  male  discussion.) 

The  stable  at  Gordon  castle  (approachable  by  a 
covered  passage  from  the  principal  hall)  was  a  fre 
quent  resort  for  the  ladies  after  breakfast ;  and  we 
have  seen  women,  the  highest  in  rank  at  the  English 
court,  going  in  and  out  of  the  stalls,  patting  the  favor 
ites  they  were  to  ride  later  in  the  day,  and  discussing 
their  beauty  with  the  simplicity  and  frankness  of 
Arabs  in  the  desert.  While  we  are  building  country- 
houses  and  forming  habits  in  America,  it  is  well  to 
know  all  the  luxury  we  can  enjoy  in  rural  life,  and  no 
one  should  build  stable,  or  own  horse,  without  con 
sulting  the  excellent  directions  for  stabling  and  using 
the  horse,  in  this  book  of  Stewart's. 


GRUND'S  LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE. — In  Godey's 
Lady's  Book  for  April  we  find  one  of  these  best 
epistles  of  the  day,  and  (to  tell  the  truth)  we  read 
them  with  very  little  satisfaction,  for  they  leave  us 
with  a  want  to  go  where  they  are  written.  The  April 
number  of  Godey  is  principally  the  work  of  unwedded 
quills  (no  less  than  ten  misses  numbered  among  the 
contributors  !),  but  we  have  read  it  with  great  satis 
faction,  and  felicitate  our  old  friend  upon  the  bril 
liancy  of  his  maiden  troop.  Godey  is  the  pioneer  of 
magazines,  and  he  has  a  tact  at  collection  and  selec 
tion,  which  has  put  him  where  he  is-^-safe  at  high- 
water  mark  in  enduring  prosperity.  Success  to  him. 

By-the-way — though  we  have  no  room  to  expatiate 
on  the  several  papers  in  this  number — the  "  Sketch  of 
Joseph  Bonaparte"  is  capital.  Is  that  by  a  "  miss" 
too? 

And  apropos,  Godey!  What  a  vile  word  "miss" 
is,  to  express  the  sweetest  thing  in  nature !  Why 
should  the  idol  of  mankind  be  called  a  "miss?" 
Why  should  the  charming  word  heifer  be  degraded  to 
the  use  of  kine?  We  say  "degraded,"  for  it  once 
served  ladies  as  a  synonym  for  the  proudest  of  virgin 
sweethearts.  Ben  Jonson,  in  his  play  of  the  "Silent 
Woman,"  thus  writes  a  speech  for  his  hero : — 

"  But  heare  me,  faire  lady,  I  do  also  love  her  whom 
I  shall  choose  for  my  heifer,  to  be  the  first  and  prin 
cipal  in  all  fashions." 

The  derivation  of  the  word  heifer  is  so  complimen 
tary  !  It  comes  from  two  Anglo-Saxon  words,  which 
signify  "  to  step  superbly,"  as  a  young  creature  who 
has  borne  no  burthens.  With  this  explanation,  we 
trust  our  friend  Godey  will  no  longer  hesitate  to  ad 
vertise  his  fair  contributors  as  the  bright  lights  of 
IIEIFERDOM — disusing  henceforth,  for  ever,  the  dispar 
aging  epithet  of  misses. 


LETTER   FROM   THE   EDITOR'S   ROOM. 

NEW  YORK,  FRIDAY,  March  21. 
To  a  lady-friend  in  the  country.  I  am  up  to  the 
knees  in  newspapers,  and  write  to  you  under  the  stare 
of  nine  pigeon-holes,  stuffed  with  literary  portent. 
Were  there  such  a  thing  (in  this  world  of  everythings) 
as  papyral  magnetism,  you  would  get  a  letter,  not 
only  typical  in  itself,  but  typical  of  a  flood  in  which 
my  identity  is  fast  drowning.  Oh,  the  drown  of  news, 
weighed  unceasingly — little  events  and  great  ones — • 
against  little  more  than  the  trouble  of  snipping  round 
with  scissors  !  To  a  horrid  death — to  a  miraculous 
preservation — to  a  heart-gush  of  poesy — to  a  marriage 
— to  a  crime — to  the  turn  of  a  political  crisis — to 
flashing  wit  and  storied  agonies — giving  but  the  one 


EPHEMERA. 


211 


invariable  first  thought — "  Shall  I  cut  it  out  ?"  Alas, 
dear  beauty-monarch  of  all  you  survey! — your  own 
obituary,  were  I  to  read  it  in  a  newspaper  of  to-mor 
row,  would  speak  scarce  quicker  to  my  heart  than  to 
those  scissors  of  undiscriminnting  circum-cision ! 
With  the  knowledge  that  the  sky  above  me  was  en 
riched,  as  Florence  once  was,  by  the  return  of  its 
long-lost  and  best  model  of  beauty,  I  should  ask, 
with  be-paragraphed  grief — "will  her  death  do  for 
the  Mirror  ?" 

But  you  are  alive  to  laugh  at  me — alive  to  be  (is 
your  lip  all  ready  for  a  curl  ?)  the  "straw"  for  me, 
drowning,  to  catch  at !  I  write  to  you,  to-day,  to 
vary  routine  !  Happy  they  who  can  see  but  one  face 
when  they  write  !  1  am  trying  hard  to  see  only  yours 
— trying  hard,  by  mental  recapitulation  of  eyes  like 
fringed  inkstands,  passionate  nostrils,  and  chin  of  in 
domitable  calm,  to  forget  the  vague  features  of  my 
many-nosed  public.  Oh,  the  dread  loss  of  one-at-a- 
titne-ativeness  !  Oh,  the  exile  to  the  sad  land  of 
nominative  plural!  Oh,  the  unprized  luxury  of  see 
ing  but  little,  and  seeing  that  little  for  yourself! 

But— this  is  a  letter  from  town,  and  you  want  the 
gossip.  Spring  is  here — getting  ready  to  go  into  the 
country.  The  dust  and  shutter-banging  of  the  tem 
pestuous  equinox,  have,  for  three  days,  banished  the 
damageables  from  Broadway,  and  I  know  not  the 
complexion  of  the  spring  fashions,  now  four  days  old. 
I  was  in  a  gay  circle  last  night  where  some  things 
were  talked  of — hm  ! — let  me  remember — Mrs.  Mow- 
ATT'S  forthcoming  comedy  was  one  topic.  Do  you 
know  this  Corinne  of  the  temperate  latitudes?  An 
exact  copy,  in  marble,  of  her  neck  and  head,  would 
show  you  a  Sapphic  bust  of  most  meaning  and  clear- 
lined  beauty,  and  there  is  inspiration  in  the  color  of 
her  living  eyes  and  in  the  prodigal  abundance  of  her 
floral  hair.  All  this  beauty  she  wastes  and  thinks 
nothing  of — busied  only  with  the  lining  of  a  head, 
which  some  tropical  angel  fashioned  as  he  would  have 
turned  out  a  magnolia.  She  has  genius,  and  her 
lamp  burns  within.  But  it  takes  more  than  genius  to 
write  comedy,  and  more  than  beauty  (though  it  should 
not)  to  give  it  success,  and  I  tremble  for  the  lovely 
dramatist.  The  excitement  about  it  is  great — the 
actors  all  like  their  roles — the  stage-manager  says  it  is 
good — the  public  are  wishing  to  be  pleased  and  will 
flock  to  the  experiment — and  with  all  my  heart,  I 
pray  for  a  "house"  continually  "brought  down."  I 
enclose  you  a  sketch  of  the  plot  from  the  New  World 
of  this  morning  : — 

"  The  subject  is  well  chosen.  Fashion — that  is, 
the  effort  to  show  offdazzlingly  in  society — is,  in  this 
country,  a  fact  of  sufficient  body  and  consistence  to 
afford  material  for  an  original  comedy — and  the  inci 
dents  and  peculiarities  of  manner  and  character  at 
tending  the  effort,  are  often  abundantly  ludicrous  and 
grotesque  to  make  the  comedy  laughable.  The  'glass 
of  fashion,'  held  fairly  up  in  New  York,  will  show 
some  amusing  scenes,  quite  new  to  the  stage. 

"The  characters  of  the  piece  are  selected  and  group 
ed,  we  think,  with  character  and  judgment.  An  un 
educated  woman  of  fashion,  driving  her  husband  into 
dishonesty  and  crime  by  her  crime  and  extravagance — 
a  pretended  French  count,  who  knows,  at  least,  all 
the  police  courts  of  Europe  very  thoroughly — a  clever 
French  waiting  maid,  who  finds  in  the  said  count  an 
old  acquaintance— a  negro  valet  of  all  work  rejoicing 
in  a  scarlet  livery,  and  much  inclined  to  grandilo 
quence—a  rich  old  farmer,  from  Cattaraugus,  carry 
ing  the  moral  of  the  piece,  and  no  small  part  of  its 
humor,  stoutly  on  upon  his  broad  shoulders — a  Fanny- 
Forester-like  country  girl,  transplanted  into  the  city 
from  Geneva,  to  work  out  the  plot,  and  get  the  good 
luck  of  the  catastrophe— these  are  the  main  person 
ages.  An  old  maid— a  small  poet— a  solemn  dandy, 
styled  Fogg — a  confidential  clerk  called  Snobson,  and 


clearly  belonging  to  the  large  family  of  Snobs — a  walk 
ing  gentleman,  and  a  young  coquette,  are  thrown  in 
as  make-weights.  Here  is  certainly  a  goodly  drama 
tic  array. 

"The  dialogue  is  written  with  taste  and  spirit.  It 
has  few  passages  of  what  is  called  '  fine  writing,'  but 
it  embodies  enough  of  wit,  and  fancy,  and  observa 
tion,  to  keep  the  attention  of  the  reader  constantly  and 
pleasurably  excited.  A  riged  criticism,  resolved  upon 
fault-finding,  might  say  that  the  conclusion  of  this 
piece  is  too  clearly  apparent  from  its  commencement, 
and  that  the  action  moves  too  sloxvly  through  the 
first  three  acts.  But  admitting  all  this,  the  comedy 
certainly  has  great  merit,  and,  if  well  brought  out, 
will  have  a  run.  We  believe  that  its  first  night  will 
be  greeted  by  a  large  audience,  and  we  most  cordially 
bespeak  for  it  the  favorable  consideration  to  which  it 
is,  in  every  regard,  entitled." 

Forrest's  fate  among  the  London  Philistines  is 
another  matter  of  chat.  The  Macready  critics  are 
down  upon  him — Foster  of  the  Examiner,  Macready's 
bull-dog,  heaviest  and  foremost.  This  was  to  have 
been  expected,  of  course.  The  gravelly  bottom  of 
Macready's  throat  has  been  forced  upon  the  English, 
for  so  long,  as  the  only  sarcophagus  of  Shakspere, 
that  the  bringing  of  the  dry  bones  to  life,  in  an  open 
mouth,  and  the  marring  of  the  sexton's  vocation,  was 
not  submitted  to  without  a  grumble.  An  English 
critic  predicts  that  Forrest  "will  play  down  the  grum 
blers  yet,"  and  I  trust  he  will  do  so.  He  is  the  kind 
of  man  to  say  with  old  Chapman  : — 

"  Give  me  the  spirit  that  on  life's  rough  sea 
Would  have  his  sails  filled  with  lusty  wind, 
Even  till  his  sail-yards  tremble,  his  masts  crack, 
And  his  rapt  ship  run-on  her  side  so  low 
That  she  drinks  water,  and  her  keel  ploughs  air." 

He  is  twenty  times  the  man,  and  the  actor,  that  Mac- 
j  ready  is,  and  the  English  will  find  out  his  mark  if  he 
I !  stay  long  enough.  Meantime  they  are  enchanted 
|  with  Miss  Cushman,  who,  the  "Examiner  says',  is  a 
!  "  feminized  caricature  of  Macready's  physiognomy." 
'  I  like  her,  by  the  way,  and  rejoice  in  her  success  as 
much  as  I  wish  a  better  appreciation  of  Forrest. 

What  else  shall   I  tell  you?     The  Mirror's  won 
drous  "rise  and  progress," profitably  and  firmly  seated, 
i  after  less  than  six  months  of  industrious  existence,  is 
j  a  marvel  that  even  your  beauty  may  rejoice  in — for 
'  it  will  bring  me  to  your  feet  (by  paying  the  expenses 
!  of  transit)  when  the  summer  comes  over  us.     Where 
I  are  you  going  to  Baden  it  this  summer  ?     At  Sara- 
toga?     1   like  that  place,  because  you  can  there,  and 
there  alone,  be  an  island  in  a  sea  of  people.      Where 
there   are  fewer,  you  are   added  to  the  continent  of 
sociability,  and  have  no  privileges.     Shall  we  say  the 
last  week  in  August  ? 

Bottom  of  the  page.  Scarce  room  to  write  my 
self  Yours' 


AN  IDEA  FOR  TATTERSALL'S.— There  are  luxuries 
which  rich  men  forego,  not  for  the  money  but  for  the 
mind  they  cost.  Hundreds  of  people  in  this  city,  for 
instance,  could  very  well  afford  a  carriage,  but  they 
can  not  afford  the  trouble  of  buying  horses,  the  care 
of  looking  after  grooms,  nor  the  anxieties  inseparable 
from  horse-owning  in  this  country  of  perpetual  new 
servants.  In  England  this  want  is  provided  for  by  the 
system  the  livery-stable  keepers  call  jobbing.  Lady 
Blessington's  two  or  three  different  equipages  for  in 
stance  are  allowed  to  be  the  prettiest  and  best  ap 
pointed  in  London.  Yet  she  owns  neither  carriages, 
horses,  nor  harness.  She  pays  a  certain  sum  per 
annum  to  be  provided  with  what  she  wants  in  the 
way  of  equipages,  and  keeps  only  her  own  coachmau 


212 


EPHEMERA. 


and  footmen.  A  new  carriage  is  furnished  whenever 
wanted,  and  of  whatever  style  is  wanted  (the  jobber 
finding  no  trouble  probably  in  disposing  of  the  one 
given  up)  and  a  sick  or  lame  horse  is  replaced  imme 
diately  from  a  stable  where  the  first  blood  and  shape 
are  alone  kept.  Her  ladyship  thus  knows  precisely 
what  her  driving  is  to  cost  her  for  the  year,  and 
transfers  to  the  jobber  all  the  risk,  anxiety,  and 
trouble. 

A  wealthy  New-Yorker,  a  day  or  two  since,  made 
a  very  handsome  offer  to  a  livery-stable  keeper  to 
furnish  him  a  carriage  on  this  same  plan,  and  the  of 
fer  was  refused.  But,  though  a  single  customer  of 
this  kind  might  be  troublesome,  combination  (that  great 
secret  of  luxurious  economies)  might  "  make  it  an 
swer."  Twenty  nice  carriages,  let  out  to  private 
gentlemen  at  $1,000,  or  $1,500  a  year  each,  might  be 
looked  after  by  one  jobber  well  versed  in  horseflesh, 
and  his  taste  and  experience  would  turn  out  better 
equipages  than  could  be  got  up  by  private  individuals. 
The  twenty  stables  now  kept  up  would  be  combined 
in  one  (this  in  itself,  no  small  saving)  and  the  rich 
man  might  be  driven  in  better  style,  for  less  money 
than  it  now  costs  him,  and — better  than  all — without 
the  vexatious  care,  vigilance  and  anxiety  of  keeping  a 
private  carriage. 

P.  S.  We  can  safely  say  that  we  are  entirely  disin 
terested  in  the  proposed  arrangement ! 


GRAHAM    FOR  APRIL. — The   equinox    brought    us 
such  detestable  weather,  that  instead  of  our  usual  two 
hours'  airing  of  brains  under  a  hat,  we  lay  on  our 
back  yesterday  afternoon  and  read  "Graham."     How  ! 
does    the    man    get  so   many  good   things!     Grund,  | 
Fanny  Forester,    Mrs.  C.   H.  Butler,  Win.  Lander, 
Mrs.  Embury,  Mrs.  Osgood,  Mr.  Peterson — all  have 
written  their  best  for  this  number.  Our  friend  Fanny's 
story  of  "Nickie  Ben"  seems  to  us  particularly  fresh, 
bright,  and  original.     Mr.  Grund's  letter  from  Paris 
is  full  of  intelligence,  and  among  other  things,  he  thus  | 
speaks  of  Eugene  Sue  and  his  two  tasters  : — 

"He  lives  now,  by  the  product  of  his  industry,  in  ' 
princely  style  ;  but  his  enjoyments  are  troubled  by  ! 
the   constant   fear  of  being  poisoned  by  his  political  : 
and   religious  adversaries.     He  has,   therefore,   con-  ! 
traded  an  intimate  friendship  with  two  large,  beautiful  \ 
Newfoundland  dogs,  who  are  his  constant  dinner  and  j 
breakfast  companions,  and  who  always  cat  first  of  every  \ 
dish  that  is  brought  on  the  table.     If  these  judges  of  | 
gastronomy  pronounce  in  favor  of  it,  by  first  eating  a  ! 
large   quantity,   with   apparent  relish,   the   author  of  j 
"  The  Mysteries"  and  "  The  Wandering  Jew"  him 
self  partakes  of  it  without  farther  scruple.     He  be 
lieves  dogs  much  more   faithful  than  men,  and  the 
sagacious  instincts  of  a  regular  Newfoundlander  su 
perior  to  the  science  of  chymists  and  physicians." 

Poor  dogs!  Considering  that  they  would  doubtless 
have  been  wagging  their  tails  in  Paradise,  but  for 
Adam's  transgression,  it  seems  hard  to  make  them 
die,  for  a  human  master,  besides! 

But,  to  turn  to  the  first  leaf — lo !  the  brigadier !  There 
he  stands,  looking  as  amiable  as  if  he  had  just  nabbed 
a  flying  thought  for  a  song,  his  smile  a  little  more 
rigid,  however,  and  his  phiz  a  little  thinner  than  his 
accommodating  wont.  The  picture  is  enough  like 
him,  notwithstanding,  for  all  "business  purposes." 
We  think  him  better  looking  than  the  artist  has 
"c/one"  him,  and  this  we  request  the  ladies  (who  sing 
his  songs)  to  allow  for.  The  magazine  opens  with  a 
critical  biography,  exceedingly  well  done,  and  (the 
brigadier  below  stairs  playing  salesman)  we  see  noth 
ing  to  prevent  our  quoting  a  note  of  our  own  to  the 
writer : — 


NEW  YORK,  Feb.  1,  1845. 

Mr  DEAR  SIR  :  To  ask  me  for  my  idea  of  General 
Morris  is  like  asking  the  left  hand's  opinion  of  the 
dexterity  of  the  right.  I  have  lived  so  long  with  the 
"brigadier,"  known  him  so  intimately,  worked  so  con 
stantly  at  the  same  rope,  and  thought  so  little  of  ever 
separating  from  him  (except  by  precedence  of  ferriage 
over  the  Styx),  that  it  is  hard  to  shove  him  from  me 
to  the  perspective  distance — hard  to  shut  my  own  par 
tial  eyes,  and  look  at  him  through  other  people's.  I 
will  try,  however,  and  as  it  is  done  with  but  one  foot 
off  from  the  treadmill  of  my  ceaseless  vocation,  you 
will  excuse  both  abruptness  and  brevity. 

Morris  is  the  best  known  poet  of  the  country  by 
acclamation,  not  by  criticism.  He  is  just  what  poets 
would  be  if  they  sung,  like  birds,  without  criticism  ; 
and  it  is  a  peculiarity  of  his  fame,  that  it  seems  as 
regardless  of  criticism  as  a  bird  in  the  air.  Nothing 
can  stop  a  song  of  his.  It  is  very  easy  to  say  that 
they  are  easy  to  do.  They  have  a  momentum,  some 
how,  that  is  difficult  for  others  to  give,  and  that  speeds 
them  to  the  far  goal  of  popularity — the  best  proof 
consisting  in  the  fact  that  he  can,  at  any  moment,  get 
fifty  dollars  for  a  song,  unread,  when  the  whole 
remainder  of  the  American  Parnassus  could  not  sell 
one  to  the  same  buyer  for  a  shilling. 

It  may,  or  may  not,  be  one  secret  of  his  popularity, 
but  it  is  a  truth — that  Morris's  heart  is  at  the  level  of 
most  other  people's,  and  his  poetry  flows  out  by  that 
door.  He  stands  breast  high  in  the  common  stream 
of  sympathy,  and  the  fine  oil  of  his  poetic  feeling 
goes  from  him  upon  an  element  it  is  its  nature  to  float 
upon,  and  which  carries  it  safe  to  other  bosoms,  with 
little  need  of  deep  diving  or  high  flying.  His  senti 
ments  are  simple,  honest,  truthful,  and  familiar;  his 
language  is  pure  and  eminently  musical,  and  he  is 
prodigally  full  of  the  poelry  of  everyday  feeling. 
These  are  days  when  poets  try  experiments ;  and 
while  others  succeed  by  taking  the  world's  breath 
away  with  flights  and  plunges,  Morris  uses  his  feet  to 
walk  quietly  with  nature.  Ninety-nine  people  in  a 
hundred,  taken  as  they  come  in  the  census,  would  find 
more  to  admire  in  Morris's  songs  than  in  the  writings 
of  any  other  American  poet ;  and  that  is  a  parish  in 
the  poetical  episcopate,  well  worthy  a  wise  man's  nur 
ture  and  prizing. 

As  to  the  man — Morris  my  friend — I  can  hardly 
venture  to  "burn  incense  on  his  mustache,"  as  the 
French  say — write  his  praises  under  his  very  nose — 
but,  as  far  off  as  Philadelphia,  you  may  pay  the  prop 
er  tribute  to  his  loyal  nature  and  manly  excellences. 
His  persona]  qualities  have  made  him  universally  pop 
ular,  but  this  overflow  upon  the  world  does  not  impov 
erish  him  for  his  friends.  I  have  outlined  a  true 
poet,  and  a  fine  fellow — fill  up  the  picture  to  your 
liking.  Yours,  very  truly, 

N.  P.  WILLIS. 


We  get,  from  literary  fledglings,  at  least  one  letter 
per  diem,  requesting  detailed  advice  on  the  quo  modo 
of  a  first  flight  in  prose  or  poesy.  We  really  suppose 
we  have,  or  are  to  have,  an  end  to  our  life,  and  we  like 
to  economise  time.  So  we  publish  a  letter,  which  we 
once  had  occasion  to  write,  and  which  must  serve  as 
a  circular — a  letter  which  we  recorded  in  our  diary 
when  it  was  written — recorded  with  the  following 
preface : — 

There  lies  before  me  now,  upon  my  table,  a  letter 
of  three  tolerably  compact  pages,  addressed  to  a 
young  gentleman  of  — —  college,  who  is  "  bit  by  the 
dipsas"  of  authorship.  His  mother,  a  sensible,  plain, 
farmer's  widow,  chanced  to  be  my  companion  for  a 
couple  of  days,  in  a  stage-coach,  and  while  creeping 
over  the  mountains  between  the  Hudson  and  the  Sus- 
quehannah,  she  paid  my  common  sense  the  compli- 


EPHEMERA. 


213 


ment  of  unburthening  a  very  stout  heart  to  me. 
Since  her  husband's  death,  she  has  herself  managed 
the  farm,  and  by  active,  personal  oversight,  has  con 
trived  "  to  make  both  ends  so  far  lap"  (to  use  her  own 
expression),  as  to  keep  her  only  boy  at  college.  By 
her  description,  he  is  a  slenderish  lad  in  his  constitu 
tion,  fond  of  poetry,  and  bent  on  trying  his  fortune 
with  his  pen,  as  soon  as  he  has  closed  his  thumb  and 
finger  on  his  degree.  The  good  dame  wished  for  the 
best  advice  I  could  give  him  on  the  subject,  leaving  it 
to  me  (after  producing  a  piece  of  his  poetry  from  her 
pocket,  published  in  one  of  the  city  papers)  to  en 
courage  or  dissuade.  I  apprehended  a  troublesome 
job  of  it,  but  after  a  very  genial  conversation  (on  the 
subject  of  raising  turkeys,  in  which  she  quite  agreed 
with  me,  that  they  were  cheaper  bought  than  raised, 
when  corn  was  fifty  cents  a  bushel — greedy  gobblers  !). 
I  reverted  to  the  topic  of  poetry,  and  promised  to 
write  the  inspired  sophomore  my  views  as  to  his  pros 
pects.  Need  I  record  it  ? — that  long  letter  affects  me 
like  an  unsigned  bank-note — like  something  which 
might  so  easily  have  been  money — like  a  leak  in  the 
beer-bnrrel — like  a  hole  in  the  meal-bag!  It  irks  me 
to  lose  them — three  fair  pages — a  league's  drift  to  lee 
ward — a  mortal  morning's  work,  and  no  odor  lucri 

thence  arising  !  I  can  not  stand  it,  Mrs. ,  and 

Mr.  Sophomore —  !  You  are  welcome  to  the 

autograph  copy,  but  faith  !  I  must  print  it.  There  is 
a  superfluity  of  adjectives  (intended,  as  it  was,  for 
private  perusal),  but  I  will  leave  them  out  in  the  copy. 

Thus  runs  the  letter: — 

DKAR  SIR:  You  will  probably  not  recognise  the 
handwriting  in  which  you  are  addressed,  but  by  cast 
ing  your  eye  to  the  conclusion  of  the  letter,  you  will 
see  that  it  comes  from  an  old  stager  in  periodical  lit 
erature;  and  of  that,  as  a  profession,  I  am  requested 
by  your  mother  to  give  you,  as  she  phrases  it,  "the 
cost  and  yield."  You  will  allow  what  right  you  please 
to  my  opinions,  and  it  is  only  with  the  authority  of 
having  lived  by  the  pen,  that  I  pretend  to  offer  any 
hints  on  the  subject  for  your  guidance.  As  "the 
farm"  can  afford  you  nothing  beyond  your  education, 
you  will  excuse  me  for  presuming  that  you  need  in 
formation  mainly  as  to  the  livelihood  to  be  got  from 
literature. 

Your  mother  thinks  it  is  a  poor  market  for  pota 
toes,  where  potatoes  are  to  be  had  for  nothing,  and 
that  is  simply  the  condition  of  American  literature  (as 
protected  by  law).  The  contributors  to  the  numer 
ous  periodicals  of  England,  are  the  picked  men  of 
thousands — the  accepted  of  hosts  rejected — the  flower 
of  a  highly-educated  and  refined  people — soldiers, 
sailors,  lords,  ladies,  and  lawyers — all  at  leisure,  all 
anxious  to  turn  a  penny,  all  ambitious  of  print  and 
profit;  and  this  great  army,  in  addition  to  the  hun 
dreds  urged  by  need  and  pure  literary  zeal — fliis  great 
army,  I  say,  are  before  you  in  the  market,  offering 
their  wares  to  your  natural  customer,  at  a  price  for 
which  you  can  not  afford  to  sell — nothing  !  It  is  true 
that  by  this  state  of  the  literary  market,  you  have 
fewer  competitors  among  your  countrymen — the  best 
talent  of  the  country  being  driven,  by  necessity,  into 
less  congenial  and  more  profitable  pursuits;  but  even 
with  this  advantage  (none  but  doomed  authors  in  the 
field)  you  would  probably  find  it  difficult,  within  five 
years  after  you  graduated,  to  convert  your  best  piece 
of  poetry  into  a  genuine  dollar.  I  allow  you,  at  the 
same  time,  full  credit  for  your  undoubted  genius. 

You  naturally  inquire  how  American  authors  live. 
I  answer,  by  being  English  authors.  There  is  no 
American  author  who  lives  by  his  pen,  for  whom  Lon 
don  is  not  the  chief  market.  Those  whose  books  sell 
only  in  this  country,  make  scarce  the  wages  of  a  day- 
laborer — always  excepting  religious  writers,  and  the 
authors  of  school-books,  and  such  works  as  owe  their 
popularity  to  extrinsic  causes.  To  begin  on  leaving 


college,  with  legitimate  book-making — writing  novels, 

tales,  volumes  of  poetry,  &c.,  you  must  have  at  least 

five  years  support  from  some  other  source,  for  until 

you  get  a  name,  nothing  you  could  write  would  pay 

"board   and    lodging;"    and    "getting   a    name"    in 

America,  implies  having  first  got  a  name  in  England. 

Then  we   have   almost  no   professed,   mere   authors. 

They  have  vocations  of  some   other  character,   also. 

Men  like  Dana,  Bryant,  Sprague,  Halleck,  Kennedy, 

Wetmore,  though,   no  doubt,  it  is   the  first  wish  of 

their  hearts  to  devote  all  their  time  to  literature,  are 

kept,  by  our  atrocious  laws  of  copyright,  in  paths  less 

j  honorable  to   their  country,   but  more   profitable   to 

I  themselves,  and  by  far  the  greatest  number  of  discour- 

j  aged  authors  are  "  broken  on  the  wheel"  of  the  pub- 

I  lie  press.     Gales,  Walsh,  Chandler,  Buckingham,  and 

|  other  editors  of  that  stamp,  are  men  driven  aside  from 

authorship,  their  proper  vocation. 

Periodical  writing  seems  the  natural  novitiate  to 
:  literary  fame  in  our  country,  and  I  understand  from 
your  mother  that  through  this  lies  your  chosen  way. 
|  I  must  try  to  give  you  as  clear  an  idea  as  possible  of 
j  the  length  and  breadth  of  it,  and  perhaps  I  can  best 
j  do  so  by  contrasting  it  with  another  career,  which  (if 
|  advice  were  not  always  useless)  I  should  sooner 
advise. 

Y"our  mother's  farm,  then,  consisting  of  near  a  hun 
dred  acres,  gives  a  net  produce  of  about  five  hundred 
dollars  a  year — hands  p;iid,  I  mean,  and  seed,  wear  and 
| !  tear  of  tools,  team,   <?cc.,  first  subtracted.     She  has 
j;  lived  as  comfortable  as  usual  for  the  last  three  or  four 
I  years,   and  still  contrived  to  lay  by  the  two  hundred 
and   fifty  dollars  expended   annually  on  your  educa 
tion.     Were  you  at  home,  your  own  labor  and  over- 
!  sight  would  add  rather  more  than  two  hundred  dollars 
,  to  the  income,  and  with  good  luck  you  might  call 
i  yourself  a  farmer  with  five  hundred  dollars,   as   the 
I  Irish  say,  "to  the  fore."     Your  vocation,  at  the  same 
|  time,  is  dignified,  and  such  as  would  reflect  favorably 
:  on  your  reputation,  should  you  hereafter  become  in 
any  way  eminent.     During  six   months  in   the   year, 
you  would  scarce  find  more  than  an  hour  or  two  in 
the  twenty-four  to  spare  from  sleep  or  labor;  but  in 
the  winter  months,  with  every  necessary  attention  to 
your  affairs  out  of  doors,  still  find  as  much  leisure  for 
study  and  composition  as  most  literary  men  devote  to 
those  purposes.     I  say  nothing  of  the  pabulum  of 
rural   influences  on  your  mind,  but  will  just  hint  at 
another    incidental    advantage    you    may    not    have 
thought  of.  viz. :  that  the   public   show  much  more 
alacrity  in  crowning  an  author,  if  he  does  not  make 
bread  and  butter  of  the  laurels!     In  other  words,  if 
you  are  a  farmer,  you  are  supposed  (by  a  world  not 
very  brilliant  in  its  conclusions)  to  expend  the  most  of 
your  mental   energies   (as  they  do)   in  making  your 
|  living;    and  your  literature  goes  for   an   "aside" — 
waste-water,  as  the  millers  phrase  it — a  very  material 
premise  in  both  criticism  and  public  estimation. 

At  your  age,  the  above  picture  would  have  been 
thrown  away  on  myself,  and  I  presume  (inviting  as  it 
seems  to  my  world-weary  eyes)  it  is  thrown  away  now 
upon  you.  I  shall  therefore  try  to  present  to  you  the 
lights  and  shadows  of  the  picture  which  seem  to  you 
more  attractive. 

Your  first  step  will  be  to  select  New  York  as  the 
city  which  is  to  be  illustrated  by  your  residence,  and 
to  commence  a  search  after  some  literary  occupation. 
You  have  a  volume  of  poetry  which  has  been  returned 
to  you  by  your  "  literary  agent,"  with  a  heavy  charge 
for  procuring  the  refusal  of  every  publisher  to  under 
take  it,  and  with  your  pride  quite  taken  out  of  you, 
you  are  willing  to  devote  your  Latin  and  Greek,  your 
acquaintance  with  prosody  and  punctuation,  and  a  very 
middling  proficiency  in  chicography  (no  offence — 
your  mother  showed  me  your  autograph  list  of  bills 
for  the  winter  term) — all  this  store  of  accomplishment 


214 


EPHEMERA. 


you  offer  to  employ  for  a  trifle  besides  meat,  lodging, 
and  apparel.  These,  you  say,  are  surely  moderate 
expectations  for  an  educated  man,  and  such  wares,  so 
cheap,  must  find  a  ready  market.  Of  such  stuff,  you 
know  that  editors  are  made,  and  in  the  hope  of  finding 
a  vacant  editorial  chair,  you  pocket  your  MSS.,  and 
commence  inquiry.  At  the  end  of  the  month,  you 
begin  to  think  yourself  the  one  person  on  earth  for 
whom  there  seems  no  room.  There  is  no  editor 
wanted,  no  sub-editor  wanted,  no  reporter,  no  proof 
reader,  no  poet !  There  are  passable  paragraphists  by 
scores — educated  young  men,  of  every  kind,  of  prom 
ising  talent,  who,  for  twenty  dollars  a  month,  would 
joyfully  do  twice  what  you  propose — give  twice  as 
much  time,  and  furnish  twice  as  much  "copy."  But 
as  you  design,  of  course,  to  "go  into  society,"  and 
gather  your  laurels  as  they  blossom,  you  can  not 
see  your  way  very  clearly  with  less  than  a  hay 
maker's  wages.  You  proceed  with  your  inquiries, 
however,  and  are,  at  last,  quite  convinced  that  few 
things  are  more  difficult  than  to  coin  uncelebrated 
brains  into  current  money — that  the  avenues  for  the 
employment  of  the  head,  only,  are  emulously  crowd 
ed — that  there  are  many  more  than  you  had  supposed 
who  have  the  same  object  as  yourself,  and  that,  what 
ever  fame  may  be  in  its  meridian  and  close,  its  morn 
ing  is  mortification  and  starvation. 

The  "small  end  of  the  horn"  has  a  hole  in  it,  how 
ever,  and  the  bitter  stage  of  experience  I  have  just 
described,  might  be  omitted  in  your  history,  if,  by  any 
other  means,  you  could  be  made  small  enough  to  go 
in.  The  most  considerable  diminution  of  size,  per 
haps,  is  the  getting  rid,  for  the  time,  of  all  idea  of 
"living  like  a  gentleman"  (according  to  the  common  I 
acceptation  of  the  phrase).  To  be  willing  to  satisfy  I 
hunger  in  any  clean  and  honest  way,  to  sleep  in  any  I 
clean  and  honest  place,  and  to  wear  anything  clean  and 
honestly  paid  for,  are  phases  of  the  crescent  moon  of 
fame,  not  very  prominently  laid  down  in  our  imaginary 
chart ;  but  they  are,  nevertheless,  the  first  indication 
of  that  moon's  waxing.  I  see  by  the  advertisements, 
that  there  are  facilities  now  for  cheap  living,  which  did 
not  exist  "  when  George  the  Third  was  king."  A 
dinner  (of  beef,  bread,  and  potatoes,  with  a  bottle  of 
wine)  is  offered,  by  an  advertiser,  of  the  savory  name 
of  G for  a  shilling,  and  a  breakfast,  most  invi 
tingly  described,  is  offered  for  sixpence.  I  have  no 
doubt  a  lodging  might  be  procured  at  the  same  mod 
est  rate  of  charge.  "  Society"  does  not  move  on  this 
plane,  it  is  true,  but  society  is  not  worth  seeking  at 
any  great  cost,  while  you  are  obscure,  and  if  you'll 
wait  till  the  first  moment  when  it  would  be  agreeable 
(the  moment  when  it  thinks  it  worth  while  to  caress 
you),  it  will  come  to  you,  like  Mohammed  to  the  moun 
tain.  And  like  the  mountain's  moving  to  Mohammed, 
you  will  find  any  premature  ambition  on  the  subject. 

Giving  up  the  expectation  of  finding  employment 
suited  to  your  taste,  you  will,  of  course,  be  "  open  to 
offers,"  and  I  should  counsel  you  to  take  any  that 
would  pay,  which  did  not  positively  shut  the  door 
upon  literature.  At  the  same  wages  you  had  better 
direct  covers  in  a  newspaper  office,  than  contribute 
original  matter  which  costs  you  thought,  yet  is  not 
appreciated  ;  and  in  fact,  as  I  said  before  with  refer 
ence  to  farming,  a  subsistence  not  directly  obtained 
by  brain-work,  is  a  material  advantage  to  an  author. 
Eight  hours  of  mere  mechanical  copying,  and  two 
hours  of  leisurely  composition,  will  tire  you  less,  and 
produce  more  for  your  reputation  than  twelve  hours 
of  intellectual  drudgery.  The  publishers  and  book 
sellers  have  a  good  deal  of  work  for  educated  men — 
proof-reading,  compiling,  corresponding,  &c.,  and  this 
is  a  good  step  to  higher  occupation.  As  you  moder 
ate  your  wants,  of  course  you  enlarge  your  chances 
for  employment. 

Getting  up  in  the  world  is  like  walking  through  a 


mist — your  way  opens  as  you  get  on.  I  should  say, 
that  with  tolerable  good  fortune,  you  might  make  by 
your  pen,  two  hundred  dollars  the  first  year,  and  in 
crease  your  income  a  hundred  dollars  annually,  for 
five  years.  This,  as  a  literary  "  operative."  After 
that  period,  you  would  either  remain  stationary,  a 
mere  "  workey,"  or  your  genius  would  discover  "by 
the  dip  of  the  divining  rod,"  where,  in  the  well- 
searched  bowels  of  literature,  lay  an  unworked  vein 
of  ore.  In  the  latter  case,  you  would  draw  that  one 
prize  in  a  thousand  blanks  of  which  the  other  com 
petitors  in  the  lottery  of  fame  feel  as  sure  as  yourself. 

As  a  "stock"  or  "starring"  player  upon  the  liter 
ary  stage,  of  course  you  desire  a  crowded  audience, 
and  it  is  worth  your  while,  perhaps,  to  inquire  (more 
curiously  than  is  laid  down  in  most  advices  to  authors) 
what  is  the  number  and  influence  of  the  judicious, 
and  what  nuts  it  is  politic  to  throw  to  the  groundlings. 
Abuse  is,  in  criticism,  what  shade  is  in  a  picture,  dis 
cord  in  harmony,  acid  in  punch,  salt  in  seasoning. 
Unqualified  praise  is  the  death  of  Tarpeia,  and  to  be 
neither  praised  nor  abused  is  more  than  death — it  is 
inanition.  Query — how  to  procure  yourself  to  be 
abused  ?  In  your  chymical  course  next  year,  you  will 
probably  give  a  morning's  attention  to  the  analysis  of 
the  pearl,  among  other  precious  substances,  and  you 
will  be  told  by  the  professor,  that  it  is  the  consequence 
of  an  excess  of  carbonate  of  lime  in  the  flesh  of  the 
oyster — in  other  words,  the  disease  of  the  sub-aque 
ous  animal  who  produces  it.  Now,  to  copy  this  poli 
tic  invalid — to  learn  wisdom  of  an  oyster — find  out 
what  is  the  most  pungent  disease  of  your  style,  and 
hug  it  'till  it  becomes  a  pearl.  A  fault  carefully 
studied  is  the  germ  of  a  peculiarity,  and  a  peculiarity 
is  a  pearl  of  great  price  to  an  author.  The  critics 
begin  very  justly  by  hammering  at  it  as  a  fault,  and 
after  it  is  polished  into  a  peculiarity,  they  still  ham 
mer  at  it  as  a  fault,  and  the  noise  they  make  attracts 
attention  to  the  pearl,  and  up  you  come  from  the  deep 
sea  of  obscurity,  not  the  less  intoxicated  with  the  sun 
shine,  because,  but  for  your  disease,  you  would  never 
have  seen  it. 

With  one  more  very  plain  piece  of  counsel,  I  have 
done.  Never  take  the  note  of  any  man  connected 
with  literature,  if  he  will  cash  it  for  fifty  per  cent. 


BREAKFASTS  AND  THE  QUARTERLY. — Mr.  Lock- 
hart  can  never  do  harm  except  indirectly.  His  asser 
tions  and  his  criticisms  are  taken  with  more  than  the 
"grain  of  salt."  Mr.  Cooper  may  have  a  private 
quarrel  with  him  for  some  of  his  ungentlemanly 
phraseology,  but  for  the  literary  part  of  the  criticism 
on  "  England,"  it  will  stand  in  the  place  of  a  good  ad 
vertisement  to  the  book,  and  there  ends  all  its  good 
and  evil.  In  the  following  passage,  however,  a  blow 
(most  unwise  and  most  injurious)  is  struck  at  one  of 
the  pleasantest  usages  of  English  hospitality  : — 

"We  suspect  that  Mr.  Cooper  will  not  think  Mr. 
Rogers's  breakfasts  quite  so  admirable,  nor  the  other 
twenty  so  transcendantly  agreeable,  when  he  learns 
that  it  is  by  no  means  usual  to  invite  strangers  to 
breakfast  in  London,  and  that  such  breakfasts  are 
generally  given  when  the  guest  is  one  about  whose 
manners,  character,  or  social  position,  there  is  some 
uncertainly — a  breakfast  is  a  kind  of  mezzo-termine, 
between  a  mere  visit  and  the  more  intimate  hospitality 
of  a  dinner.  It  is,  as  it  were,  a  state  of  probation." — 
Quarterly  Review  for  October. 

As  the  great  organ  of  the  tory  party  in  England, 
the  Quarterly  might  fairly  be  taken  by  a  foreigner  as 
an  authority  upon  a  point  of  English  manners.  The 
consequence  follows,  that  he  can  not  be  invited  to  break 
fast  without  fair  ground  to  presume  it  an  insult.  Shots 
have  been  exchanged  upon  slighter  ground.  At  the 


EPHEMERA. 


215 


best,  a  suspicion  is  thrown  upon  this  mode  of  hospi-  'j  him   as  a  gentleman  and  a  friend.     I  can  not,  if  it 
tality  which  deprives  it  entirely  of  its  easy  and  confi 
dential  character;  and  that   it  is  an  injury  to  society 
which  could  only  be  corrected  by  the  publication  of  || 
a  correct   portrait  of   Mr.  Lockhart.     No   one   after 


were  proper,   quote   the  exact  words  he   used  ;  but, 
this 


seeing  it  would   credit  any  assertion  he  might   make 


j 

upon  a  subject  involving  a  knowledge  of  good-fellow-  ] 
ship. 

The  editor  of  the  Quarterly  looks  his  vocation  bet-  i 
ter  than  any  man  it  has  been  my  fortune  to  see.     In  i 
his  gait  and  voice  there  is  a  feline  resemblance  which  | 
is  remarkable.     It  is  impossible  for  a  human  being  to 
be  more  like  a  cat.     To  aid  the  likeness,  he  is  slightly  i 
parry-toed,   and  when  you  see   him  creeping   along 
Pall  Mall  on  his  way  to  the  club,  you  can  not  avoid 
the  impression  that  he  is  mousing.     In  his  person  he 
is  extremely  thin,  and,  but  for  his  mouth,  Lockhart 
would  look  like  a  gentleman.     In  that  feature  lies  a 
whole  epitome  of  the  man.     The  lips  are  short,  and 
of  barely  the   thickness  of  the  skin,   and   habitually 
drawn   in  close  against  the  teeth.     To  this  feature, 
which  resembles  somewhat   the   mouth  of   a  small 
purse,  all  the  countenance  seems  subordinate.     The  ] 
contraction  pulls  upon  every  muscle  of  his  face,  and  i 
upon  every  muscle   is  stamped   the  malice  of  which  ' 
his  mouth  is  the  living  and  most  legible  type. 

This  description  of  the  man  is  very  apropos  of  his 
opinions  of  breakfast.  I  presume  he  was  never  asked 
to  an  unceremonious  breakfast  in  his  life.  Would 
any  one  in  his  senses  begin  his  day  by  sitting  down 
opposite  to  such  a  face  for  a  couple  of  hours  ?  Not 
willingly,  I  should  think. 

I  presume  every  Englishman  except  the  editor  of 
the   Quarterly  will   agree   that   to  ask   a  stranger   to 
breakfast  is  much  more  flattering  than  to  invile  him 
to   dinner.     Engagements   to    breakfast,   indeed,    are 
almost  always  made  at  dinner.     The  reply  to  a  letter 
of  introduction  is  usually  a  card  and  an  invitation  to  j 
dine.     If  your  host  is  pleased  with  you,  nothing  is  j 
more  common  than  for  him  to  say  at  parting,  "  You 
have  been  so  engrossed  that  I  have  scarce  spoken  to 
you  —  come  and  breakfast  with  me  to-morrow  at  nine." 
You  accept,  and  you  improve  on  acquaintance  into  a  J 
friend.     In  a  snug  library,  all  ceremony  put  off,  the  { 
mind  tranquil  and  sincere,  you  enter  upon  a  different 
class  of  subjects,   more  familiar,   more   confidential,  j 
The  attention  of  your   host  is  more  undivided,  and 
your  conversation  leads  you  to  make  engagements  for 
the  day,  or  the  evening  ;  and  thus  a  man  with  whom  ; 
you  might  have  discussed  the  corn-laws  or  the   new  : 
opera,  forty  times,  across  the  glare  of  a  dinner-table, 
and  only  known  at  last  as  a  talker  of  commonplaces, 
becomes  a  pleasant  friend,  perhaps  an  intimate  com 
panion. 

I  have  not  the  Quarterly  Review  by  me  at  this  mo 
ment,  but,  if  I  do  not  mistake,  the  breakfasfs  with  the 
poet    Rogers,   described  by  Mr.  Cooper,   furnish  the  i 
text  for  Mr.  Lockhart's  "  new  light"  upon  this  sub-  < 
ject.      I  am  happy  to  have  it  in  my  power  to  set  our  j 
countrymen    right   upon    the    estimation    in   which  | 
Cooper  is  held  by  that  polished  and  venerable  amphyt- 
rion.     It  was   kindly   and    complimentarily   done    of 
Mr.    Rogers  to  talk    a   great  deal   of  a   compatriot, 
of  whose  talents  he  justly  supposed  every  American 
should    be    proud.     I   was    enjoying    (according    to 
Mr.    Lockhart)    the    equivocal    honor    of    breakfast 
ing  with  him  —  an  honor  which,  questionable  or  not, 
I   shared   with   one   of  the    most   distinguished   for 
eigners  then  in  England.     This  latter  gentleman  pro 
fessed  the  highest  enthusiasm  for  the  works  of  Cooper, 
and  took  pains  to  draw  out  the  venerable  poet  on  the  , 
subject  of  his  personal  manners,  conversation,  &c.    A  j 
handsomer  eulogium  of  an   absent    author   I   never 
heard.     Mr.  Rogers  admired  the  bold  independence 
of  his  cast  of  mind,  and  spoke  in  the  highest  terms  of 


subtract  from  this  praise  all  you  please  to  fancy  might 
have  been  said  in  kindness  or  compliment  to  a  com 
patriot,  there  was  still  enough  left  to  gratify  the  self- 
love  of  the  most  exacting. 

If  Mr.  Lockhnrt  had  ever  been  similarly  honored, 
he  would  have  excused  Mr.  Cooper  for  dwelling  com 
placently  on  the  "  breakfasts  in  St.  James's  Place." 
Rogers  has  lived  in  the  very  core  of  all  that  is  pre 
cious  or  memorable  of  two  ages  of  English  wit,  liter 
ature,  and  politics,  himself  oftenest  the  bright  centre 
around  which  it  gathered.  His  manners  are  amenity 
itself,  his  wit  is  celebrated,  his  powers  of  narration 
delightful.  With  all  this  he  seems  to  forget  his  own 
fame  and  himself,  and  never  to  have  known  envy  or 
ill-will.  As  he  sits  at  that  small  breakfast-table,  his 
head  silvery  white,  the  bland  smile  of  intellectual  en 
joyment  upon  his  lips,  talking  or  listening  with  equal 
pleasure,  and  with  the  greatest  tact  and  delicacy,  al 
ternately  drawing  out  the  resources  of  his  guests,  and 
exhibiting  modestly  his  own,  he  is  a  picture  of  tran 
quil,  dignified,  and  green  old  age,  which  it  were  a  pity 
to  have  travelled  far  and  not  seen.  I  felicitate  Mr. 
Cooper  on  the  possession  of  his  esteem  and  friend 
ship.  I  please  myself  with  remembering  that  I  have 
seen  him.  I  pity  Mr.  Lockhart  that  the  class  of  en 
tertainments  of  which  this  is  one,  is  reserved  for  those 
whose  faces  will  not  "spoil  the  cream." 

Between  butchering  for  Fraser  and  dissecting  for 
the  Quarterly,  Mr.  Lockhart  may  have  derived  a  suf 
ficient  revenue  to  "  give  dinners  ;"  but  he  forgets  that 
more  amiable  literature  is  not  so  saleable,  and  that  his 
brother  authors  are  compelled  to  entertain  strangers  at 
breakfast.  Taboo  that  meal,  and,  good  heavens  ! 
what  becomes  of  the  "  great  army  of  writers"  in  Lon 
don,  who,  over  "  tea  and  toast,"  in  their  quiet  lodg 
ings,  give  the  admiring  pilgrim  of  literature  a  feast  of 
reason  —  one  alone  worth  all  the  dinners  of  May  fair  ? 

What  becomes  of  younger  sons,  and  callow  orators, 
and  lawyers  in  the  temple,  who,  over  red  herrings  and 
coffee,  let  the  amused  guest  into  the  secrets  of  their 
menus-plaisirs,  and  trenching  a  half-crown,  at  the 
most,  upon  their  slender  pockets,  send  him  away  de 
lighted  with  their  gay  hospitality.  Breakfasts!  What 
would  you  know  of  authors  and  artists  without 
breakfasts?  You  see  but  half  the  man  in  his  works. 
Would  you  rather  breakfast  with  Chantrey  in  his  stu 
dio,  and  hear  him  criticise  his  own  marble,  or  dine 
with  him  at  Lord  Lansdowne's,  and  listen  to  his  bavar- 
daqc  upon  fly-fishing?  Would  you  rather  see  gentle 
Barry  Cornwall,  smothered  and  silent,  among  wits  and 
lordlings  at  "  miladi's,"  or  breakfast  with  him  in  his 
crammed  library  in  St.  John's  Wood,  and  hear  him 
read  one  of  his  unpublished  songs,  with  the  tears  in 
his  eyes,  and  the  children  at  his  knee,  breathless  with 
listening  ?  Would  you  rather  meet  Moore,  over  a 
cup  of  tea,  in  the  shop-parlor  at  Longman's,  in  Pat 
ernoster  row,  or  see  him  at  one  of  the  show-dinners 
of  this  publishing  Mecenas,  at  his  villa  in  Hamp- 
stead  ?  Out  upon  the  malicious  hand  that  would  sow 
distrust  and  suspicion  in  these  delightful  by-paths  of 
hospitality  ! 

An  author  is  always  a  double  existence,  and  it  is 
astonishing  how  different  may  be  the  intellectual  man 
from  his  everyday  representative.  Lockhart,  the  au 
thor  of  Valerius,  Adam  Blair,  and  the  Life  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  is  a  splendid  and  delightful  intellect  — 
no  one  can  deny  it.  Mr.  Lockhart,  the  gentleman 
who  looks  as  if  he  had  a  perpetual  inclination  to 
whistle,  and  who  does  the  bourreau  for  the  Quarterly, 
is  an  individual  I  should  rather  meet  anywhere  than  — 
at  breakfast.  Heaven  send  him  a  relaxation  of  his 
facial  muscles,  and  a  little  charity  to  leave  the  world 
with. 


216 


EPHEMERA. 


A  SPRING  DAY  IN  WINTER. — A  spring  day  some 
times  bursts  upon  us  in  December.  One  scarcely 
knows  whether  the  constant  warmth  of  the  fire,  or  the 
fresh  sunny  breathings  from  the  open  window,  are  the 
most  welcome.  At  such  a  time,  the  curtains  swing 
lazily  to  the  mild  wind  as  it  enters,  and  the  light  green 
leaves  of  the  sheltered  flowers  stir  and  erect  them-  ! 


EVANESCENT  IMPRESSIONS — I  have  very  often,  in 
the  fine  passages  of  society — such  as  occur  some 
times  in  the  end  of  an  evening,  or  when  a  dinner 
party  has  dwindled  to  an  unbroken  circle  of  choice 
and  congenial  spirits,  or  at  any  of  those  times  when 
conversation,  stripped  of  all  reserve  or  check,  is 
poured  out  in  the  glowing  and  unfettered  enthusiasm 


selves  with  an  out-of-door  vigor,  and  the  shuffled  steps   |  to  which  convivial  excitement  alone  gives  the  confi- 


and  continued  voices  of  the  children  in  the  street,  j 
have  the  loitering  and  summer-like  sound  of  June.  I 
do  not  know  whether  it  is  not  a  cockney  feeling,  but 
with  all  my  love  for  the  country,  fixed  as  it  is  by  the 
recollections  of  a  life  mostly  spent  in  the  "  green 
fields"  I  sometimes  "babble  of,"  there  is  something  in 
a  summer  morning  in  the  city,  which  the  wet,  warm 
woods,  and  the  solitary,  though  lonely  haunts  of  the 
country  do  not,  after  all  the  poetry  that  has  been 
"spilt  upon  them"  (as  Neal  would  say),  at  all  equal. 


dence  necessary  to  its  flow — I  have  often  wished,  at 
such  times,  that  the  voice  and  manner  of  the  chance 
and  fleeting  eloquence  about  us  could  be  arrested  and 
written  down  for  others  beside  ourselves  to  see  and 
admire.  In  a  chance  conversation  at  a  party,  in  the 
bagatelle  rattle  of  a  dance,  in  a  gay  hour  over  coffee 
and  sandwiches  en  famille,  wherever  you  meet  those 
whom  you  love  or  value,  there  will  occur  pieces  of 
dialogue,  jeux  d'esprit,  passages  of  feeling  or  fun — 
trifles,  it  is  true,  but  still  such  trifles  as  make  eras  in 


Whether  it  is  that  we  find  so  much  sympathy  in  the  ,  the  calendar  of  happiness — which  you  would  give  the 


many  faces  that  we  meet,  made  happy  by  the  same 
sweet  influences,  or  whatever  else  may  be  the  reason, 
certes,  I  never  take  my  morning  walk  on  such  a  day, 
without  a  leaping  in  my  heart,  which,  from  all  I  can 
gather  by  dream  or  revelation,  has  a  touch  in  it  of 
Paradise.  I  returned  once,  on  such  a  day,  from  an 
hour's  ramble  after  breakfast.  The  air  rushed  past 
my  temples  with  the  grateful  softness  of  spring,  and 
every  face  that  passed  had  the  open,  inhaling  expres 
sion  which  is  given  by  the  simple  joy  of  existence. 
The  sky  had  the  deep  clearness  of  noon.  The  clouds 
were  winnowed  in  light  parallel  curves,  looking  like 
white  shells  inlaid  on  the  arched  heavens  ;  the  smooth, 
glassy  bay  was  like  a  transparent  abyss  opening  to  the 
earth's  centre,  and  edging  away  underneath,  with  a  ! 
slope  of  hills,  and  spires,  and  leafless  woods,  copied  | 
minutely  and  perfectly  from  the  upper  landscape,  and  ' 
the  naked  elms  seemed  almost  clothed  as  the  teeming 
eye  looked  on  them,  and  the  brown  hills  took  a  teint 
of  green — so  freshly  did  the  summer  fancies  crowd 
into  the  brain  with  the  summer  softness  of  the  sun 
shine  and  air.  The  mood  is  rare  in  which  the  sight 
of  human  faces  does  not  give  us  pleasure.  It  is  a 


j  world  to  rescue  from  their  ephemeral  destiny.  They 
I  are,  perhaps,  the  soundings  of  a  spirit  too  deep  for 
ordinary  life  to  fathom,  or  the  gracefulness  of  a  fancy 
I  linked  with  too  feminine  a  nature  to  bear  the  eye  of 
the  world,  or  the  melting  of  a  frost  of  reserve  from 
the  diffident  genius — they  are  traces  of  that  which  is 
fleeting,  or  struck  out  like  phosphorus  from  the  sea 
by  irregular  chance — and  you  want  something  quicker 
and  rarer  than  formal  description  to  arrest  it  warm 
and  natural,  and  detain  it  in  its  place  till  it  can  be 
looked  upon. 

THE  FIRST  FEELING  OF  WINTER. — How  delight 
fully  the  first  feeling  of  winter  comes  on  the  mind  ! 
What  a  throng  of  tranquillizing  and  affectionate 
thoughts  accompany  its  first  bright  fires,  and  the 
sound,  out  of  doors,  of  ils  first  chilling  winds.  Oh, 
when  the  leaves  are  driven  in  troops  through  the 
streets,  at  nightfall,  and  the  figures  of  the  passers-by 
j  hurry  on,  cloaked  and  stooping  with  the  cold,  is  there 
a  pleasanter  feeling  in  the  world  than  to  enter  the 
closed  and  carpeted  room,  with  its  shaded  lamps,  and 


curious   occupation   to  look  on  them  as  they  pass"  1 1  itS  g«ial  warmth,  and   its  cheerful   faces  about  the 
__j  .....j..  .i-.f..  i_.i j   i  ,          "  y  r  7  '  1!  evening  table  !     I  hope  that  I  speak  your  own  senti- 


and  study  their  look  and  meaning,  and  wonder  at  the 
providence  of  God,  which  can  provide,  in  this  crowded 
world,  an  object  and  an  interest  for  all.  With  what 
a  singular  harmony  the  great  machine  of  society  goes 
on!  So  many  thousand  minds,  and  each  with  its 
peculiar  cast  and  its  positive  difference  from  its  fellow, 
and  yet  no  dangerous  interference,  and  no  discord 
audible  above  the  hum  of  its  daily  revolution.  I 
could  not  help  feeling  a  religious  thrill,  as  I  passed 
face  after  face,  with  this  thought  in  my  mind,  and  saw 
each  one  earnest  and  cheerful,  each  one  pressing  on 
with  its  own  object,  without  waiting  or  caring  for  the 
equally  engrossing  object  of  the  other.  The  man  of 
business  went  on  with  an  absorbed  look,  caring  only 
to  thread  his  way  rapidly  along  the  street.  The  stu'- 
dent  strided  by  with  the  step  of  exercise,  his  lips 
parted  to  admit  the  pleasant  air  to  his  refreshed  lungs, 
and  his  eye  wandering  with  bewildered  pleasure  from 
object  to  object.  The  schoolboy  looked  wistfully  up 
and  down  the  street,  and  lingered  till  the  last  stroke 
of  the  bell  summoned  him  tardily  in.  The  woman 
ish  school-girl,  with  her  veil  coquettishly  drawn,  still 
flirted  with  her  boyish  admirer,  though  it  was  "  after 
nine,"  and  the  child,  with  its  soiled  satchel  and  shining 
face,  loitered  seriously  along  the  sidewalk,  making 
acquaintance  with  every  dog,  and  picking  up  every 
stone  on  its  unwilling  way.  The  spell  of  the  atmo 
sphere  was  universal,  and  yet  all  kept  on  their  several 
courses,  and  the  busy  harmony  of  employment  went 
steadily  and  unl  rokenly  on.  How  rarely  we  turn 
upon  ourselves,  and  remember  how  wonderfully  we 
are  made  and  governed ! 


rnent,  dear  reader,  when  I  prefer  to  every  place  and 
time,  in  the  whole  calendar  of  pleasure,  a  winter 
evening  at  home — the  "sweet,  sweet  home"  of  child 
hood,  with  its  unreserved  love  and  its  unchanged  and 
unmeasured  endearments.  We  need  not  love  gayety 
the  less.  The  light  and  music  and  beauty  of  *  the 
dance  will  always  breed  a  floating  delight  in  the  brain 
that  has  not  grown  dull  to  life's  finer  influences  ;  yet 
the  pleasures  of  home,  though  serener  are  deeper, 
and  I  am  sure  that  the  world  may  be  searched  over  in 
vain  for  a  sense  of  joy  so  even  and  unmingled.  It  is 
a  beautiful  trait  of  Providence  that  the  balance  is 
kept  so  truly  between  our  many  and  different  bles 
sings.  It  were  a  melancholy  thing  to  see  the  sum 
mer  depart  with  its  superb  beauty,  if  the  heart  did  not 
freshen  as  it  turned  in  from  its  decay  to  brood  upon 
its  own  treasures.  The  affections  wander  under  the 
enticement  of  all  the  outward  loveliness  of  nature, 
and  it  is  necessary  to  unwind  the  spell,  that  their  rich 
kindness  may  not  become  scattered  and  visionary.  1 
have  a  passion  for  these  simple  theories,  which  I  trust 
will  be  forgiven.  I  indulge  in  them  as  people  pun. 
They  are  too  shadowy  for  logic,  it  is  true — like  the 
wings  of  the  glendoveer,  in  Kehama,  gauze-like  and 
filmy,  but  flying  high  withal.  You  may  not  grow 
learned,  but  you  surely  will  grow  poetical  upon  them. 
I  would  as  lief  be  praised  by  a  blockhead  as  be  asked 
the  reason. 


THE  POET  SHELLEY. — Shelley  has  a  private  nook 
in  my  affections.     He  is  so  unlike  all  other  poets  that 


EPHEMERA. 


217 


I  can  not  mate  him.  He  is  like  his  ov/n  "  skylark" 
among  birds.  He  does  not  keep  ever  up  in  the  thin 
air  with  Byron,  like  the  eagle,  nor  sing  with  Keats 
low  and  sweetly  like  the  thrush,  nor,  like  the  dove 
sitting  always  upon  her  nest,  brood  with  Wordsworth 
over  the  affections.  He  begins  to  sing  when  the 
morning  wakes  him,  and  as  he  grows  wild  with  his 
own  song,  he  mounts  upward, 

"  And  singing  ever  soars,  and  soaring  ever  singeth ;" 

and  it  is  wonderful  how  he  loses  himself,  like  the 
delirious  bird  in  the  sky,  and  with  a  verse  which  may 
be  well  compared  for  its  fine  delicacy  with  her  little 
wings,  penetrates  its  far  depths  fearlessly  and  full  of 
joy.  There  is  something  very  new  in  this  mingled 
trait  of  fineness  and  sublimity.  Milton  and  Byron 
seem  made  for  the  sky.  Their  broad  wings  always 
strike  the  air  with  the  same  solemn  majesty.  But 
Shelley,  near  the  ground,  is  a  very  "  bird  in  a  bower,'' 
running  through  his  merry  compass  as  if  he  never 
dreamed  of  the  upward  and  invisible  heavens.  Withal, 
Shelley's  genius  is  too  fiery  to  be  moody.  He  was  a 
melancholy  man,  but  it  was  because  he  was  crossed  I 
in  the  daily  walk  of  life,  and  such  anxieties  did  not 
touch  his  imagination.  It  was  above — far,  far  above 
them.  His  poetry  was  not,  like  that  of  other  poets, 
linked  with  his  common  interests ;  and  if  it  "  un 
bound  the  serpent  of  care  from  his  heart,"  as  doubt 
less  it  did,  it  was  by  making  him  forget  that  it  was 
there.  He  conceived  and  wrote  in  a  wizard  circle. 
The  illiberal  world  was  the  last  thing  remembered, 
and  its  annoying  prejudices,  gall  him  as  they  might  in 
the  exercise  of  his  social  duties,  never  followed  over 
the  fiery  limit  of  his  fancy.  Never  have  we  seen 
such  pure  abstraction  from  earthliness  as  in  the  tem 
per  of  his  poetry.  It  is  the  clear,  intellectual  lymph, 
unalloyed  and  unpolluted. 


Aw  AUTHOR'S  JUDGMENT  OF  HIS  OWN  WORKS. — 
It  is  a  false  notion  that  the  writer  is  no  judge  of  his 
own  book.  Verses  in  manuscript  and  verses  in  print, 
in  the  first  place,  are  very  different  things,  and  the 
mood  of  writing  and  the  mood  of  reading  what  one 
has  written,  are  very  different  moods.  We  do  not 
know  how  it  is  with  others,  but  we  open  our  own 
volume  with  the  same  impression  of  strangeness  and 
novelty  that  we  do  another's.  The  faults  strike  us  at 
once,  and  so  do  the  beauties,  if  there  are  any,  and  we 
read  coolly  in  a  new  garb,  the  same  things  which 
upon  paper  recalled  the  fever  of  composition,  and 
rendered  us  incapable  of  judgment.  As  far  as  I  can 
discover  by  others'  experience  and  my  own,  no  writer 
understands  the  phenomena  of  composition.  It  is 
impossible  to  realize,  in  reading,  that  which  is  to  him 
impassioned,  the  state  of  feeling  which  produced  it. 
His  own  mind  is  to  himself  a  mystery  and  a  wonder. 
The  thought  stands  before  him,  visible  to  his  outward 
eye,  which  he  does  not  remember  has  ever  haunted 
him.  The  illustration  from  nature  is  often  one  which 
he  does  not  remember  to  have  noticed — the  trait  of 
character,  or  the  peculiar  pencilling  of  a  line  in  beauty 
altogether  new  and  startling.  He  is  affected  to  tears 
or  mirth,  his  taste  is  gratified  or  shocked,  his  fancy 
amused  or  his  cares  beguiled,  as  if  he  had  never  be 
fore  seen  it.  It  is  his  own  mind,  but  he  does  not  rec 
ognise  it.  He  is  like  the  peasant-child  taken  and 
dressed  richly  ;  he  does  not  know  himself  in  his  new 
adornments.  There  is  a  wonderful  metamorphosis  in 
print.  The  author  has  written  under  strong  excite 
ment,  and  with  a  development  and  reach  of  his  own 
powers  which  would  amuse  him  were  he  conscious 
of  the  process.  There  are  dim  and  far  chambers  in 
the  mind  which  are  never  explored  by  reason.  Im 


sometimes,  and  brings  out  their  treasures  to  the  light 
— ignorant  of  their  value,  and  almost  believing  that 
the  dreams  when  they  glitter  are  admired.  There 
are  phantoms  which  haunt  the  perpetual  twilight  of 
the  inner  mind,  which  are  arrested  only  by  the  daring 
hand  of  an  overwrought  fancy,  and  like  a  need  done 
in  a  dream,  the  difficult  steps  are  afterward  but  faintly 
remembered.  It  is  wonderful  how  the  mind  accumu 
lates  by  unconscious  observation — how  the  teint  of  a 
cloud,  or  the  expression  of  an  eye,  or  the  betrayal  of 
character  by  a  word,  will  lie  for  years  forgotten  in  the 
memory  till  it  is  brought  out  by  some  searching 
thought  to  its  owner's  wonder. 


FROST It  is  winter — veritable  winter — with  bona- 

fidc  frost,  and  cramping  cold,  and  a  sun  as  clear  and 
powerless  as  moonlight.  The  windows  glitter  with 
the  most  fantastic  frost-work.  Cities,  with  their 
spires  and  turrets,  ranks  of  spears,  files  of  horsemen 
— every  gorgeous  and  brilliant  array  told  of  in  ro 
mance  or  song,  start  out  of  that  mass  of  silvery  trace 
ry,  like  the  processions  of  a  magic  mirror.  What  a 
miraculous  beauty  there  is  in  frost !  What  fine  work 
in  its  radiant  crystals  !  What  mystery  in  its  exact 
proportions  and  its  maniform  varieties  !  The  feathery 
snow-flake,  the  delicate  rime,  the  transparent  and 
sheeted  ice,  the  magnificent  ice-berg  moving  down 
the  sea  like  a  mountain  of  light — how  beautiful  are 
they  all,  and  how  wonderful  is  it,  that,  break  and 
scatter  them  as  you  will,  you  find  under  every  form 
the  same  faultless  angles,  the  same  crystalline  and 
sparkling  radiation.  It  sometimes  grows  suddenly 
cold  at  noon.  There  has  been  a  heavy  mist  all  the 
morning,  and  as  the  north  wind  comes  sharply  in,  the 
air  clears  and  leaves  it  frozen  upon  everything,  with 
the  thinness  of  palpable  air.  The  trees  are  clothed 
with  a  fine  white  vapor,  as  if  a  cloud  had  been  arrested 
and  fixed  motionless  in  the  branches.  They  look,  in 
the  twilight,  like  gigantic  spirits,  standing  in  broad 
ranks,  and  clothed  in  drapery  of  supernatural  white 
ness  and  texture.  On  close  examination,  the  crystals 
are  as  fine  as  needles,  and  standing  in  perfect  parallel 
ism,  pointing  in  the  direction  of  the  wind.  They  are 
like  fringes  of  the  most  minute  threads,  edging  every 
twig  and  filament  of  the  tree,  so  that  the  branches  are 
thickened  by  them,  and  have  a  shadowy  and  mysteri 
ous  look,  as  if  a  spirit  foliage  had  staged  out  from  the 
naked  limbs.  It  is  not  so  brilliant  as  the  common 
rime  seen  upon  the  trees  after  a  frozen  rain,  but  it  is 
infinitely  more  delicate  and  spiritual,  and  to  me  seems 
a  phenomenon  of  exquisite  novelty  and  beauty. 


THE  CLOSING  YEAR. — It  is  a  melancholy  task  to 
reckon  with  the  departed  year.  To  trace  back  the 
curious  threads  of  affection  through  its  many-colored 
woof,  and  knot  anew  its  broken  places — to  number 
the  missing  objects  of  interest,  the  dead  and  the  neg 
lected to  sum  up  the  broken  resolutions,  the  defer 
red  hopes,  the  dissolved  phantoms  of  anticipation,  and 
the  many  wanderings  from  the  leading  star  of  duty 

this   is   indeed   a   melancholy  task,   but,   withal,  a 

profitable,  and,  it  may  sometimes  be,  a  pleasant  and  a 
soothing  one.  It  is  wonderful  in  what  short  courses 
the  objects  of  this  world  move.  They  are  like  arrows 
feebly  shot.  A  year — a  brief  year,  is  full  of  things 
dwindled  and  finished  and  forgotten.  Nothing  keeps 
evenly  on.  What  is  there  in  the  running  calendar 
of  the  year  that  has  departed,  which  has  kept  its  place 
and  its  magnitude  ?  Here  and  there  an  aspirant  for 
,  fame  still  stretches  after  his  eluding  shadow— here  and 
I'1  there  an  enthusiast  still  clings  to  his  golden  drenm— 


gination   in   her  rapt   phrensy  wanders  blindly  there  |:  here  and  there  (and  alas  !   how  rarely)  a  friend  kcq>9 


218 


EPHEMERA. 


his  truth,  and  a  lover  his  fervor — hut  how  many  more, 
that  were  as  ambitious,  as  enthusiastic,  as  loving  as 
these,  when  this  year  began,  are  now  sluggish,  and 
cold,  and  false  ?  You  may  keep  a  record  of  life,  and 
as  surely  as  it  is  human,  it  will  be  a  fragmented  and 
disjointed  history,  crowded  with  unaccountableness 
and  change.  There  is  nothing  constant.  The  links 
of  life  are"  for  ever  breaking,  but  we  rush  on  still.  A 
fellow-traveller  drops  from  our  side  into  the  grave — a 
guiding  star  of  hope  vanishes  from  the  sky — a  creature 
of  our  affections,  a  child  or  an  idol,  is  snatched  from 
us — perhaps  nothing  with  which  we  began  the  race  is 
left  to  us,  and  yet  we  do  not  halt.  "  Onward — still 
onward"  is  the  eternal  cry,  and  as  the  past  recedes, 
the  broken  ties  are  forgotten,  and  the  present  and  future 
occupy  us  alone. 

There  are  bright  chapters  in  the  past,  however.  If 
our  lot  is  capricious  and  broken,  it  is  also  new  and 
various.  One  friend  has  grown  cool,  but  we  have 
won  another.  One  chance  was  less  fortunate  than 
we  expected,  but  another  was  better.  We  have  en 
countered  one  man's  prejudices,  but,  in  so  doing,  we 
have  unexpectedly  flattered  the  partialities  of  his 
neighbor.  We  have  neglected  a  recorded  duty,  but  a 
deed  of  charity  done  upon  impulse,  has  brought  up 
the  balance.  In  an  equable  temper  of  mind,  memory, 
to  a  man  of  ordinary  goodness  of  heart,  is  pleasant 
company.  A  careless  rhymer,  whose  heart  is  better 
than  his  head,  says  •  — 

"  I  would  not  escape  from  memory's  land, 

For  all  the  eye  can  view  ; 
For  there's  dearer  dust  in  memory's  land, 

Than  the  ore  of  rich  Peru. 
I  clasp  the  fetter  by  memory  twined, 
The  wanderer's  heart  and  soul  to  bind." 

It  was  a  good  thought  suggested  by  an  ingenious 
friend  of  mine,  to  make  one's  will  annually,  and  re 
member  all  whom  we  love  in  it  in  the  degree  of  their 
deservings.  I  have  acted  upon  the  hint  since,  and 
truly  it  is  keeping  a  calendar  of  one's  life.  I  have 
little  to  bequeath,  indeed — a  manuscript  or  two,  some 
half  dozen  pictures,  and  a  score  or  two  of  much- 
thumbed  and  choice  authors — but,  slight  as  these 
poor  mementoes  are,  it  is  pleasant  to  rate  their  differ 
ence,  and  write  against  them  the  names  of  our  friends, 
as  we  should  wish  them  left  if  we  knew  we  were  pres 
ently  to  die.  It  would  be  a  satisfying  thought  in  sick 
ness,  that  one's  friends  would  have  a  memorial  to 
suggest  us  when  we  were  gone — that  they  would 
know  we  wished  to  be  remembered  by  them,  and  re 
membered  them  among  the  first.  And  it  is  pleasant, 
too,  while  alive,  to  change  the  order  of  appropriation 
with  the  ever-varying  evidences  of  affection.  It  is  a 
relief  to  vexation  and  mortified  pride  to  erase  the 
name  of  one  unworthy  or  false,  and  it  is  delightful, 
as  another  gets  nearer  to  your  heart,  with  the  gradual 
and  sure  test  of  intimacy,  to  prefer  him  in  your  secret 
register. 

If  I  should  live  to  be  old,  I  doubt  not  it  will  be  a 
pleasant  thing  to  look  over  these  little  testaments. 
It  is  difficult,  now,  with  their  kind  offices  and  pleasant 
faces  ever  about  one,  to  realize  the  changes  of  feeling 
between  the  first  and  the  last — more  difficult  still  to 
imagine,  against  any  of  those  familiar  names,  the 
significant  asterisk  which  marks  the  dead — yet  if  the 
common  chances  of  human  truth,  and  the  still  more 
desperate  changes  of  human  life,  continue — it  is 
melancholy  to  think  what  a  miracle  it  would  be  if 
even  half  this  list,  brief  and  youthful  as  it  is,  should 
be,  twenty  years  hence,  living  and  unchanged. 

The  festivities  of  this  part  of  the  year  always  seem 
ed  to  me  mistimed  and  revolting.  I  know  not  what 
color  the  reflections  of  others  take,  but  to  me  it  is 
simply  the  feeling  of  escape — the  released  breath  of 
fear  after  a  period  of  suspense  and  danger.  Accident, 
misery,  death,  have  been  about  us  in  their  invisible 


shapes,  and  while  one  is  tortured  with  pain,  and 
another  reduced  to  wretchedness,  and  another  struck 
into  the  grave  beside  us,  we  know  not  why  orhow,  we  are 
still  living  and  prosperous.  It  is  next  to  a  miracle  that 
we  are  so.  We  have  been  on  the  edge  of  chasms  con 
tinually.  Our  feet  have  tottered,  our  bosoms  have 
been  grazed  by  the  thick  shafts  of  disease — had  our 
eyes  been  spirit-keen  we  should  have  been  dumb  with 
fear  at  our  peril.  If  every  tenth  sunbeam  were  a 
deadly  arrow — if  the  earth  were  full  of  invisible  abysses 
— if  poisons  were  sown  thickly  in  the  air,  life  would 
hardly  be  more  insecure.  We  can  stand  upon  our 
threshold  and  see  it.  The  vigorous  are  stricken  down 
by  an  invisible  hand — the  active  and  busy  suddenly 
disappear — death  is  caught  in  the  breath  of  the  night 
wind,  in  the  dropping  of  the  dew.  There  is  no  place 
or  moment  in  which  that  horrible  phantom  is  not 
gliding  among  us.  It  is  natural  at  each  period  of 
escape  to  rejoice  fervently  and  from  the  heart ;  but  I 
know  not,  if  others  look  upon  death  with  the  same 
irrepressible  horror  that  I  do,  how  their  joy  can  be  so 
thoughtlessly  trifling.  It  seems  to  me,  matter  for 
deep,  and  almost  fearful  congratulation.  It  should 
be  expressed  in  religious  places  and  with  the  solemn 
voice  of  worship  ;  and  when  the  period  has  thus  been 
marked,  it  should  be  speedily  forgotten  lest  its  cloud 
become  depressing.  I  am  an  advocate  for  all  the 
gayety  that  the  spirits  will  bear.  I  would  reserve  no 
particle  of  the  treasure  of  happiness.  The  world  is 
dull  enough  at  the  best.  But  do  not  mistake  its 
temper.  Do  not  press  into  the  service  of  gay  pleasure 
the  thrilling  solemnities  of  life.  I  think  anything 
which  reminds  me  of  death,  solemn  ;  any  time,  when 
our  escape  from  it  is  thrust  irresistibly  upon  the  mind, 
a  solemn  time;  and  such  is  the  season  of  the  new 
year.  It  should  be  occupied  by  serious  thoughts. 
It  is  the  time  to  reckon  with  one's  heart — to  renew 
and  form  resolutions — to  forgive  and  reconcile  and 
redeem. 


MIDNIGHT. — The  bell  struck  as  the  word  was  writ 
ten  !  Twelve — and  how  many-toned  in  the  human 
ear  are  the  measured  strokes  that  have  proclaimed  it. 
The  well  and  contemplative,  the  sick  and  restless,  the 
reveller  hailing  it  as  the  empress  of  the  hours,  and  the 
patient  and  solemn  watcher  by  the  dead,  counting  it 
on  his  vigil,  and  shuddering  at  the  dreadful  silence  it 
makes  audible — sleepless  ambition  starting  from  its 
waking  dream,  and  sleeping  guilt  blessedly  aroused 
from  its  nightmare  of  detection — with  what  a  different 
voice  and  meaning  do  the  tremulous  and  lengthened 
cadences  of  that  same  bell  fall  upon  the  different  ears 
that  listen  to  them  !  Yet  it  is  so  with  everything 
about  us — and  the  boldest  and  best  lesson  of  philoso 
phy  is  that  which  teaches  us  that  outward  circum 
stances  have  no  color  of  their  own — that  the  universe 
is  within  us — that  the  eye  sees  no  light  or  shadow, 
and  the  ear  hears  no  music  or  jar,  and  the  senses  re 
ceive  no  impression  of  pain  or  pleasure,  but  as  the 
inward  eye  is  light  or  shaded,  the  inward  ear  attuned 
or  discordant,  and  the  inward  sense  painful  or  pleas 
urable.  It  is  a  glorious  creed — for  by  it,  he  who 
governs  his  own  soul  holds  the  key  of  the  universe. 
Its  colors  are  put  on  at  his  bidding,  its  music  wakes 
at  his  desire,  and  its  magnificent  changes,  arbitrary 
and  omnipotent  as  they  seem,  take  form  and  pressure 
from  the  small,  still  thought  in  his  bosom  !  Yet  how 
difficult  it  is!  How  true,  that  "he  who  ruleth  his 
own  spirit  is  greater  than  he  that  taketh  a  city." 
To  put  down  at  will  the  maniform  spectres  of 
thought — to  suppress  fear  and  discouragement,  and 
sadness  that  comes  up  uncalled — to  lay  a  finger  on 
the  lip  of  complaint,  and  seal  up  a  tear  in  its  cell,  and 
press  down,  with  a  stern  fetter,  the  ungovernable 
nerve  of  unrest — to  "  lay  commandment"  on  a  throb- 


EPHEMERA. 


219 


bing  pulse,  and  break  the  wings  of  a  too  earnest  ima 
gination,  and  smother,  in  their  first  rising,  the  thou 
sand  impatient  feelings  that  come  out  of  time  and 
season — this  it  is  that  the  anchorite  in  his  cell,  and 
the  master  spirit  in  his  career,  and  the  student,  wast 
ing  over  his  lamp,  may  pray,  and  wrestle,  and  search 
into  many  mysteries  for — in  vain  ! 

In  my  days  of  idleness  (a  habit,  by-the-by,  which 
should  be  put  down  as  a  nervous  complaint  in  the 
books)  I  occupied,  for  some  nine  hours  in  the  day,  a 
window  opposite  a  city-clock.  It  was  a  tolerable 
amusement,  between  breakfast  and  recitation,  to  watch 
the  passing  of  the  hours,  "hand  over  hand."  1  thought 
then,  as  I  think  now,  that  thegreat  deficiency  in  the  con 
struction  of  the  human  mind,  is  the  want  of  something 
on  the  principle  of  the  stop-watch,  to  suspend  its  ope 
rations  at  will — but  it  is  no  slight  relief,  since  I  must 
think,  to  have  a  dial-plate,  or  a  nail  in  the  wall,  or  any 
object  that  it  is  no  trouble  to  see,  to  serve  as  a  nu 
cleus  to  thought.  By-and-by,  with  the  force  of  hab 
it,  the  dial  became  necessary.  I  could  not  think 
tranquilly  without  it.  My  pulses  beat  sixty  in  the 
minute.  My  imagination  built  by  the  hour — nine — 
ten — twelve  castles  a  day,  as  the  lectures  interfered 
more  or  less  with  my  repose. 

In  the  course  of  time,  I  fell  into  the  habit  of  mu 
sing  on  the  circumstances  dependant  on  the  arrival  of 
the  hours,  and  as  my  mood  happened  to  be  gay  or 
gloomy,  I  pondered,  with  the  strong  sympathy  of  un 
occupied  feelings,  on  the  happiness  or  misery  they 
brought.  If  it  was  a  bright  sunny  forenoon  in  May, 
and  the  eggs  had  been  well  boiled  at  breakfast,  the 
striking  of  the  clock — sny  twelve — stirred  a  thousand 
images  of  pleasure.  The  boys  just  leaping  out  of 
school,  the  laborer  released  from  his  toil,  the  belle 
stepping  forth  for  a  promenade,  the  patient  in  the  in 
terval  of  his  fever — all  came  up  in  my  imagination, 
and  their  several  feelings,  with  all  the  heightening  of 
imagination,  becnme  my  own.  If  the  weather  was 
hot,  on  the  contrary,  or  the  professor  had  bored  me 
at  lecture,  or  if  my  claret  was  pricked  at  dinner,  I 
Buffered  the  miseries  of  an  hospital.  There  goes  the 
clock — say  four!  Some  poor  fellow  now,  at  this  very 
moment,  is  baring  his  limb  to  the  surgeon — the  after 
noon  is  at  the  hottest,  and  the  sick  are  getting  restless 
and  weary — some  hectic  consumptive,  fallen,  per 
haps,  into  a  chance  sleep,  is  waked,  by  the  trouble 
some  punctuality  of  his  nurse,  to  take  his  potion — it 
is  the  hour  the  dying  man  is  told  he  can  not  survive. 
Every  misery  imaginable  under  the  sun  rose  in  phan 
toms  around  me,  and  I  suffered  and  groaned  under 
the  concentrated  horrors  of  them  all.  It  serves  to 
show  how  the  mind  is  its  own  slave  or  its  own  master. 
And  so,  having  arrived  at  the  moral,  with  your  leave, 
dear  reader,  for  it  is  "  past  one,"  I  will  to  bed.  Good 
night! 


SNOW. — The  black,  unsightly  pavement,  every 
stone  of  which  you  know  with  as  cursed  a  particular 
ity  as  the  chinks  in  the  back  of  your  fireplace,  cov 
ered  with  white.  The  heavy-wheeled  carts,  which 
the  day  before  shook  the  ground  under  you,  and  split 
your  ears  with  their  merciless  noise,  replaced  by  sleds 
with  musical  bells,  driven  swiftly  and  skilfully  past. 
The  smoked  houses,  with  their  provokingly-regular 
windows  and  mean  doors,  that  have  disturbed  the  sen 
timent  of  grace  in  your  fancy  every  walk  you  have 
taken  for  months,  all  laden,  and  tipped,  and  frosted 
into  lines  and  surfaces  of  beauty  ;  faultless  icicles 
hanging  from  the  eaves  of  the  shutters,  and  sparkling 
crystals  of  snow  edging  every  projecting  stone  — 
magic  could  not  exceed  it!  If  the  horn  of  Astol- 
pho  had  been  blown  from  the  cupola  of  the  state- 
house,  and  the  whole  city  had  run  mad,  things  could 
not  have  looked  more  strangely  new  and  delightful. 


And  the  sleighing — other  people  like  it,  and  for  their 
sake  I  blessed  Piovidence  for  another  item.  I  like  it 
myself — for  the  first  mile.  But  with  the  loss  of  sen 
sation  in  our  feet  and  hands,  I  have  a  trick  of  grow 
ing  very  unhappy.  I  am  content,  after  one  ride,  with 
seeing  a  sleigh  through  a  parlor-window. 

Eight  o'clock — how  merrily  the  sleigh-bells  ring 
to-night!  One  comes  into  hearing  as  another  is  lost, 
and  the  loud,  laughing,  and  merry  voices  of  the  gay 
riders  come  up  to  my  retired  room  in  the  veriest  con 
trast  to  my  own  quiet  occupation.  How  more  than 
solitude  it  separates  one  from  humanity,  to  live  in  the 
midst  of  the  gay  world  and  take  no  part  in  its  enjoy 
ments  !  An  eremite  in  the  crowd  is  the  only  con 
tented  solitary.  In  the  midst  of  the  heaviest  sadness 
the  heart  feels  in  this  wretched  world,  the  form  of 
distant  pleasure  is  beautiful.  We  must  live  near  that 
treacherous  dame  to  know  how  sorrows  lurk  in  her 
shadow.  Break  down  the  imagination  as  you  will,  and 
bind  it  by  the  most  relentless  memories  to  your  sick 
heart,  it  will  steal  away  to  scenes  you  had  thought 
forgotten,  and  come  back  fired  with  their  false  beau 
ty,  to  tempt  you  to  try  their  winning  flatteries  once 
more.  It  is  only  by  knowing  that  you  can  call  gay- 
ety  at  any  moment  to  your  side,  that  you  can  quite 
forget  it  ;  and  the  studious  tenant  of  a  garret,  to 
whose  solitude  the  mingled  murmur  of  a  city  comes 
constantly  up — who  can  abandon  his  books  whenever 
the  fancy  takes  him,  for  the  crowd,  and  enter  and 
throng  on  with  it  after  its  fleeting  lure — is  the  only 
man  who,  with  youtli  and  the  common  gifts  of  Provi 
dence,  can  heartily  despise  it. 

And  he — if  contrast  is  (as  who  will  deny  that  has 
followed  after  the  impossible  spirit  of  contentment,  till 
hope  is  dead  within  him) — if  contrast  is,  I  say,  the 
only  bliss  in  life — then  does  he,  the  scholar  in  the 
crowd,  live  with  a  most  excellent  wisdom.  He  is 
roused  from  communion  with  a  spirit  whose  immor 
tal  greatness  has  outlived  twenty  generations,  by  the 
passing  mirth  of  a  fool  whose  best  deed  will  not  live 
in  the  world's  memory  an  hour.  He  sits  and  pores 
upon  an  eternal  truth,  or  fires  his  fancy  with  heavenly 
poetry,  or  winds  about  him  the  enchantments  of  truth- 
woven  fiction,  or  searches  the  depths  of  his  own  suffi 
cient  heart  for  the  sublime  wisdom  of  human  nature, 
and  from  the  very  midst  he  is  plucked  back  to  this 
every-day  world,  and  compelled  to  the  use  of  faculties 
in  which  a  brute  animal  equals  or  surpasses  him! 
One  moment  following  the  employment  of  an  angel, 
the  next  contending  with  meanness  and  cunning  for 
his  daily  bread — now  kindled  to  rapture  with  some 
new  form  of  beauty,  and  now  disgusted  to  loathing 
with  some  new-developed  and  unredeemable  baseness 
in  his  fellow-men.  What  contrast  is  there  like  this  ? 
Who  knows  so  well  as  a  scholar  the  true  sweetness 
of  surprise  ?  the  delightful  and  only  spice  of  this  oth 
erwise  contemptible  life — novel  sensation  1 


CHANGE. — How  natural  it  is,  like  the  host  in  the 
rhyme,  to 

"  Welcome  the  coming,  speed  the  parting  guest !" 

How  true  a  similitude  it  is  of  every  change,  not  only 
of  time  and  season,  but  of  feeling  and  fancy.  I  have 
just  walked  from  the  window  where  I  stood  looking 
upon  the  two  elms  that  have  refreshed  my  eye  with 
their  lively  verdure  the  summer  long,  and  the  adven 
turous  vine,  overtopping  our  neighbor's  chimneys,  that 
was  covered  but  a  week  ago  with  masses  of  splendid 
crimson  and  scarlet,  and  with  the  irresistible  regret  I  feel 
always  at  the  decay  of  nature  powerful  within  me,  I  have 
seated  myself  at  the  fire,  with  a  gladness  in  the  sup 
planting  pleasures  of  winter,  that  brings  with  it,  not 
only  a  consolation  for  the  loss,  but  an  immediate  for- 


220 


EPHEMERA. 


getfulness  of  the  past.  "  Nothing,"  says  Goethe,  "  is 
more  delightful  than  to  feel  a  new  passion  rising  when 
the  flame  that  burned  before  is  not  quite  extin 
guished,  as,  when  the  sun  sets,  we  turn  with  pleasure 
to  the  rising  moon."  Who  would  give  a  fig  for 
friendship  !  Who  would  waste  golden  hours  in  win 
ning  regard  !  Who,  with  this  lesson  before  him, 
would  do  aught  but  look  well  to  his  reckoning  with 
heaven,  and  turn  in  upon  his  own  soul  what  time  and 
talents  are  Isft  to  him  after  !  It  is  a  bitter  philosophy 
to  learn.  The  outward  world  is  my  first  love,  and, 
with  all  my  disappointment,  it  is  difficult  at  first  to 
set  up  a  new  altar  for  the  inner.  I  would  not  be  as 
cetic  ;  neither  would  I  be  so  happy  that,  like  Poly- 
crates,  I  must  throw  my  ring  into  the  sea  that  I  may 
have  something  to  lament;  but  I  believe  he  has  the 
true  savoir  vivre,  who,  believing  fully  in  the  world's 
unprofitableness,  is  willing  to  be  amused  by  it,  and 
who,  conversant  with  its  paths  and  people,  has  better 
places  and  friends  (solitude  and  his  books)  to  which 
he  can  enter  and  shut  the  door  to  be  at  peace. 


WINTER  TRIP  TO  NAHANT. — The  old  chronicler, 
Time,  strides  on  over  the  holyday  seasons  as  if  noth 
ing  could  make  him  loiter.  It  may  be  a  hallucina 
tion,  but  a  winter's  day,  spite  of  the  calendar,  is  as 
long  to  me  as  two  summer  ones.  I  do  not  feel  the 
scene  pass.  There  is  no  measure  kept  on  my  senses 
by  its  evenly-told  pulse.  The  damp  morning,  and  the 
silent  noon,  and  the  golden  twilight,  come  and  go; 
and  if  1  breathe  the  freshness  of  the  one,  and  sleep 
under  the  repose  of  the  other,  and  gaze  upon  the 
beauties  of  the  third,  why,  the  end  of  existence  seems 
answered.  Labor  is  not  in  harmony  with  it.  The 
thought  that  disturbs  a  nerve  is  an  intrusion.  Life's 
rapid  torrent  loiters  in  a  pool,  and  its  bubbles  all  break 
and  are  forgotten.  Indolence  is  the  mother  of  phi 
losophy,  and  I  "  let  the  world  slide."  I  think  with 
Rousseau,  that  "  the  best  book  does  but  little  good  to 
the  world,  and  much  harm  to  the  author."  I  remem 
ber  Colton's  three  difficulties  of  authorship,  and  Pel- 
ham's  flattering  unction  to  idleness,  ihat  "  learning  is 
the  bane  of  a  poet."  The  "  mossy  cell  of  peace," 
with  its 

"  Dreams  that  move  before  the  half-shut  eye, 
And  its  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass," 

is  a  very  Eden  ;  and,  of  all  the  flowers  of  the  field, 
that  which  has  the  most  meaning  is  your  lily  that 
"  toils  not,  neither  does  it  spin;"  and  of  all  the  herbs 
of  the  valley,  the 

"  Yellow  lysimacha  that  gives  sweet  rest," 

has  the  most  medicinal  balm.  I  am  of  the  school  of 
Epicurus.  I  no  longer  think  the  "judicious  voluptu 
ousness"  of  Godwin  dangerous.  Like  the  witch  of 
Atlas,  I  could  "  pitch  my  tent  upon  the  plain  of  the 
calm  Mere,"  and  rise  and  fall  for  ever  to  its  indolent 
swell.  And  speaking  of  idleness  (I  admire  Mochin- 
go's  talent  for  digression — "Now  thou  speakest  of 
immortality,  how  fs  thy  wife,  Andrew") — one  of  the 
pleasantest  ways  of  indulging  that  cardinal  virtue 
used  to  be  by  an  excursion  to  Nahant.  Establishing 
myself  unostentatiously  upon  the  windward  quarter 
of  the  boat,  to  avoid  the  vile  volatile  oils  from  the 
machinery — Shelley  in  one  hand,  perhaps,  or  Elia,  or 
quaint  Burton — (English  editions,  redolent  in  Russia, 
and  printed  as  with  types  of  silver)— with  one  of  these, 
I  say,  to  refresh  the  eye  and  keep  the  philosophic 
vein  breathing  freely,  the  panorama  of  the  bay  passes 
silently  before  my  eye— island  after  island,  sail  after 
sail,  like  the  conjurations  of  a  magic  mirror.  And 
this  is  all  quiet,  let  me  tell  you — all  in  harmony  with 


the  Socratic  humor — for  the  reputable  steamer  Ousa- 
tonic  (it  distresses  me  daily  that  it  was  not  spelt  with 
an  H)  is  none  of  your  fifteen-milers — none  of  your 
high-pressure  cut-waters,  driving  you  through  the 
air,  breathless  with  its  unbecoming  velocity,  and  with 
the  fear  of  the  boiler  before  your  eyes — but  with  a 
dignified  moderation,  consistent  with  a  rational  doubt 
of  the  integrity  of  a  copper-kettle,  and  a  natural  ab 
horrence  of  hot  water,  she  glides  safely  and  softly 
over  her  half-dozen  miles  an  hour,  and  lands  you, 
cool  and  good-humored,  upon  the  rocky  peninsula, 
for  a  consideration  too  trifling  to  be  mentioned  in  a 
well-bred  period.  And  then  if  the  fates  will  me  an 
agreeable  companion  (I  wish  we  had  time  to  describe 
my  beau-ideal),  how  delightful,  as  Apple  island  is 
neared,  with  its  sweep  of  green  banks  and  its  magnifi 
cent  elms — every  foot  of  its  tiny  territory  green  and 
beautiful — how  delightful  to  speculate  upon  the  char 
acter  of  its  eccentric  occupant,  and  repeat  the  thou 
sand  stories  told  of  him,  and  peer  about  his  solitary 
cottage  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  erect  figure,  and 
draw  fanciful  portraits  of  his  daughter,  who,  the  world 
says,  for  the  sixteen  years  of  her  sweet  life,  has  had 
only  the  range  of  those  limited  lawns,  which  she  may 
ramble  over  in  an  hour — and,  as  the  boat  glides  by,  to 
watch  the  fairy  isle  sleeping,  if  the  bay  is  calm,  with 
its  definite  shadow,  and  looking  like  a  sphere,  floating 
past  in  the  air,  covered  with  luxuriant  verdure.  It  is 
but  a  brief  twelve  miles  from  Boston  to  Nahant,  and 
the  last  four  stretch  out  beyond  the  chain  of  islands, 
upon  the  open  sea.  To  a  city-bred  eye  and  fancy 
there  is  a  refreshing  novelty,  added  to  the  expanding 
influence  of  so  broad  a  scene,  which  has  in  it  a  vigor 
ous  and  delightful  stimulus.  The  mind  gets  out  of 
its  old  track.  The  bnck-ground  of  the  mental  picture 
is  changed,  and  it  affects  the  whole.  The  illimitable 
sky  and  water  draw  out  the  imagination  to  its  remo 
test  link,  and  the  far  apart  and  shining  sails,  each  cov 
ering  its  little  and  peculiar  world,  and  sped  with  the 
thousand  hopes  of  those  for  whom  its  lonely  adven 
turers  are  tracking  the  uncertain  sea,  win  on  the  mind 
to  follow  them  upon  their  perilous  way,  and  breathe 
for  them  the  "  God  speed"  of  unconscious  interest. 
It  is  a  beautiful  and  magic  sight  to  see  them  gliding 
past  each  other  on  their  different  courses,  impelled 
by  the  same  invisible  wind,  now  dark  with  shadow, 
and  now  turning  full  to  the  light,  and  specking  the 
horizon,  like  the  white  birds  careering  along  the  edge 
of  its  definite  line.  The  sea  grows  upon  you  as  you 
see  it  more.  The  disappointment  felt  at  first  in  its 
extent  wears  away,  as  you  remember  its  vast  stretch 
under  those  blue  depths,  which  your  eye  can  not 
search  ;  and  the  waste  of  its  "  untrampled  floor,"  and 
the  different  depths  at  which  the  different  spoils  of 
the  sunk  ships  have  balanced  and  hung,  and  the  innu 
merable  tribes  who  range  their  own  various  regions 
of  pressure,  from  the  darkest  caverns  to  the  thin  and 
lighted  chambers  at  its  surface,  all  come  step  by  step 
upon  the  mind,  and  crowd  it  with  a  world  of  wonder 
ing  speculation.  It  is  delightful  to  sit  with  the 
agreeable  companion  spoken  of,  and  with  the  green 
waves  heaving  about  us,  to  indulge  in  these  wayward 
and  unprofitable  imaginations.  It  is  a  splendid  range 
for  a  wild-winged  thought — that  measureless  sea  !  I 
love  to  talk  of  its  strange  mysteries.  I  love  to  go 
down  with  one  who  will  not  check  me  with  cold  ob 
jections,  and  number  and  shape  out  its  inhabitants. 
With  such  a  fellow-wanderer,  I  have  found  palaces 
that  surpass  Aladdin's,  and  beings  to  whom  the  upper 
and  uncondensed  water  has  a  suffocating  thinness. 
But  these  are  idle  speculations  to  the  world's  eye, 
gentle  reader,  and  should  be  reserved  for  your  private 
ear.  We  will  go,  some  summer  afternoon,  and  talk 
them  over  together  on  the  deck  of  that  same  delib 
erate  steamer.  You  have  no  idea  how  many  things 
are  untold  of  the  deep  sea — how  many  dreams  of  it 


EPHEMERA. 


221 


an  idler  man  than  yourself  will  weave  out  of  its  green 
depths  in  his  after-dinner  musings. 


SIR   PHILIP    SIDNEY.— "  Gentle   Sir  Philip   Sid 
ney,"  says  Tom  Nash,  in  two  sweetly-flowing  senten 
ces  of  his  Pierce  Penniless,  "  thou  knewest  what  be 
longed  to  a  scholar;  thou  knewest  what  pains,  what 
toil,  what  travel,  conduct  to  perfection  ;  well  couldst  | 
thou   give   every  virtue  his  encouragement,  every  art  j 
his  due,  every  writer  his  desert,  'cause  none  more  i 
virtuous,  witty,  or  learned,  than   thyself.     But  thou 
art  dead  in  thy  grave,  and  hast  left  too  few  successors 
of  thy  glory ;  too  few  to  cherish  the  sons  of  the  mu 
ses,  or  water  those   budding  hopes  with  their  plenty, 
which  thy  bounty  erst  planted." — "He  was  not  only  j 
of  an  excellent  wit,"  relates,  in  his  own  confused  and  i 
rambling  way,  the  eminent  antiquarian  John  Aubrey,  j 
who  was  born  not  more  than  forty  years  after  Sidney's 
decease,  "but  extremely  beautiful;  he  much  resembled  I 
his  sister,  but  his  hair  was  not  red,  but  a  little  incli 
ning,  viz.,  a  dark  amber  color.     If  I  were  to  find  fault 
in   it,  methinks  it  is  not  masculine  enough;  yet  he  j 
was  a  person  of  great  courage."*     "  He  was,  if  ever  ; 
there  was  one,"  says  another  writer,  "  a  gentleman  j 
finished  and  complete,  in  whom  mildness  was  associa 
ted  with  courage,  erudition   mollified  by  refinement, 
and  courtliness  dignified  by  truth.     England  will  ever 
place  him  among  the  noblest  of  her  sons;  and  the 
light  of  chivalry,  which  was  his  guide  and  beacon, 
will  ever  lend  its  radiance  to  illume  his  memory.    He 
died  at  the  age  of  thirty-two,  and  if  the  lives  of  Mil 
ton  and  Dryden  had  not  been  prolonged  beyond  that 
period,  where  would  have  been  their  renown?" 

Glorious  Sidney  !     It  stirs  the  blood  warmly  about 
one's  heart  to  think  of  him.     It  is  somewhat  late  in  j 
the  day,  I  know,  to   eulogize  him  ;    but  his  bright  | 
honor  and  his  beautiful  career,  are  among  my  earliest  I 
historical   recollections,   and    I   have  remembered   it  j 
since  with  the  passionate  interest  that  in  every  one's 
mind  burns  in,  with  an  enamel  of  love,  some  one  of 
the  bright  images  presented  in  boyhood.     You  have 
some  such  idol  of  fancy,  I  dare  answer  for  it,  reader 
of  mine — some  young  (for  young  he  must  be,  or  af 
fection  stiffens  into  respect) — some  young  and  famous, 
and  withal  courtly,  and   perhaps  "  beautiful,"  winner  I 
of  a  name.     It  is  Gaston  de  Foix,  perhaps,  with  his  , 
fierce  thirst  for  glory  (the  pictures  of  him  by  the  old  , 
masters  are  models  of  manly  beauty),  or  the  fourth  i 
Henry,  with  his  temper  of  romance  (the  handsomest  ' 
man  in  his  kingdom),  or  (if  you  loved  your  classics)  i 
Alcibiades  (you  forget,  of  course,  that  he  was  a  volup-  ! 
tuary),  or  the  generous  Antony  ("  Shakspere's"  rather  ! 
than    the   historian's),   or    Hylas,   or    Endymion,   or 
Phaeton  (he  cleared  the  first  few  planets  in  fine  style), 
or  some  other  fonnosus  puer  adored  and  sung  by  the 
glorious  old  bards  upon  the  shores  of  Tiber  or  Ilissus. 
He  rises  to  your  mind  as  I  mention  it — a  figure  of 
graceful  youth,  the  slight  and  elegant  proportions  of 
the   boy,  just  ripening  into  the  muscular  fulness  of 
manhood — his  neck   rising  with  a  free  majesty  from  \ 
his  shoulders,  and  his  eye  kindling  with  some  passing  ' 
thought  of  glory,  answered  by  the  proud  and  deliber-  ! 
ate  curving  of  his  lip,  and  the  animated  expansion  of  I 
his  nostril.     You  see  him  with  your  mind's  eye — the 
classic  model  and  classic  dream  of  your  scholar-days,  j 
when  the  sound  of  the  leaves  in  the  tree  over  you  had 
the  swell   of  an   hexameter  in  your   ear,   and   your 
thoughts  came  in  Latin,  and  a  line  of  Homer  sprung  ! 
to  your  lips  in  your  involuntary  soliloquies.     Ah  !  | 
those  were  days  for  dreams  !     Who  would   not  let  ' 
slip  the  straining  grasp  of  manhood — be  it  at  wealth, 
fame,  power — anything   for  which  he  is  flinging  his 
youth  and  gladness,  and  all  his  best  treasures,  behind  ! 
•  Very  much  the  description  of  Shelley. 


him — to  be  once  more  the  careless  dreamer  that  he 
was — to  lie  once  more  upon  a  hill-side,  and  forget 
everything  in  the  unquestioned  and  unshadowed  bles 
sedness  of  a  boy  ! 


DEATH-LOVE  AND  WARNING. — It  was  getting  tow 
ard  midnight  when  a  party  of  young  noblemen  came 
out  from  one  of  the  clubs  of  St.  James  street.  The 
servant  of  each,  as  he  stepped  upon  the  pavement, 
threw  up  the  wooden  apron  of  the  cabriolet,  and 
sprung  to  the  head  of  the  horse;  but,  as  to  the  des 
tination'  of  the  equipages  for  the  evening,  there  seem 
ed  to  be  some  dissensions  among  the  noble  masters. 
Between  the  line  of  coroneted  vehicles,  stood  a 
hackney-coach,  and  a  person  in  an  attitude  of  expectan 
cy  pressed  as  near  the  exhilarated  group  as  he  could 
without  exciting  immediate  attention. 

"  Which  way?"  said  he  whose  vehicle  was  nearest, 
standing  with  his  foot  on  the  step. 

"  All  together,  of  course,"  said  another.  "  Let's 
make  a  night  of  it." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  clear  and  sweet  voice  of 
the  last  out  from  the  club  ;  "  I  secede  for  one.  Go 
your  ways,  gentlemen  !" 

"Now,  what  the  deuse  is  afoot?"  said  the  fore 
most,  again  stepping  back  on  the  sidewalk.  "  Don't 
let  him  off,  Fitz!  Is  your  cab  here,  Byron,  or  will 
you  let  me  drive  you?  By  Jove,  you  sha'n't  leavens!" 

"But  you  shall  leave  me,  and  so  you  are  not  for 
sworn,  my  friend !  In  plain  phrase,  I  won't  go  with 
you  !  And  I  don't  know  where  I  shall  go  ;  so  spare 
your  curiosity  the  trouble  of  asking.  I  have  a  presenti 
ment  that  I  am  wanted — by  devil  or  angel — 

'  I  see  a  hand  you  can  not  see.'  " 

"  And  a  very  pretty  hand  it  is,  I  dare  swear,"  said 
the  former  speaker,  jumping  into  his  cab  and  starting 
off  with  a  spring  of  his  blood  horse,  followed  by  all 
the  vehicles  at  the  club-door,  save  one. 

Byron  stood  looking  after  them  a  moment,  and 
raised  his  hat  and  pressed  his  hand  hard  on  his  fore 
head.  The  unknown  person  who  had  been  lurking 
near,  seemed  willing  to  leave  him  for  a  moment  to  his 
thoughts,  or  was  embarrassed  at  approaching  a  stran 
ger.  As  Byron  turned  with  his  halting  step  to  descend 
the  steps,  however,  he  came  suddenly  to  his  side. 

"My  lord  !"  he  said,  and  was  silent,  as  if  waiting 
for  permission  to  go  on. 

"  Well,"  replied  Byron,  turning  to  him  without  the 
least  surprise,  and  lookingly  closely  into  his  face  by 
the  light  of  the  street-lamp. 

"  I  come  to  you  with  an  errand  which  perhaps — " 

"  A  strange  one,  I  am  sure  ;  but  I  am  prepared  for 
it — I  have  been  forewarned  of  it.  What  do  you  re 
quire  of  me  ?  for  I  am  ready  !" 

"  This  is  strange  !"  exclaimed  the  man — "  Has 
another  messenger,  then — " 

"None  except  a  spirit — for  my  heart  alone  told  me 
I  should  be  wanted  at  this  hour.  Speak  at  once." 

44  My  lord,  a  dying  girl  has  sent  for  you  !" 

44  Do  I  kno»r  her?" 

44  She  has  never  seen  you.  Will  you  come  at  once 
— and  on  the  way  I  will  explain  to  you  what  I  can  of 
this  singular  errand  ;  though,  indeed,  when  it  is  told 
you,  you  know  all  that  I  comprehend."  • 

They  were  at  the  door  of  the  hackney-coach,  and 
Byron  entered  it  without  further  remark. 

<4  Back  again!"  said  the  stranger,  as  the  coachman 
closed  the  door,  "  and  drive  for  dear  life,  for  we  shall 
scarce  be  in  time,  I  fear !" 

The  heavy  tongue  of  St.  Paul's  church  struck 
twelve  as  the  rolling  vehicle  hurried  on  through  the 
now  lonely  street,  and  though  so  far  from  the  place 
whence  they  started,  neither  of  the  two  occupants 


222 


EPHEMERA. 


had  spoken.  Byron  sat  with  bare  head  and  folded 
arms  in  the  corner  of  the  coach  ;  and  the  stranger, 
with  his  hat  crowded  over  his  eyes,  seemed  repressing 
some  violet  emotion ;  and  it  was  only  when  they 
stopped  before  a  low  door  in  a  street  close  upon  the 
river,  that  the  latter  found  utterance. 

"  Is  she  alive  ?"  he  hurriedly  asked  of  a  woman 
who  came  out  at  the  sound  of  the  carriage-wheels. 

"  She  was — a  moment  since — but  be  quick  !" 

Byron  followed  quickly  on  the  heels  of  his  com 
panion,  and  passing  through  a  dimly  lighted  entry  to 
the  door  of  a  back-room,  they  entered.  A  lamp, 
shaded  by  a  curtain  of  spotless  purity,  threw  a  faint 
light  upon  a  bed,  upon  which  lay  a  girl,  watched  by 
a  physician  and  a  nurse.  The  physician  had  just  re 
moved  a  small  mirror  from  her  lips,  and  holding  it  to 
the  light,  he  whispered  that  she  still  breathed.  As 
Byron  passed  the  edge  of  the  curtain,  however,  the 
dying  girl  moved  the  fingers  of  the  hand  lying  on  the 
coverlet,  and  slowly  opened  on  him  her  languid  eyes 
— eyes  of  inexpressible  depth  and  lustre.  No  one  had 
spoken. 

"Here  he  is,"  she  murmured.  "Raise  me,  mother, 
while  I  have  time  to  speak  to  him." 

Byron  looked  around  the  small  chamber,  trying  in 
vain  to  break  the  spell  of  awe  which  the  scene  threw 
over  him.  An  apparition  from  the  other  world  could 
not  have  checked  more  fearfully  and  completely  the 
worldly  and  scornful  under-current  of  his  nature. 
He  stood  with  his  heart  beating  almost  audibly,  and 
his  knees  trembled  beneath  him,  awaiting  what  he 
prophetically  felt  to  be  a  warning  from  the  very  gate 
of  heaven. 

Propped  with  pillows,  and  left  by  her  attendants, 
the  dying  girl  turned  her  head  toward  the  proud, 
noble  poet,  standing  by  her  bedside,  and  a  slight  blush 
overspread  her  features,  while  a  smile  of  angelic 
beauty  stole  through  her  lips.  In  that  smile  the 
face  reawakened  to  its  former  loveliness,  and  seldom 
had  he  who  now  gazed  breathlessly  upon  her,  looked 
on  such  spiritual  and  incomparable  beauty.  The 
spacious  forehead  and  noble  contour,  still  visible,  of 
the  emaciated  lips,  bespoke  genius  impressed  upon  a 
tablet  all  feminine  in  its  language  ;  and  in  the  motion 
of  her  hand,  and  even  in  the  slight  movement  of  her 
graceful  neck,  there  was  something  that  still  breathed 
of  surpassing  elegance.  It  was  the  shadowy  wreck 
of  no  ordinary  mortal  passing  away — humble  as  were 
the  surroundings,  and  strange  as  had  been  his  sum 
mons  to  her  bedside. 

"  And  this  is  Byron  ?"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  voice 
bevvilderingly  sweet  even  through  its  weakness. 
"  My  lord !  I  could  not  die  without  seeing  you — 
without  relieving  my  soul  of  a  mission  with  which  it 
has  long  been  burthened.  Come  nearer — for  I  have 
no  time  left  for  ceremony,  and  I  must  say  what  I 
have  to  say — and  die!  Beautiful,"  she  said,  "beauti 
ful  as  the  dream  of  him  which  has  so  long  haunted 
me!  the  intellect  and  the  person  of  a  spirit  of  light ! 
Pardon  me,  my  lord,  that,  at  a  moment  so  important  to  i 
yourself,  the  remembrance  of  an  earthly  feeling  has  i 
been  betrayed  into  expression." 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  the  bright  color  that  had 
shot  through  her  cheek  and  brow  faded,  and  her 
countenance  resumed  its  heavenly  serenity. 

"  I  am  near  enough  to  death,"  she  resumed — 
"near  enough  to  point  you  almost  to  heaven  from; 
where  I  am;  and  it  is  on  my  heart  like  the  one  errand  i 
of  my  life — like  the  bidding  of  God — to  implore  you 
to  prepare  for  judgment.  Oh,  my  lord!  with  your 
glorious  powers,  with  your  wondrous  gifts,  be  not  | 
lost!  Do  not,  for  the  poor  pleasures  of  a  world  like  ; 
this,  lose  an  eternity  in  which  your  great  mind  will 
outstrip  the  intelligence  of  angels.  Measure  this  i 
iiought — scan  the  worth  of  angelic  bliss  with  the  I 
intellect  which  has  ranged  so  gloriously  through  the 


universe ;  do  not,  on  this  one  momentous  subject 
of  human  interest — on  this  alone  be  not  short 
sighted  !" 

"What  shall  I  do  ?"  suddenly  burst  from  Byron's 
lips  in  a  tone  of  agony.  But  with  an  effort,  as  if 
struggling  with  a  death-pang,  he  again  drew  up  his 
form  and  resumed  the  marble  calmness  of  his  counte 
nance. 

The  dying  girl,  meantime,  seemed  to  have  lost 
herself  in  prayer.  With  her  wasted  hands  clasped 
on  her  bosom,  and  her  eyes  turned  upward,  the  slight 
motion  of  her  lips  betrayed  to  those  around  her  that 

1  she  was  pleading  at  the  throne  of  mercy.     The  physi- 

'  cian  crept  close  to  her  bedside,  but  with  his  hand  in 
his  breast,  and  his  head  bowed,  he  seemed  but  watch 
ing  for  the  moment  when  the  soul  should  take  its 

!  flight. 

She  suddenly  raised  herself  on   the  pillow.     Her 

j  long  brown  tresses  fell  over  her  shoulders,  and  a 
brightness  unnatural  and  almost  fearful  kindled  in  her 
eyes.  She  seemed  endeavoring  to  speak,  and  gazed 
steadfastly  at  Byron.  Slowly,  then,  and  tranquilly 
she  sank  back  again  upon  her  pillow,  and  as  her  hands 
fell  apart,  and  her  eyelids  dropped,  she  murmured, 
"Come  to  Heaven!"  and  the  stillness  of  death  was  in 
the  room.  The  spirit  had  fled. 


The  breaking  of  the  silver  cord  is  the  first  tone  from 
the  life-strings  of  genius,  which  is  answered  only  in 
vibrations  of  affection.  This  truth,  indeed,  is  touch- 
ingly  shadowed  forth  in  the  accompaniments  of  death. 
The  dark  colors  in  the  drapery  of  life,  are  dropped  in 
the  weaving  of  the  shroud.  The  discords  of  music 
are  rejected  in  the  melody  of  the  dirge.  The  praise 
upon  the  marble  is  the  first  tribute  written  without 
disparagement,  and  the  first  suffered  without  dissent. 
It  is  this  new  relation  of  the  public  to  a  great  name — 
this  completed  and  lucent  phase  of  a  light  in  litera 
ture — which  seems  to  make  a  posthumous  recast  of 
criticism  one  of  the  legitimate  departments  of  a  review. 
Like  the  public  feeling,  the  condition  and  powers  of 
criticism  toward  an  author's  fame,  are  essentially 
changed  by  his  death.  His  personal  character,  and 
the  events  of  his  life — the  foreground,  so  to  speak,  in 
the  picture  of  his  mind,  are,  till  this  event,  wanting 
to  the  critical  perspective;  and  when  the  hand  to  cor 
rect  is  cold,  and  the  ear  to  be  caressed  and  wounded 
is  sealed,  some  of  the  uses  of  censure,  and  all  reserve 
in  comparison  and  final  estimate,  are  done  way. 

It  is  time  for  the  reviews  to  take  up,  on  this  ground, 
the  character  and  writingsof  Hillhouse.  The  author 
of  Hadad,  the  most  finished  and  lofty  poem  of  its 
time,  should  have  been  followed,  within  a  year  after 
his  death,  by  a  new  and  reverential  appreciation,  and 
living,  as  he  did,  in  a  learned  and  literary  circle  of 
friends,  a  biography,  at  least,  was  looked  for,  out  of 
which  criticism  might  shape  a  fresh  monument  to  his 
genius.  Such  men  as  Hillhouse  are  not  common, 
even  in  these  days  of  universal  authorship.  In  ac 
complishment  of  mind  and  person,  he  was  probably 
second  to  no  man.  His  poems  show  the  first.  They 
are  fully  conceived,  nicely  balanced,  exquisitely  finish 
ed — works  for  the  highest  taste  to  relish,  and  for  the 
severest  student  in  dramatic  style  to  erect  into  a  model. 
Hadad  was  published  in  1825,  during  my  second  yearin 
college,  and  to  me  it  was  the  opening  of  a  new  heaven 
of  imagination.  The  leading  characters  possessed  me 
for  months,  and  the  bright,  clear,  harmonious  lan 
guage  was,  for  a  long  time,  constantly  in  my  ears. 
The  author  was  pointed  out  to  me,  soon  after,  and 
for  once,  I  saw  a  poet  whose  mind  was  well  imaged 
in  his  person.  In  no  part  of  the  world  have  I  seen  a 
man  of  more  distinguished  mien,  or  of  a  more  inborn 
dignity  and  elegance  of  address.  His  person  was  very 


EPHEMERA. 


223 


finely  proportioned,  his  carriage  chivalric  and  high 
bred,  and  his  countenance  purely  and  brightly  intel 
lectual.  Add  to  this  a  sweet  voice,  a  stamp  of  high 
courtesy  on  everything  he  uttered,  and  singular  sim 
plicity  and  taste  in  dress,  and  you  have  trie  portrait 
of  one  who.  in  other  days,  would  have  been  the  mir 
ror  of  chivalry,  and  the  flower  of  nobles  and  trou- 
bndors.  Hillhousewas  no  less  distinguished  in  oratory. 
There  was  still  remembered,  at  the  time  of  the  pub 
lication  of  Hadad,  an  oration  pronounced  by  him  at 
the  taking  of  his  second  degree — an  oration  upon 
"the  Education  of  a  Poet,"  gloriously  written,  and 
most  eloquently  delivered.  His  poem  of  "the  Judge 
ment,"  delivered  before  the  "  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Socie 
ty,"  added  in  the  same  way  to  his  renown,  as  did  a 
subsequent  noble  effort  of  eloquence,  to  which  I  listen 
ed  myself,  with  irresistible  enchantment. 

Hillhouse  had  fallen  upon  days  of  thrift,  and  many 
years  of  his  life  which  he  should  have  passed  either 
in  his  study,  or  in  the  councils  of  the  nation,  were 
enslaved  to  the  drudgery  of  business.  His  constitu 
tion  seemed  to  promise  him  a  vigorous  manhood, 
however,  and  an  old  age  of  undiminished  fire,  and 
when  he  left  his  mercantile  pursuits,  and  retired  to 
the  beautiful  and  poetic  home  of  "Sachem's  Wood," 
his  friends  looked  upon  it  as  the  commencement  of  a 
ripe  and  long  enduring  career  of  literature.  In  har 
mony  with  such  a  life  were  all  his  surroundings — 
scenery,  society,  domestic  refinement,  and  companion 
ship — and  never  looked  promise  fairer  for  the  realiza 
tion  of  a  dream  of  glory.  That  he  had  laid  out  some 
thing  of  such  a  field  in  the  future,  I  chance  to  know, 
for,  though  my  acquaintance  with  him  was  slight,  he 
confided  to  me  in  a  casual  conversation,  the  plan  of  a 
series  of  dramas,  different  from  all  he  had  attempted, 
upon  which  he  designed  to  work  with  the  first  mood 
and  leisure  he  could  command.  And  with  his  high 
scholarship,  knowledge  of  life,  taste  and  genius,  what 
might  not  have  been  expected  from  its  fulfilment  ? 
But  his  hand  is  cold,  and  his  lips  still,  and  his  light, 
just  risinz  to  its  meridian,  is  lost  now  to  the  world. 
Love  and  honor  to  the  memory  of  such  a  man. 


BACHELOR  BOB'S  DISCOVERIES. 

"  Sad  were  the  lays  of  merry  days, 
And  sweet  the  songs  of  sadness." 

"  Come  !"  said  Bachelor  Bob,  as  he  hitched  his 
chair  closer  to  the  table,  "  quite  alone,  half  past 
twelve,  and  two  tumblers  of  toddy  for  heart-openers, 
what  say  you  to  a  little  friendly  inquisition  into  your 
mortal  felicity  ?  You  were  the  gayest  man  of  my 
acquaintance  ten  years  ago  ;  you  are  the  gravest 
now  !  Yet  you  swear  by  your  Lares  and  Peaates, 
that  (up  to  the  lips  as  you  are  in  care  and  trouble) 
you  never  were  so  happy  as  in  these  latter  days.  Do 
you  ssvear  this  to  me  from  a  '  way  you  have'  of  hang 
ing  out  trap  for  the  world,  or  are  you  under  a  little  in 
nocent  delusion  ?" 

Bob's  hobby  is  the  theory  of  happiness.  Riches 
and  poverty,  matrimony  and  celibacy,  youth  and  age, 
are  subjects  of  contemplation  to  Bob,  solely  with  ref 
erence  to  their  comparative  capacity  for  bliss.  He 
speculates  and  talks  about  little  else,  indeed,  and  his 
intercourse  with  his  friends  seems  to  have  no  other 
end  or  aim  than  to  collect  evidence  as  to  their  happi 
ness  and  its  causes.  On  this  occasion  he  was  addres 
sing  a  friend  of  mine,  Smith,  who  had  been  a  gay  man 
in  his  youth  (a  merry  man,  truth  to  say,  for  he  was 
in  a  perpetual  breeze  of  high  spirits),  but  who  had 
married,  and  fallen  behindhand  in  his  worldly  affairs, 
and  so  grown  careworn  and  thoughtful.  Smith  was 
rather  a  poet  in  a  quiet  way,  though  he  only  used  po 
etry  as  a  sort  of  longer  plummet  when  his  heart  got 


off  soundings.     I  am  indebted  to  Bob  for  the  speci 
mens  of  his  verse-making  which  I  am  about  to  give, 
|  as  well  as  for  the  conversation  which  brought  them 
I  to  light. 

"  Why,"  said  Smith,  "you  have  stated  a  dilemma 

j  with  two  such  inevitable  horns  that  argument  would 

|  scarcely  help  me  out  of  it.     Let  me  see,  what  proof 

i  can  I  give  you  that  I  am  a  happier  man  than  I  used 

to  be,  spite  of  my  chapfallen  visage  ?" 

Smith  mused  a  moment,  and  reaching  over  to  a 
desk  near  his  elbow,  drew  from  its  private  drawer  a 
book  with  locked  covers.  It  was  a  well-filled  manu 
script  volume,  and  seemed  a  collection  of  prose  and 
verse  intermixed.  The  last  page  was  still  covered 
!  with  blotting-paper,  and  seemed  recently  written. 

"I  am  no  poet,"  said  Smith,  coloring  slightly, 
"  but  it  has  been  a  habit  of  mine,  ever  since  my  cal 
low  days,  to  record  in  verse  all  feelings  that  were  too 
warm  for  prose  ;  sometimes  in  the  fashion  of  a  solilo 
quy  (scripta  vcrba),  sometimes  in  verses  to  the  dame 
or  damsel  to  whom  I  was  indebted  for  my  ignition. 
Let  me  see,  Bob!  we  met  in  Florence,  I  think  ?" 
"  For  the  first  time  abroad,  yes  !" 
"  Well,  perhaps  that  was  my  gayest  time;  certainly 
I  do  not  remember  to  have  been  anywhere  more  gay 
or  reckless.  Florence,  1832,  um — here  are  some  lines 
written  that  summer  :  do  you  remember  the  beautiful 
Irish  widow  you  saw  at  one  of  the  casino  balls  ?  ad 
dressed  to  her,  flirt  that  she  was  !  But  she  began  all 
her  flirtations  with  talking  of  her  sorrows,  and,  if  she 
tried  you  on,  at  all — " 

"  She  didn't  !"  interrupted  Bob. 
"Well,  if  she  had  you  would  have  been  humbug- 
j  ged  with  her  tender  melancholy,  as  I  was.     Here  are 
j  the  verses,  and  if  ever  I  'turned  out  my  lining  to  the 
moon,'  they  are  true  to  my  inner  soul  in  those  days 
I  of  frolic.     Read  these,  and  then  turn  to  the  last  page 
!  and  you  will  find  as  true  a  daguerreotype  of  the  inner 
light  of  my  moping  days,  written  only  yesterday." 

'Tis  late— San  Marc  is  beating  three 

As  I  look  forth  upon  the  night ; 
The  stars  are  shining  tranquilly, 

And  heaven  is  full  of  silver  light  ; 
The  air  blows  freshly  on  my  brow- 
Yet  why  should  I  be  waking  now  ! 

I've  listened,  lady,  to  thy  tone, 

Till  in  my  ear  it  will  not  die  ; 
I've  felt  for  sorrows  not  my  own, 

Till  now  I  can  not  put  them  by  ; 
And  those  sad  words  and  thoughts  of  thine 
Have  breathed  their  sadness  into  mine. 

'Tis  long — though  reckoned  not  by  years — 

Since,  with  affections  chilled  and  shocked, 
I  dried  a  boy's  impassioned  tears, 

And  from  the  world  my  feelings  locked— 
The  work  of  but  one  bitter  day, 

In  which  were  crowded  years  of  pain  ; 

And  then  I  was  as  gay,  again, 
And  thought  that  I  should  be  for  aye  ! 
The  world  lay  open  wide  and  bright, 

And  I  became  its  lightest  minion, 
And  flew  the  wording's  giddy  height 

With  reckless  and  impetuous  pinion — 
Life's  tide,  with  me,  had  turned  from  shore 
Ere  yet  my  summers  told  a  score. 

And  years  have  passed,  and  I  have  seemed 

Happy  to  every  eye  but  thine, 
And  they  whom  most  I  loved  have  deemed 

There  was  no  lighter  heart  than  mine  ; 
And,  save  when  some  wild  passion-tone 

Of  music  reached  the  sleeping  nerve, 
Or  when  in  illness  and  alone 

My  spirit  from  its  bent  would  swerve, 
My  heart  was  light,  my  thoughts  u-ere  free, 
I  t«M  the  thing  I  seemed  to  be. 

I  came  to  this  bright  land,  and  here, 
Where  I  had  thought  to  nerve  my  wings 

To  soar  to  a  more  lofty  sphere, 

And  train  myself  for  sterner  things— 

The  land  where  I  had  thought  to  find 
No  spell  but  beauty  breathed  in  stone — 


224 


EPHEMERA. 


To  learn  idolatries  of  mind, 

And  leave  the  heart  to  slumber  on — 
Here  find  I  one  whose  voice  awakes 

The  sad,  dumb  angel  of  my  breast, 
And,  as  the  long,  long  silence  breaks 

Of  a  strong  inward  lip  suppressed, 
It  seems  to  me  as  if  a  madness 

Had  been  upon  my  brain  alway — 

As  if  'twere  phrensy  to  be  gay, 
And  life  were  only  sweet  in  sadness  ! 
Words  from  my  lips  to-night  have  come 
That  have  for  years  been  sealed  and  dumb. 

It  was  but  yesterday  we  met, 

We  part  to-morrow.     I  would  fain 
With  thy  departing  voice  forget 

Its  low,  deep  tone,  and  seal  again 
My  feelings  from  the  light  of  day, 
To  be  to-morrow  only  gay  ! 

But  days  will  pass,  and  nights  will  creep, 
And  I  shall  hear  that  voice  of  sadness 

With  dreams,  as  now,  untouched  by  sleep, 
And  spirits  out  of  tune  with  gladness  ; 
And  time  must  wear,  and  fame  spur  on  ; 
Before  that  victory  is  re-won  ! 

And  so  farewell !     I  would  not  be 

Forgotten  by  the  only  heart 
To  which  my  own  breathes  calm  and  free, 

And  let  us  not  as  strangers  part ! 
And  we  shall  meet  again,  perhaps, 

More  gayly  than  we're  parting  now; 
For  time  has,  in  its  briefest  lapse, 

A  something  which  clears  up  the  brow, 
And  makes  the  spirits  calm  and  bright — 
And  now  to  my  sad  dreams  !  Good  night ! 

"  What  a  precious  hypocrite  you  were  for  the  mer 
riest  dog  in  Florence  !"  exclaimed  Bob,  as  he  laid  the 
book  open  on  its  back,  after  reading  these  lines. 
"  You  feel  that  way  !  credat  Judteus  .'  "But  there  are 
some  other  poetical  lies  here — what  do  you  mean  by 
'  we  met  but  yesterday,  and  we  part  to-morrow,' 
when  I  know  you  dangled  after  that  widow  a  whole 
season  at  the  baths  ?" 

"  Why,"  said  Smith,  with  one  of  his  old  laughs, 
"  there  was  a  supplement  to  such  an  outpouring,  of 
course.  The  reply  to  my  verses  was  an  invitation  to 
join  their  party  the  next  morning  in  a  pilgrimage  to 
Vallambrosa,  and  once  attached  to  that  lady's  suite — 
va  pour  toujours  !  or  as  long  as  she  chose  to  keep  you. 
Turn  to  the  next  page.  Before  coming  to  the  verses 
of  my  more  sober  days,  you  may  like  to  read  one 
more  flourish  like  the  last.  Those  were  addressed  to 
the  same  belle  dame,  and  under  a  continuance  of  the 
same  hallucination." 

Bob  gravely  read  : — 

My  heart's  a  heavy  one  to-night, 

Dear  Mary,  thinking  upon  thee — 
I  know  not  if  my  brain  is  right, 

But  everything  looks  dark  to  me  ! 
I  parted  from  thy  side  but  now, 

I  listened  to  thy  mournful  tone, 
I  gazed  by  starlight  on  thy  brow, 

And  we  were  there  unseen — alone— 
Yet  proud  as  I  should  be,  and  blest, 
I  can  not  set  my  heart  at  rest ! 

Thou  lov'st  me.    Thanks,  oh  God,  for  this ! 

If  I  should  never  sleep  again — • 
If  hope  is  all  a  mock  of  bliss — 

I  shall  not  now  have  lived  in  vain  ! 
I  care  not  that  my  eyes  are  aching 

With  this  dull  fever  in  my  lids — 
I  care  not  that  my  heart  is  breaking 

For  happiness  that  Fate  forbids— 
The  one  sweet  word  that  thou  hast  spoken, 

The  one  sweet  look  I  met  and  blessed, 


Would  cheer  me  if  my  heart  were  broken— 

Would  put  my  wildest  thoughts  to  rest ! 
I  know  that  I  have  pressed  thy  fingers 

Upon  my  warm  lips  unforbid — 
I  know  that  in  thy  memory  lingers 

A  thought  of  me,  like  treasure  hid — 
Though  to  my  breast  I  may  not  press  thee, 

Though  I  may  never  call  thee  mine, 
I  know — and,  God,  I  therefore  bless  thee  ! — 

No  other  fills  that  heart  of  thine  ! 
And  this  shall  light  my  shadowed  track  ! 
I  take  my  words  of  sadness  back  ! 

"What  had  that  flirting  widow  to  do  with  the  gen 
tle  name  of  Mary  ?"  exclaimed  Bob,  after  laughing 
very  heartily  at  the  point  blank  take-in  confessed  in 
these  very  solemn  verses.  "Enough  of  love-melan 
choly,  however,  my  dear  Smith  !  Let's  have  a  look 
now  *t  the  poetical  side  of  care  and  trouble.  What 
do  you  call  it?" — 

THE  INVOLUNTARY  PRAYER  OF  HAPPINESS. 

I  have  enough,  oh  God  !     My  heart,  to-night, 
Runs  over  with  the  fulness  of  content ; 
As  I  look  out  on  the  fragrant  stars, 
And  from  the  beauty  of  the  night  take  in 
My  priceless  portion— yet  myself  no  more 
Than  in  the  universe  a  grain  of  sand — 
I  feel  His  glory  who  could  make  a  -world, 
Yet,  in  the  lost  depths  of  the  wilderness 
Leave  not  a  flower  imperfect ! 

Rich,  though  poor  ! 

My  low-roofed  cottage  is,  this  hour,  a  heaven  ! 
Music  is  in  it— and  the  song  she  sings, 
That  sweet-voiced  wife  of  mine,  arrests  the  ear 
Of  my  young  child,  awake  upon  her  knee  ; 
And,  with  his  calm  eye  on  his  master's  face, 
My  noble  hound  lies  couchant ;  and  all  here — 
All  in  this  little  home,  yet  boundless  heaven — 
Are,  in  such  love  as  I  have  power  to  give, 
Blessed  to  overflowing ! 

Thou,  who  look'st 

Upon  my  brimming  heart  this  tranquil  eve, 
Knowest  its  fulness,  as  thou  dost  the  dew 
Sent  to  the  hidden  violet  by  Thee  ! 
And,  as  that  flower  from  its  unseen  abode 
Sends  its  sweet  breath  up  duly  to  the  sky, 
Changing  its  gift  to  incense— so,  oh  God  ! 
May  the  sweet  drops  that  to  my  humble  cup 
Find  their  far  way  from  Heaven,  send  back,  in  prayer, 
Fragrance  at  thy  throne  welcome  ! 

Bob  paused  a  moment  after  reading  these  lines. 

"  They  seem  in  earnest,"  he  said,  "  and  I  will 
sooner  believe  you  were  happy  when  you  wrote 
these,  than  that  you  were  sad  when  you  wrote  the 
others.  But  one  thing  I  remark,"  added  Bob,  "the 
devout  feeling  in  these  lines  written  when  you  are 
happiest ;  for  it  is  commonly  thought  that  tribulation 
and  sadness  give  the  first  religious  tinge  to  the  ima 
gination.  Yours  is  but  the  happiness  of  Christian 
resignation,  after  all." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Smith,  "  nothing  makes 
me  so  wicked  as  care  and  trouble.  I  always  had, 
from  childhood,  a  disposition  to  fall  down  on  my 
knees  and  thank  God  for  everything  which  made  me 
happy,  while  sorrows  of  all  descriptions  stir  up  my 
antagonism,  and  make  me  feel  rather  like  a  devil  than 
a  Christian." 

'  In  that  case,"  said  Bob,  faking  up  his  hat,  "  good 
night,  and  God  prosper  you  !  And  as  to  your  happi 
ness?" 

"  Well,  what  is  the  secret  of  my  happiness,  think 
you  ?" 

"Matrimony,"  replied  Bob- 


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C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


